Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  "You got some idea where he is?" Sal now asked me in sudden nervous hysteria.

  "Got a stringer does. Or rather, I mean, ah, his own stringer does.” I watched Sal slump a bit at that. “I know,” I said. “A stringer to a stringer ... but the guy claims to know the hotel Rosen is holed up in. Swears by everything Holy."

  "Sssshit,” said Sally the no-no bird. “Shiiiiiit."

  I had inadvertently laid my hand atop a pile of Celeb-Ration back issues on the other side of Sal's desk. Sal noticed, and regained his composure. Now he was in full retreat, backpedalling from his momentary display of blood lust. “Listen, Jude,” he said, his tone already condescending, “there's been a hundred sightings, none of ‘em panned out. Guy's got a homely face. Probably in Rio by now, spending some of that money on a yacht. And hookers."

  "That what you'd do? Listen, Sal, imagine you're Howard. Would you leave the country right away, or would you wait until the press dies down? Hide out somewhere. Like maybe here. Miami. Gateway to all points south.” I waited a beat for that to soak in. Then I said, “My guy knows a guy who's ID'ed Howard, Sal. Says he went out one night, stir crazy, ended up in a little pool hall across from the beach on Westwood Avenue. Place called The Blue Cue."

  "Sssshit,” repeated the bird. “Sssshit, sssshit, shiiiiiiit."

  "No, it's not,” I said. “The Blue Cue is where Carl hangs out. Carl played him, won a couple hundred bucks, then followed him. Howard's bleached his hair almost white, and shaved his mustache. Anyway, they threw Carl out of the hotel lobby, but not before he saw where Rosen got off the elevator. The indicator went all the way to the top. The penthouse."

  "What hotel?"

  "That's why I need the five grand,” I lied.

  Sal shook his head, then held his nose as he turned away. “Dead mackerel smell in here,” he declared. “Barra—stinkin'—cuda."

  "No, no, no,” I insisted. “Carl said Howard was drinking Black Russians. Isn't that Howard's drink?"

  "Read that in the Star. Who knows if it's true."

  "He wore a school ring from Michigan State, too. Said his name was Barry, a carpet salesman from Kansas, on vacation."

  It had been rumored that Howard had gone to MSU, but the rumor had never been verified. All of Howard's records from the community college that he did attend in Flint, Michigan had been wiped, and former classmates didn't return their calls for fear of a catastrophic invasion of privacy.

  "Barry?" Sal chuckled, his transformation complete. “And you believe this numb nuts Carl whas his—"

  "I believe Julio believes,” I said, “and I know where Julio works."

  Sal crunched on another handful of chips. The phone rang, but he ignored it. “Give'em a grand, then, tell'em he gets the rest if he's right. Then go stake it out."

  "Already thought of that, Sal. Except I told'em two grand. They wouldn't budge. They want five or they're going to the Enquirer, asking for ten."

  "Why don't they, and ask for twenty?"

  I shrugged. “Julio knows me, is why. A bird in the hand."

  "Stinky bird,” Sal said, then glanced at the parrot. “A buzzard."

  "Whatever. You really think to pass on this?"

  Sal favored me with a steady, unblinking stare as the parrot cackled maniacally. “Ya really think me that deadbolt dumb?"

  I didn't answer. I took his money, and ran with it.

  * * * *

  3

  The FOR SALE sign in the window of Grover's camera shop and photography studio took me by somewhat less surprise than the establishment's smallness and shabbiness. Even though my own dreams may have been beaten down by Fate's fickle fist, I somehow always imagined Grover found the prestige and the security he craved. How wrong I'd been, and what a shock to discover there and then that Grover's dying dream consisted of an aging storefront next to a used appliance outlet. This, on a block the gangs had left for the winos to call home.

  It was the fourth time in two years that I'd stopped by to see my old friend, since the day we'd dissolved our limited freelance partnership as travel writer and photographer. But it was the first time I'd actually gotten out of my car. I'd intended to tell Grover I was in Miami, those times when I only imagined I had a really good story to tell. Now, leaning closer to grip the rust-eaten bars that protruded from the ancient mortar of old red brick, I could see beyond the protective screen over the starred front window. And what I saw was that the merchandise in the display cases was neither high-end nor abundant. The bright blue front door, newer and recently painted, was locked. I tried knocking, but in vain. Grover was not in.

  If two years was a typical life span for the majority of new businesses that fail, it was certainly a much longer time to be out of touch with someone who'd once been a friend. I'd been nuts to avoid whatever brief embarrassment I imagined enduring, telling myself that when we'd split in a bar in Belize two years prior, the arrangement had been to meet wherever the dart we'd thrown landed in a world map a full five years later. But there it was. Chalk up two years of continued friendship now lost over a trifle.

  I wrote down the number printed on the sign in the window. Then I walked resolutely toward the corner, past a drunk homeless man who gaped at the tall red brick edifice across the street, with its faded relic lettering LUCKY STRIKES. As I took out my cell phone, however, I reassessed my idea to ask Grover which hotel penthouse he thought I should investigate to save myself the five grand I'd otherwise have to fork over to the Laurel and Hardy boys. What would Grover really make of the fact that I was now a writer for a grocery store gossip rag in the very city to which I'd sworn never to return? And that the reason I'd never stopped by to say hi was because our five year ‘old-times’ pact hadn't yet expired? Did he still think I was out there somewhere, living out of a suitcase under direction from our former agent Phil, still thirty pounds thinner, swimming faster than the sharks? Obviously he did, unless he was a mindless reader of the Celeb-Ration, and deciphered my pseudonym, which was Judy Johnson. Or J.J., as he sometimes called me, along with just plain Judy baby.

  I flipped open my cell phone, but paused while I punched the digits as another thought struck me. What might have happened to Grover during the same two years I'd been avoiding him? I resurrected his face from memory, and imagined the possibilities. A Denzel Washington lookalike, Grover shared Denzel's last name, and might have been a trumpet player too had he been able to carry a tune. Perhaps he'd married in the interim, maybe had a kid too? Maybe he'd put on weight, gone partly bald, and discovered the joys of cable television. And what if his wife answered ... what would I say then?

  Hi, this is J.J.. Your husband and I used to entertain stewardesses in various resort jacuzzis before our welcome ran out, and he burned out. Now I'm part of the paparazzi, and I may need Grover's expertise to help me find and film a reclusive multimillionaire for a front page tabloid exclusive. So ... can Grover come out to play now?

  I closed my phone. I did so, not because it was three years too soon—the wrong place at the wrong time. And not to avoid embarrassment, either. I did it because the name Doral Golf Resort & Spa popped into my mind. Wasn't that where I'd go if I were looking for a private penthouse in Miami Beach? If cost was no object? And wasn't the Doral just across the bridge, not two miles from the pool hall where Carl claimed to have met Howard? A long shot, at best, but I realized that Grover could wait, for now. Howard might not.

  I used my phone card in a nearby booth to make other inquiries, aided by a battered phonebook. Although several beach hotels with penthouses in the vicinity of The Blue Cue were available for lease, I soon learned that the Doral's penthouse was not. It being off season, the only question I was asked in return by the various desk clerks was whether I preferred to pay by Visa Platinum, Gold Master Card, or American Express. Before hanging up each time I asked them if they accepted Diners Club, and if Wolfgang Puck was still in residence.

  * * * *

  Boldness is a required trait for anyone who expects to
make it as a peeper for a pulp paper. You also need to possess certain acting skills that would preclude you from an otherwise natural tendency to look over your shoulder, and draw suspicion. The best approach is a direct one, projecting that you belong where you do not. For this job, those in awe of celebrity and wealth need not apply. Let them be the readers rather than the writers of half truths, innuendoes, and postulations about whether some privileged headcase ‘hotsie totsie’ is doing their kid's nanny, downing Ecstasy pills like dinner mints, or dying of some rare tropical disease. For my part, I no longer had time to be in awe of anyone; and anyway, I knew the rich and famous didn't get that way by magic. Entry into their class had certain requirements, too. Besides winning the gene pool lottery with well-connected parents, these required traits included unbounded ambition, a lack of inhibition, a young and trim physique, a first-name grasp of the “in” and “it” crowd, acting ability during interviews and required awards shows, street smarts, a trust fund, an ego-driven myopia, and luck. Or any three of the above.

  I was feeling giddy, if not lucky, as I hoofed imperiously past the little sign Guests Only Beyond This Point. I neglected to wave at the security camera, and just gave it a George Clooney smile ... this, while my lopsided but self confident demeanor suggested Chris Tucker in a Rush Hour sequel. Or, rather, make that Jackie Chan in the hit musical Kim Jung Il On Ice.

  Needing a prop to make it through the pool area and into the elevator, I purchased an eight dollar raspberry daiquiri at the bar, discarded the straw, downed half of it immediately, and set off past the buffet where chefs in ridiculous hats served prime rib and roast rack of lamb to unsmiling people in Gucci loafers and sandals. I drew a few stares from men with pony tails, but I decided that each of them was no one important, this season. To wit, no one on the hotel security staff. This gave my smile just the snooty edge it needed.

  I strolled nonchalantly past the pool area, and drew a complimentary embossed towel from a stack of them, then draped it across my shoulder, and continued on. When I detected other eyes focused upon me, I waved at someone at the other end of the figure-eight shaped Olympic sized pool, over where the swim-up bar was. The old fart must have known another pudgy Nolte lookalike, or maybe he needed cataract surgery, because he waved back.

  The elevator was next, just past the Grecian fountain where a scantily clad and muscular youth made of marble attempted to drain his endless urn—or maybe his bladder—by holding it tilted from his waist. Alone inside the cool metal cubicle at last, I then hesitated pushing the button marked PENTHOUSE because of the camera monitor in the corner, which gazed at me like the red eye of a Hal 9000. Or rather a Sal 5000.

  What to do?

  Bravely, I sneezed and punched the button anyway, going for distraction in the hope that my doubling over gave me the benefit of a mistake. Unfortunately, nothing happened. The button was depressed, but the elevator did not move. Had they disabled it somehow, and were they now moving in to bounce me like a lush who'd just touched a table dancer's tit?

  I tried depressing the button just below PENTHOUSE. Thankfully, there was an engagement, and the elevator finally started to move. On my way up I soon began to wonder if the saying about its being lonely at the top was true, or if whoever had written the saying now either worked for The Globe or for “The Donald” in that gaudy mirror maze known as the Trump Tower penthouse.

  Floor twelve was the end of the line. For me, anyway. There was no floor thirteen, and no way to go higher without Charlize Theron or Salma Hayek on my arm. So I got out. The elevator indicator in the hallway had a down arrow only, and I suspected that the purpose for the keypad I'd glimpsed above the main control panel was to enter a code, which could be changed each time a new guest rented the paradise above. Briefly I peeked into the stairwell, and indeed saw a chain that blocked the way up, and another security camera which guarded what was surely a locked door up there. I speculated how long I might have to wait in the twelfth floor hallway before hearing the elevator go higher in response to a call, at which point I might push my own call button as well, and join Howard—if it was really Howard—going down. The figure that came to me was six hours minimum, until nightfall. Or possibly seventy-two hours plus six until Howard went stir crazy again. Meanwhile, I had maybe ten minutes before security came for me, probably in response to a hotel guest's sighting a deranged killer in the hallway through their door's peephole. All of which presupposed, of course, that whoever had been monitoring the video displays had, in fact, gone to take a piss while I fondled the elevator controls. No doubt if I now broke into some room in search of a way to climb verandahs on the outside of the building, they would put me in a straight jacket instead of handcuffs.

  And so it appeared not to be my lucky day, after all.

  Or so I thought.

  What happened next was beyond luck. Meaning it could only be fate. It happened like this: I had decided to try asking for Howard at the front desk. The direct approach. If the response was ‘Howard?’ it would tell me one thing. If it was ‘we can't give out information about our guests’ it would tell me another. Maybe then I could decide if I was wasting my time, and also whether I should waste Sal's money on filet mignon and Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1958. So I called for the elevator. I entered. As the door slid closed, just for fun, I punched some digits into the keypad, and depressed PENTHOUSE.

  Then the elevator began to move...

  Up.

  I sucked in a breath and held it. Then I laughed, despite myself, because the numbers I had just punched were 1, 5, 1, 2, 3, and 7. The first three numbers of Howard's now infamous winning lotto had been 15, 12, and 37.

  I covered my mouth with one hand as the door slid open again. Then I stepped out quickly, and was faced by a heavy wooden door in an alcove portico. The little gold plaque read PRIVATE. On either side of the door stood two black marble swans. The carpet was white and plush. There was no security camera, and I knew why. The thing about rich people is that they love their privacy, unless they make their money from the masses, in which case they really love their privacy. Management knows this, and so as long as said god or goddess continues to pay their tab and tip well, they respect any bitchy wishes. I might have wondered why Howard didn't just move to Palm Beach, that secure haven for multimillionaires and billionaires, but of course I knew the reason for that too: He would simply never be accepted by the social elite there. During the social season he'd be a running joke, with no pedigree or claim to fame other than having picked the right combination of numbers and coming out top pathetic numbnuts. Aristocratic and sophisticated heirs to fortunes from oil and real estate and haute couture were loathe to add anyone to their party lists not already considered “in” by right of birth or conquest. It was a town where plastic surgeons were thought of as ‘hired help,’ and where the best lawyers were required to do pro boner work. Even P. Diddy—ie. Puffy—was once thrown out of a club after having wandered over from Trump's Maralago estate, while rich has-been musicians were regularly rebuffed by local cocktail waitresses who had better prospects. How would they treat Howard, those Beluga caviar eggheads whose guest houses made Town and Country? While he might never be hounded by the paparazzi there—because the Palm Beach police stopped anyone who didn't belong—he'd never get a membership in the Palm Beach Country Club as a Jew, either. Even at triple the $150,000 fee. Unless he was a headliner Vegas comic. In all likelihood, he wouldn't even be sold a house, and would end up at The Breakers hotel after bribing every member on staff with a new Rolex. Not worth the aggravation.

  So here I was, standing outside the Doral resort's penthouse, wondering if all this was worth the aggravation. But then I thought what the hell. It wasn't like I had another hot prospect, or even a luke warm one. I stepped to the door, stretched out one fist, and pounded.

  There was a click, and then, without the need to be unlocked, the door whispered open...

  I must have staggered in. Next I found myself standing alone on a white marble foyer
floor, and looked up at a high sculptured ceiling where a crystal chandelier hung over a Louis Philippe trundle day bed in the living room. The Steinway baby grand piano beside it gleamed with an obsidian gloss under the multifaceted light.

  "Hello?” I called, and got no answer. For a moment I half expected some vacationing socialite to appear—perhaps Rene Wyatt in a Bill Blass gown with a Craig Drake diamond choker and a Cartier watch. And she would no doubt ask me if I'd like to join her for Kirsch flavored vanilla cream and pan fried apricots, prepared by her personal pastry chef Renoire. But when neither Rene nor Michael Dell, (much less Oprah Winfrey), appeared to tell me about dinner with Oscar de la Renta at Kensington Roof Garden, I began to feel the knot in my stomach tighten like the invisible noose around my neck.

  "Hello!” I called again, even louder. “Mister Rosen?"

  With suicidal recklessness, I stepped toward the bedroom, past an elaborate black marble and glass bar bearing several ornate lead crystal rocks glasses. One of the glasses was a quarter full of diluted whiskey, amid which floated the remnants (just a half moon sliver, really) of an ice cube. I knocked on the bedroom door.

  "Howard?"

  Still no answer. I stepped to one side before turning the doorknob, in case a gun was trained on the opening. I turned the knob, and pushed the door wide. There was utter silence, unless you counted the rough thud of my heart every half second.

  I peeked quickly, like an infantryman does when he scouts for a sniper. Then I brought in my flank. The room was clear of hazards, except for a man's Bertolucci watch on the teak dresser. It was a hazard because any moment the police would be here to arrest me for breaking its restraining order.

  "It's just me—hotel security,” I said aloud to anyone who might be hidden in the walk-in closet, one hand over the mouth of a Kerry Blue Terrier named Filbert or Fifi.

  Nothing. I moved to the closet's accordion doors, past the canopied king size bed with its mussed red silk sheets. An original oil painting near the closet portrayed a Hinckley yacht docked in Martha's Vineyard. I imagined Martha Stewart in the closet, now, clutching a sharp cleaver. A clever cleaver that sharpened itself. Not an important trait to slice and dice Bermuda onions, but more so after cutting through iron bars.