I approached the counter, where a tired-looking guy in his early fifties leaned reading a newspaper. His face was lined and his hair was a little too blond. He lowered the paper as I approached and raised his eyebrows. He surveyed the shiner on my eye but, to his credit, said nothing.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“I wonder if you can help me.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m looking for a guest.”
“Oh?”
“Have you seen this guy?” I produced an ordinary family photo of TJ provided by Arlene. I didn’t think a Global Talent publicity shot would be taken seriously. The guy scrutinized the picture for a moment.
“Cute. A little young for you, though.”
“Have you seen him?”
The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. I been here fourteen years. They all start to look the same. Sorry.”
“I think he’s checked in under another name. If I gave you a list of names, you think you could tell me if you have a guest who matches?”
The guy made a face. “Look, bud, if he wanted to see you, he’d tell you the name himself. And if he’s the one what did that to your face, I’d say you’re better off without him.”
“How about Joel?”
The guy sighed. “Last name or first?”
“Last.”
A few clicks on the computer. “Sorry.”
“Simon.”
“Last name again?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope. You get one more, but only because I’m a romantic at heart.”
“Taupin.”
“As in Bernie?”
“Yeah.”
A few more taps on the keyboard. “Strike three. Che sarà, sarà.”
“I have a few more names.”
“I’m sure you do. But that’s it. I think you should give it up.”
I suddenly became aware of the inexorable ticking of a clock in my head, counting down the seconds until Jennifer ran out of time. If I dwelled on it for more than a second, it was like a great boulder on my chest, constricting my breathing, crushing the very life out of me. I swallowed.
“It’s a matter of life and death,” I said.
The guy shook his head ruefully. “It always is, honey.”
“Please. This is important. Would this make a difference?” I laid a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. The guy eyed it. “Would two?” I placed another fifty next to it.
“Amazingly enough,” he said, finally blinking, “that makes no difference at all. One of the things our guests like about the Rainbow is our privacy. Many of them don’t want anybody to know they’re here. We start breaking that confidence and it’s bad for business.” He considered me for a moment and leaned slightly across the counter. “Look, take one of those Grants and go buy a ticket to the show. It starts in twenty minutes. Most of the guests come to the show. It’s one of the main reasons they stay here. Maybe you’ll get lucky and see him in the crowd.” He leaned a little closer. “But if you do, don’t make a big scene. You make a big scene, I’ll have to get Henry to remove you from the premises. Believe me, you don’t want that. Henry has … anger management issues. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” I said, sliding one fifty back off the counter. The guy put his hand on the other.
“Good luck, loverboy. You’ll need it.”
He was certainly right about that.
CHAPTER 31
I approached a pale, emaciated guy in a tuxedo, standing at a podium on the far end of the lobby. A poster on a nearby easel advertised:
The World Famous Rainbow Arms Trans Gender Extravaganza!
Featuring Lady Ursula, Miss Mabel, and Jasmine.
Special appearance by Naomi, performing the classics:
Cher, Celine Dion, Barbra Streisand, and Liza Minnelli.
I pursed my lips at the easel and stepped up to the podium.
“One,” I said.
“Twenty-five.”
I handed him the fifty and took my change. I stepped through a purple velvet curtain into a dark nightclub. A raised stage dominated the far wall. In front of it were a dozen or more cocktail tables. A small shelf lined the surrounding walls for the standing crowd. A long bar covered the majority of one side of the room.
Most of the tables were full and a good crowd lingered around the shelf on the perimeter of the room. Everyone was drinking. Waitresses in bow ties circled through the tables, taking orders and delivering drinks—the only women I had seen since entering the hotel.
I found an empty seat at the end of the bar and ordered a club soda. I tried to sip it casually as I scanned the room for TJ. The light was crummy and the crowd shimmered with movement, so it was hard to get much of a bead on anyone. I grabbed my glass and started circulating.
The room had a light, anticipatory mood. Once I got away from the bar and into the tables, I saw that quite a few women were actually here. I assumed, anyway, that they were women.
The rest of the room was dominated by gay men. Some were in couples, but most were mingling in their own large groups. And, just like in any other crowd, some were quiet and reserved, while others were loud and obnoxious.
I made three circuits through the room, taking a different route each time. I accidentally bumped a few elbows, brushed a little too close to both men and women, and drew several stares at my swollen face, but I never saw TJ. I was pretty confident that if he were in the room, I would’ve found him. I made my way back to the bar. My seat was now taken, but I squeezed through and leaned on the counter.
I finally caught the attention of the bartender, a bald guy with graying temples and tired eyes.
“Another soda?” he asked.
I laid TJ’s photo on the bar. “You ever see him in here?”
He studied the picture for a beat, then flicked his eyes back up at me. “Lemme see your badge.”
I reached in my pocket and produced another fifty. I laid the bill on the bar next to the photo. “I ain’t a cop.”
He considered that for another moment, before picking up the photo and studying it again, this time with more interest. While he was looking at it, the lights dimmed and a heavy bass beat thudded throughout the room. Colored lights flashed at the stage, where a curtain now hung.
The bartender put the picture back on the bar. I waited for him to speak, but he just looked at me, deciding something. He turned his head and spotted two waitresses queued up at the register, waiting to fill orders. So he said nothing. Even if he had spoken, I would’ve never heard him over the music anyway. The bartender palmed the fifty and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then he held up a finger for me to wait. He moved down the bar to tend to the waitresses.
I held my breath. Maybe the guy actually knew something. Or maybe he was just scamming my fifty bucks.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the ‘Paradise Arms Trans Gender Extravaganza!’”
The voice came from the stage, where a tuxedoed guy held a wireless microphone and grinned at the crowd. He strutted back and forth in front of the red curtain, eyebrows raised, nose crinkled. He described the show about to begin, and the crowd responded as each performer’s name was mentioned. They were clearly celebrities in this world, even if they were completely anonymous in mine. Then again, what did I know? Until recently, I had never heard of Boyz Klub, they of the triple-platinum debut album.
“So, without any further ado, let’s get this mother started! Leading things off tonight is none other than the Queen of the Scene, the Blonde from Across the Pond, England’s very own … Lady Ursula!”
The curtain parted and the emcee slid offstage just as the music slammed into Patti LaBelle’s disco standard “Lady Marmalade.” Then out strutted a beautiful, albeit quite tall, blond woman in a slinky sequined cocktail dress. She moved surprisingly well on the spiked high heels and belted out the song’s lyrics in a passionate—sexy—voice.
I had to blink twice to remind myself she was
a man.
The crowd went berserk, some leaping to their feet, most singing along. Lady Ursula fed off the energy and worked the stage, as well as the crowd, like a Vegas pro. She was very good. I was staring dumbstruck at the spectacle when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
It was the bartender. He leaned over and shouted next to my ear.
“He never comes to the show. I don’t think he likes the crowds. I usually see him in the afternoon, when the place is almost empty. Orders Seven and Seven.”
“You see him today?” I shouted back.
The bartender nodded meaningfully.
“You got a room number?” I asked.
He hesitated and glanced around. Seeing nobody looking for a drink—everyone was watching Lady Ursula—he jerked his head to the side, indicating for me to follow. I did.
We went through a rickety door into a cluttered, brightly lit office. I could still hear the music, but now, at least, it was somewhat muffled, allowing us to have a semblance of a conversation.
“Whadda you want with him?” the bartender said, folding his arms.
“I’m looking for him.”
“No shit. Why?”
“That’s personal.”
He eyed me again, taking in my bruised cheek and eye. “Don’t tell me you’re a couple. You do that and I’ll know you’re lying.”
“Okay. He left home a few days ago. His mother is worried. She asked me to help.”
“His mother, huh?” He seemed skeptical.
“You wanna call her yourself?”
“So what do you plan to do, drag him outta here? Lock him up until he stops being gay?”
“It’s not like that. She doesn’t care. She’s just worried.” The bartender continued to glare at me, a sour twist on his lips. “Look, all I wanna do is talk to him. Ask him to go home, or at least call her. That’s all.”
“He seems like a decent kid. I don’t want him harassed.”
“Neither do I.” I held up my palms plaintively. “So, the room number?”
The guy’s expression softened slightly and he sighed. Turning, he opened a drawer in the office desk and pulled out a stack of register receipts. “If I find out you’re lying, I’ll get Henry to make your black eye look like a hangnail.” He flipped through the stack of receipts, looking at each one. Halfway through he stopped. “Ah. Here it is. Seven and Seven.” He turned to me, holding the receipt at his side. “What’ve you got for the room number?”
He clearly wasn’t satisfied with the fifty bucks I’d already supplied. He wanted some extra consideration for the room number. If he was legit, it was money well spent, so I peeled out another Grant and handed it to him. Just don’t tell me he cared at all what happened to TJ. If he did, he wouldn’t sell his room number for any price.
“Four seventeen,” he said.
“No offense, can I see that?”
He paused, then handed me the receipt. It was an order for a single 7&7, and the room number was indeed 417. I handed it back to him.
“So is he a writer or something?” he said.
“Why?”
“’Cause he’s always writing. Comes in, has a drink, spends the whole time scribbling in a notebook.”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s the quietest way to the main hotel?”
“Follow me.”
I trailed him out a side door in the office and down a cinder-block hallway. Several doors lined the hall, each adorned with a painted gold star. In one open doorway I caught an unsettling glimpse of a shirtless man wearing dark panty hose, a large red wig, and full makeup.
The bartender led me out a crash-bar door at the end of the hallway, and we emerged at a side corner of the main courtyard. The three sides of the hotel loomed around the palm-landscaped central swimming pool.
I thanked the bartender and slipped into the shadows of a stairwell. The room doors all opened onto exposed walkways overlooking the pool, organized something like a concealed motor lodge. In its pre-Disney heyday, this was probably an attractive resort for the Florida-bound Northerner. Palm trees, swimming pool, kind of like a secret lagoon. Of course, this was not only before Disney and the other theme parks arrived, but also before this neighborhood turned into the urinal of Orlando, featuring heroin junkies, crack dealers, and hookers. It’s a fantasyland in its own right.
I padded silently up to the fourth floor of the six-story building and started down the exposed hallway. I was starting at room 401, which likely put TJ’s room somewhere not quite to the corner, where the building turned at a right angle and ran parallel to the main lobby and nightclub.
I slowed slightly, considering my next move. After so much time spent with such little progress, this was all now happening at a whiplash pace. What exactly did I plan to do—stroll up, knock on the door, and announce my presence? That might spook him.
Should I stake out the room and wait for him to poke his head out? I didn’t have time to sit and wait. He might be asleep already, or out for the evening. Or maybe he never left his room except for his daily 7&7 in the afternoon. By the time he left the room, it might be too late. No, I needed to practice a proactive investigation strategy.
I could bribe a housekeeper to open the door or at least get him to answer. But that assumed I could find one and that he or she could be bought. I was still thinking about it when I strolled up on room 417. The curtains were drawn, but I thought I saw a light on inside. My heart began thudding in my chest and I sensed the same adrenaline buildup that I’d always felt while on the job, just before I stormed a room.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. I had so much riding on this. My daughter’s life depended on me making the right decisions, taking the right actions. I leaned my ear carefully against the door. I couldn’t hear anything. Another deep breath and I straightened.
I swallowed, said a small silent prayer, and rapped a fist on the door.
A waited a second before I said, “Housekeeping!”
I knocked again.
I tilted forward, turning my head just a bit to listen. I still heard nothing on the other side. I saw no rustling of the curtains if anyone was peeking out.
I knocked again, this time more sternly. Just as I lowered my hand, I caught a glimpse from the edge of my vision of a figure approaching me. I looked over at the figure, turning my head slowly, as if underwater.
An overweight, middle-aged guy shuffled by in a bathrobe, ice clunking in a plastic bucket. He avoided my gaze. Probably in Orlando for one of our many conventions, but staying here unbeknownst to the wife back in Peoria. I watched him trundle down the walkway and disappear into a room several doors down. When I turned back, I looked out over the railing down at the pool. There were a couple of swimmers, but it seemed mostly empty, any crowd presumably drawn to the drag show inside.
I took one last glance at the door of room 417. Light was still visible through the peephole, meaning nobody was looking out at me. The curtains were limp. I needed a new plan. I headed down the stairs to the pool. From down there, I could plant myself somewhat inconspicuously in one of the deck lounge chairs and still have a clear view of TJ’s room. Until I thought of something else, I figured I could stake it out and maybe get lucky.
I found a spot in the shadows on the opposite side of the pool that offered an unobstructed view of the fourth-floor walkway. If someone approached room 417 or came out, I’d see. I folded my hands, settled back in my chair, and began watching.
Suffice to say, I didn’t see much. After a while, however, I did notice a small gathering, maybe a half dozen or so guys, sitting together under a gazebo at the far end of the pool just hanging out, drinking some beers, and listening to music. Keeping my eye on room 417, I stood and casually wandered over to the gazebo. They were all pretty young. Twenties or early thirties. Perhaps TJ was in the crowd—the music might be a draw for him.
As I approached, I quickly realized that the music wasn’t coming from a CD or an iPod. One of the guys had a guitar and was strum
ming it. He had his head lowered, his shaggy brown hair hanging down over his eyes. I could see a goatee on his chin and a day or two of stubble on his cheeks. He was thin and wore a blue T-shirt over faded jeans with a ragged hole in one knee. I took a step closer.
The guitar player added some vocals to his acoustic music—and my knees nearly buckled. I recognized the voice. When he looked up, there was no doubt. He had a mop of shoulder-length hair and a scruffy beard, but the eyes were unmistakable. Arlene’s eyes.
I sidled two steps to my right to pretend to lean against a gazebo post. The song ended and the group offered some casual applause. I stood frozen there, my muscles tensed, my mind racing. What was my move? How should I play this?
I remained motionless through two more songs. The music was very different from anything on a Boyz Klub album. Alternative. Edgy. Even cynical. More Green Day than Backstreet Boys. There was real passion in his playing.
The last song finished and the remaining few listeners downed their beers and wandered off. The guitar player looked sideways at me, as if suddenly realizing that I didn’t quite belong. The honking shiner on my eye probably didn’t help.
“You’re good,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said warily. He stood and gripped his guitar by the neck. “Well, g’night.” He turned to exit the gazebo, keeping his head down.
A second elapsed. It felt like an hour.
“TJ—,” I said.
Without looking up, he dropped the guitar and bolted.
CHAPTER 32
“TJ! Wait!” I shouted and took off after him. “Wait!”
My foot caught on a gazebo step, sending me hard to the ground on my elbow. A sharp jolt of pain zapped through my upper arm and into my shoulder.
I pushed myself up and sprinted after him, little twinges of pain reverberating in my arm like electric shocks. TJ leaped over a deck chair and sprinted down the long edge of the pool. I was several yards behind him. Too far. And the kid was fast. He’d quickly put some distance between us if I didn’t do something.
But what? Shout for someone to grab him? Right. Pull my Glock and cap him in the leg? I can’t believe the thought actually entered my head. I blame Bob.
Head Games Page 24
