They rode the elevator to Nine. Their suite was next door to Findlay’s, still draped in yellow ribbons. Inside their suite, Iveta pushed Daniel down on the bed. She ran her hand up under the shorts, took a grip on him, stuck her tongue in his ear. Christ, he loved this woman. She got him off sitting on top, her slim golden hands on his shoulders, using her weight to hold him down, gyrating her hips, her eyes narrowed and shrewd.
When he came, he whimpered, “It was so good.”
Iveta whispered in his ear. “Invest with your Papa,” she said.
Chapter 51
George Hawthorne’s plane was late landing in Phoenix. The limo for Sedona was late picking him up. Phoenix traffic was thick, swarms of beetles crawling over a corpse. His cellphone gave him a message—no service. The limo had a little screen, where he watched Vertigo, an old Hitchcock movie with Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak, where the acro-phobic gumshoe was afraid of falling.
The limo came into Sedona and he saw his hotel, the Sedona Xanadu, perched on a hill. His room was ready. The desk clerk was a brunette in a tight blouse. Hawthorne felt a stirring in the blood. He asked about night spots, and she told him Lemon Custard Bistro, just around the corner. A Mexican bell-boy showed him the room, a suite on Seven, with a balcony, a view south to Phoenix and Mexico. He tipped with a five, unpacked his casuals, headed for the bathroom. Time for a shower, wash off the filth of flying coach.
His cell rang. It was Senator Fish, his old shooting Buddy. He was downstairs, with a notary. “Well, come on up, Senator.”
Hawthorne had met Fish on an elk hunt at Vermejo, Teddy Turner’s hunter’s paradise in northern New Mexico. There was shooting, good booze, men who thought alike around a campfire. They bonded over politics, the fate of a nation. A feisty foreign policy and a conservative social agenda—God, flag, the church of your choice. Females did not belong in government. A woman’s place was in the home. Be a mother, be a wife, be a volunteer. Hawthorne had money back then. He’d pledged a hundred grand to Fish’s re-election campaign.
The buzzer rang. Hawthorne opened the door. Fish had gained weight. His smile was still fake and his handshake was still sweaty. He was decked out like an Arizona rancher—baggy khakis, dusty boots, a Western-style shirt with pearl-snap buttons, a string necktie that looked silly. Fish introduced his notary, a nothing guy with a briefcase and a bland face. His name was Billy.
They sat at a polished table. Fish drank Scotch, Billy drank ice tea. He passed two documents to Hawthorne—one original, one copy. The document was a deed of trust transferring the fifth floor of Sedona Landing to Hiram Travis Fish for the sum of five million dollars. Hawthorne signed the original, passed the paper back to Billy, who stamped it with his little inker. Billy set an envelope on the table. As Hawthorne checked the envelope, his hands trembled. He saw five packets of hundreds, fifty thousand in cash. Fish scanned the transfer document, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket. Hawthorne was broke. He owed money in China, Thailand, Viet Nam. Fish chuckled, shook his head, and grinned.
“Always happy to help a fellow conservative,” he said.
At the door they confirmed the next meeting, tomorrow at ten, Vortex Bank, Cypher’s office.
“You take care, now.”
“I’m a careful guy, Senator.”
“You had any recent contact with our favorite Jew pinko liberal Democrat?”
“We chatted last week.”
“You remember … I’m gonna break the news—about the fifth floor?”
“I have the memory of an elephant, Senator.”
The shower had power. Hawthorne used the massage feature. The word massage triggered an image of Saigon. They laid you face down and walked on your back. Magic toes of the women. He was eager to get back. He grinned at himself in the bathroom mirror. Pleased with his own film-star good looks, living proof of the power of the Fibonacci Paradigm.
The perfect size head, the perfect distance from chin to forehead, eyes to ears, mouth to nose. His teeth were pure white. His muscles flexed like they were thirty years younger. His hair was thick and blond—beach-boy forever. Hawthorne was grinning at his mirror image, girding for a hot night at the Lemon Custard Bistro, when he heard movement from the next room.
In the bedroom, he found a hotel maid.
She had a little chocolate in her hand, a mint wrapped in gold.
She was about to slip the chocolate onto his pillow. The maid turned, saw him, and looked startled.
She was dark, a Latina with cheekbones. She said something in Spanish, Madre-something. She looked like a bird caught by a cat.
A bird with a worm in its beak … and a nice body.
The maid apologized.
Her face was red. She thought he was out for the evening. She had knocked; there was no answer. Once inside, she had called out, but no one answered.
Hawthorne stared at the maid. Under the robe, he was growing a boner. She was dark, with photogenic cheekbones, pale blue eyes, and hands with long fingers. She wore a perky little maid cap that he wanted to tear off. The skirt of the maid’s uniform was short, bare knees, no stockings.
She looked scrumptious, she looked afraid, and he wanted her.
He told her to wait. He moved to the dresser—sleek black, chrome pulls. He extracted a twenty from his wallet. She was at the door, her hand on the knob. He handed her the twenty.
“Oh,” she said, “I can’t take your money. It’s not allowed, the tipping.”
He asked about her shift. When was it over?
“I love your music,” she said.
Mozart was playing, an aria from The Magic Flute. The Xanadu had a Bose radio in every room; he always traveled first class. He was impressed by her comment—a maid who knew Mozart. Maybe the maid was a princess in disguise.
He asked again about her shift.
“One more room,” she said, “one more chocolate.”
She pronounced chocolate with a Latino lilt, adding an extra syllable at the end, cho-ko-la-tay.
“And then?” he said.
“And then a long drive in the dark, and miles to go before I sleep.”
“Robert Frost,” he said. “The poem about stopping to check out the snow.”
“I was a college girl,” she said, “before the money ran out.”
“College where?” he said.
“Middlebury. I was on scholarship, studying literature. Are you related to Nathaniel Hawthorne?”
She was shivering. He poured her a brandy. She sniffed the glass, took a sip, nodded, sat on the bed, her back straight, the skirt rising up, showing exquisite thigh.
“Lovely,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
“I was referring to the cognac.”
Hawthorne had a philosophy: life is short, grab what you can. He wanted to grab the maid.
She wobbled as she stood up.
“Are you all right?”
“Cognac on an empty stomach,” she said. “I should know better.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Yesterday,” she said. “It is not your problem.”
He wanted her. He wanted to help her. He offered food. “Come back here after your shift. We’ll order room service.”
“Not allowed,” she said. “I’m a maid, and I need this job.”
He gave her another twenty. He had fifty grand from Senator Fish. Money made Hawthorne expansive. He could buy the world and all its pretty women.
She would think about it, she said. He didn’t know her name. Merida, she said, going Latina on him. Her cheek brushed his, the flutter of butterfly wings, and his boner went rigid.
“If I come back,” she whispered, “you must please put on some clothes.”
He watched her slip through the door—a wraith, an unreal vision.
He shaved his face. Frowned at that droopy flesh under his jaw. Hawthorne hated wattles. He dressed in khakis from Abercrombie, the desert look, a two-pocket camping shirt from Brooks Brothers, sand
als from Banana Republic. He had made money from United Fruit, had helped with the start-up of Chiquita Brands, and walked away with thirteen million, liquidity to invest in this Sedona Landing venture.
Hawthorne phoned Ackerman; he had been ordered to check in.
“Where the fuck are you?” Ackerman said.
“Thanks for the warm welcome, Axel,” Hawthorne said.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear about what?”
“Freddy Delaplane, dead.”
“Fell in the shower?”
“On some stairs. How come you’re so calm, Georgie?”
“Simple statistics, Axel. One out of three old people fall every year. Half of them break a bone, get a bruise. Last year falls killed one out of fifty who fell. Where was Freddy? Who was he shagging?”
“He was in Santa Fe,” Ackerman said. “Are you snockered? You sound too happy.”
“Willy Tyler died from falling; I read about it. So did Milt Coolidge, no surprise there, he was always clumsy. But I am not those birds, I’ve got a cane for outdoors, dogs, or marauders. I never make a left turn. How’s my man Walt Findlay?”
“You didn’t hear?”
There was a knock on the door.
Hawthorne was halfway there when the door opened. It was the maid, using her pass key. She saw the phone. Was she early? Was this a bad time? Should she come back later?
“Who the hell is that?” Ackerman said.
“The maid. She’s turning down the bed.”
“Listen to me, stiff dick. Get that female out of there, right fucking now.”
“You were always jealous, Axel.”
“Get your head out of your ass,” Ackerman said. “And get the maid out—”
“I’ve come to a decision, old buddy.”
“Is she out yet?”
“A decision about the current project,” Hawthorne said. “When I came into this, I was feeling great, but a sudden turn of events has—”
“The maid! Throw her out!”
“I’m pulling my ante, old buddy. I’ve already spoken to your banker dude … he promised me a check for half a mil.”
“Is she out yet?”
“See you tomorrow,” Hawthorne said. “Buy you a beer, we’ll catch up, then I got a plane to catch.”
“Georgie!” Ackerman said. “Don’t hang up. Walt Findlay is—”
Hawthorne hung up.
The maid was across the room, looking at a room service menu.
She asked again, “Should I go?”
He urged her to stay.
Room Service is a phone call away, he said. What would you like?
“I like you,” she said. “Those are great-looking pantalones.”
“How about roast beef?” he said. “Rare, and a red wine?”
“Let me call down,” she said. “A guy like you needs something special.”
She held out her hand for his cell. He handed it to her. She sat on the bed, the same pose as before, an actress rehearsing a role. He stared at her legs, shadowed muscles flexing. Her fingernails danced on the phone keys. So many beautiful women, so little time.
“Shouldn’t you use the house phone for room service?”
“There’s a secret number,” she said. “I go for speed.”
She spoke in rapid Spanish, pressed the end button, gave him back the phone. They had a drink—vodka martinis, mixed by her. His martini tasted funny, heavy on the bitters. Mozart still played. She pulled him close, and they danced. He smelled soap in her hair; heat came off her body. Her knee slid between his legs. She took his hands, they whirled, and she said something about the vortex. She pointed out the window. His room was on the tenth floor of the Sedona Xanadu. This hotel was ten years old, remodeled, rebuilt, reborn. Ackerman’s hotel dated back to 1850.
He let her back him into a wall, unbutton his shirt, put her hand on his chest. She moved the hand down and pinched his belly; he could shed a couple inches down there. He grunted when her thigh eased between his legs, pressing against his boner. He danced her into the bedroom. There was a sound—the door buzzer. She gave him a squeeze, opened the door to a delivery boy with a pizza. He had forgotten the maid’s name. His brain did a search, came up with Merida.
“Thirty-eight fifty for the pizza, okay?”
He went into his bedroom. The maid followed. She had something to say, a question—he might not like it. He handed her two twenties. Her question was something about a threesome. He looked past her, through the door. The delivery boy was a girl taking her shirt off. She had long hair and cute tits; the nipples were hot pink. Her upper body was lean. She was mid-forties and wore glasses, the tint hiding her eyes.
He felt a jolt of recognition. Did he know this broad from someplace? Impossible. “How much for a threesome?” he said.
“Couple hundred,” the maid said. “But you gotta do me first. I am hot for you.”
They danced in the big room, holding hands, like children in Ring-Around-the Rosy. He felt loose and wild. His last threesome had been in Saigon, a duo of child women in Saigon. He was sweating. The delivery person slid open the glass door. His second martini tasted better. He was ready for sex, he told the maid, Merida. First, she said, she wanted to see the view. They walked to the balcony, leaned over. The delivery person on his left, the maid on his right. Who can lean the farthest?
He felt them lifting him, a woman on each arm. They were strong; he was four pounds over his fighting weight.
“Okay, that’s far enough.”
“What do you see, Georgie?”
He knew that voice. It came swimming out of the past. He turned. The delivery boy had her glasses off. The eyes swallowed him.
He said her name, “Diamond,” and then they dropped him off the edge.
Chapter 52
They’d killed target number five, their last job for Mr. X.
Another banker, this one was named George Hawthorne—a real ladies man, and not bad-looking for a guy in his sixties. Karla felt him wanting her. Three minutes on the massage table, she could get him off, make him grateful, turn him into a friend. A girl needed men-friends; they owned the world.
When they boosted him off the balcony at the Sedona Xanadu Hotel—a six story drop—Karla felt emotion. Regret, sadness, what a waste. She did not watch him connect with the rocks down below.
They wiped the room clean, suite 700.
They took cash from his wallet, then wiped the wallet.
Karla double-checked the clean-up work of Charity—no trust there. Charity ogled Karla changing clothes. That look of lovey-dovey, it made your skin crawl.
Karla put the maid’s uniform into a backpack and took the stairs. Charity would take the elevator to Two, then the stairs to the parking garage.
They met in the parking garage. Karla asked for her money. Charity wanted a drink—Oak Creek Village, south of Sedona, seven miles away—close to the onramp for Interstate 17, the road to Flagstaff.
“Don’t be in such a rush, hon. I won’t bite.”
As they left the parking garage, Karla saw a small knot of people gathered near the hotel entrance. They were pointing down. Fear knifed Karla’s stomach. Her last job. Good, she was tired of killing.
Charity drove her old Honda. Karla followed in her Subaru Forester, the nicest car she had ever owned. Older than Mr. Cypher’s, but still good.
They sat at a table in the Half-Moon Bar, two blocks from Red Rock Coffee. Karla drank beer. Charity drank a martini. Guys hit on Karla. No one hit on Charity.
They had 20-odd years separating them, two women from different decades.
A whole generation, different moves, different priorities, different taste in clothes.
Karla asked again for her money.
Charity passed her the paper sack.
Karla told Charity she was light—again. Charity blamed Mr. X; he was holding out on them again.
Karla wanted to know who he was.
“No need to know,” Charity said, her stoc
k answer.
“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“I could make you so happy,” Charity said.
“You play games. You owe me thirty thousand.”
“You have a place here, don’t you?” Charity said. “In the village, I mean. You came right here from wherever, got a job, settled in. Whatever happened to that guy, Jonas?”
“The money, Charity.”
“I am very tired. You have a place. Invite me to stay. I want to be your friend. I want to take care of you, show you just how nice I can be.”
“These banker guys,” Karla said. “Three out of five went for me. I could smell it, taste their need. I dig men. They dig me. You gave up on men. I’ve pieced together your story, Charity, all the man-hurt, your need for revenge. I earned that money and you are—”
“Just ask me to stay,” Charity said. “Just for tonight. Don’t make me drive that road in the dark.”
Karla stood up. Her beer glass was half full, her sandwich half-eaten. The potato chips were gone. She looked down at Charity. Reminded her about the money. Asked her question again, Who was Mr. X? Charity shook her head.
Chapter 53
Daniel left Iveta reading in their suite. He had known her for three months, and she always had three books going, plus magazines or online information sites such as Wikipedia. His bride-to-be was hooked on education.
He took the Sedona Landing blueprints to the penthouse, where he sat with Axel at the big wood table at the end of the great room. Daniel had been hot all day; now he was cold. The fake fire helped. The glass of wine helped. Axel kept getting off the topic, talking about the Crew, all gone except for George Hawthorne. Daniel had met the man a couple times and thought he emitted a phony vibe. He was handsome, great teeth, a full head of hair. Women enjoyed his company; he’d been married five times.
Axel talked about the past. Daniel building a sand castle on the beach at Deauville. Daniel making all As in that school in France. Daniel and Lottie, the only Christmas they spent together, at the Negresco in Nice.
Lottie was on her way, Axel said. Paris to Phoenix, Phoenix to Sedona. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Daniel did not tell Axel that Lottie had introduced him to Iveta, for a fee.
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