Odds On: A Novel

by Michael Crichton

  “How is it going?”

  She looked up at the pudgy form of Mr. Bonnard. “All right. Mr. Jencks just signed in and did not mind receiving 205.”

  Bonnard nodded absently. “He came alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand it,” he said, shaking his head. “Over the past year, we have rarely had single guests of either sex. Yet within the last week or so, three single men have checked in. First that Spaniard, then—”

  “Mexican” Annette corrected, remembering the passport, which had said clearly: “Birthplace Mexico, D.F., Mexico.”

  “Yes, Mexican. All right. Then that British fellow, the dignified, mean-looking one, and now this American. And we have a fourth man coming, named Gordon, due sometime late today.”

  “Well?”

  “It strikes me as strange, that’s all.”

  Annette said nothing. She knew perfectly well what was bothering Mr. Bonnard. The syndicate had stipulated a number of girls to satisfy single men when the staff lists were drawn up. The syndicate, a collection of fourteen worldly businessmen, thought of everything. Mr. Bonnard had tried to follow their instructions, but had changed plans after six months in view of spontaneous amateurism among the employees. The professionals had been fired, and the amateurs had each received a short talk from Mr. Bonnard, in which he laid down the ground rules of the game.

  Behind the entire system was a pragmatic theory of hotel management, a theory which Annette understood well, though Mr. Bonnard had mentioned it to her only once, shortly after the hotel had opened.

  “Single men on vacation,” he had said, “need unattached women. That is, they need preferably unattached women. If none are available, they will begin to chase the wives of other guests at the hotel. That must be avoided at all costs.” He was right, of course, particularly in the case of the Reina, which was isolated from any large city. This was a self-contained community, and the girls had to be supplied somehow.

  “What’s the latest on the lady in 313?” he asked her. “That’s no lady,” Annette said. The woman in 313 was a potential source of trouble—a slim, dark-haired flirt, who had been at the hotel for nearly a week and had been seen talking earnestly with nearly every male guest in the Reina. The chambermaid thought that Miss Gonzales was probably doing more than talking but nobody seemed sure. Mr. Bonnard, amazed to find such an unexpected source of potential trouble, kept track of the woman—at least twice a day, he asked about 313.

  “Nothing new,” Annette said.

  The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of two new guests. They were both young, both clearly American. The boy was slim, rather reedy, with a pimple on his chin and blond hair that was too long, though he was handsome enough in a vain and immature way. The girl at his side was tall, lushly proportioned, and beautiful. She wore her blond hair medium-length, her face had a scrubbed look, her eyes were soft powder blue beneath long lashes. It would have been an angelic face were it not for the lips and eyebrows, which indicated clearly to Annette that the girl was a bitch, and probably a sex tease.

  “Good morning,” said the boy. He seemed uncomfortable alongside the girl, “My name is Ganson. I believe you have my reservation.”

  His accent was flat, northeast United States, and his manner faintly condescending. Annette disliked him at once. She flipped through the book, and said, “Yes, that’s right. A double room for one week.”

  The boy’s face reddened.

  “No,” said the girl at his side. She spoke softly, in a slow drawl. They’re as unlike each other as can be, Annette thought. What are they doing together?

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” the girl said smoothly. “The reservation was for two single rooms. On different floors,” she added, smiling sweetly.

  The boy fumbled for a cigarette, not daring to look at either of the women.

  What a pair, Annette thought.

  “Yes,” she said finally, “we have two free rooms. But I’m afraid neither of them face out onto the sea.”

  “Well,” the boy began, “I don’t think—”

  “That will be just fine,” the girl said. “I’m sure it will be marvelous.”

  “Listen, I—”

  “Oh, Peter, shut up. You can be such a bore at times. We’ve come all this way, so we might as well stay a few days. I think it’s charming.” She handed Annette her passport and turned to the boy. “Of course, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

  Silently, the boy reached for his wallet and produced his passport. Annette took out the yellow forms and began filling them out in the names of Jennifer Cameron and Peter M. Ganson.

  “And tell me,” said the girl. “I notice you have a hairdresser. Could I make an appointment for today?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Wonderful.” She patted her hair with one hand. “My poor hair is such a filthy mess after all this traveling.”

  “Of course,” Annette said, pushing the forms across the desk. “Now, if both of you will please sign these, I’ll have someone show you to your rooms.”

  “You’re very kind,” the girl said, signing briskly.

  The boy said nothing. The bellboy came and escorted them to the elevator.

  As they walked away, Peter said, “I’ll just come along and make sure your room is all right.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Well, you can’t tell—”

  “Peter.”

  “I’m only trying to be helpful, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Shall we meet for lunch?”

  They stood in front of the elevator, waiting for it to come down.

  “All right,” he said. “Why don’t you come down to my room and—”

  “I’ll meet you in the dining room in half an hour.”

  The doors opened. They stepped inside.

  “Well,” the boy whined, “I wish you would—”

  The doors closed, and the lobby was silent.

  Annette sighed and turned to Mr. Bonnard, who had watched the entire proceedings impassively from a seat behind the desk. She admired Bonnard for his ability to be unobtrusive; it was a quality which surpassed discretion, and which she felt must be inborn. Certainly, in the manager’s case, his physical appearance helped him. He was medium height, medium weight, average age, with common brown hair and common brown eyes, passive features.

  “What,” she said, “did you think of that?”

  “I don’t like it. There’s going to be trouble.”

  “Why don’t they part company? I kept wondering that.”

  “It is beyond me,” Bonnard said wearily. “Do you think they will stay a week?”

  Annette shrugged.

  “I hope not,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “I sincerely hope not.”

  “You sound as if you expect one of them to take a leap from a balcony,” Annette laughed.

  Mr. Bonnard regarded her gravely. “We can laugh when they are gone, not before.”

  Maria Theresa Gonzales awoke at the sound of a knock on the door. She rolled over onto her back as the waiter in his starched uniform entered with coffee and two boiled eggs. She glanced at her watch, the only thing she wore when in bed. It was 11 a.m. He was right on schedule.

  “Buenos dias, senorita.” Always polite, this boy. She had taken him, once, but he was disappointing. Though young and strong, he lacked all sense of discipline. He was like a bull in a china shop, as the English would say. Rampaging, excited, worthless—it was a shame.

  “Buenos dias,” she replied, in her best Castilian accent. The boy left the tray on her night table and departed.

  She tossed the covers aside and stood, yawning in the morning light which streamed into the room through thin white drapes. Those drapes always amused her. They seemed somehow reminiscent of diaphanous veils and an exotic life far removed from the Iberian asceticism she had known in her childhood. But then, she thought in those terms anyway. She was once known, after all, as Cynth
ia Sahara, “the girl with the cyntillating navel.” She had torn the hearts and breath from the chests of men in London, Hamburg, and Monte Carlo. She smiled to herself as she recalled the smoky, dark rooms and the hot lights on her bare body, and barely visible to her, the audience, the wet gleam of a thousand shining eyes.…

  She walked into the white-tiled, spotless bathroom and stepped under a brisk cold shower. For a moment, she relished the stinging stream of spray, then dried herself quickly with a rough towel. It was her morning ritual—a cold shower and hard rubdown. Her days began in this swift and unsensual way, as if to heighten the contrast with what usually followed.

  Pink from the towel, she stepped before the full-length mirror and surveyed her naked body coldly. Though she was no infant, her figure was still supple, muscular, and exciting. If anything, her dark face with her clear, almond eyes had grown more sensual with the years; that, no doubt, was the legacy of experience—a kind and degree of experience, part sordid and part luscious, which few women in the world had ever enjoyed.

  And her body, long and inviting beneath her fine-featured face, remained wholly satisfactory. The small, firm breasts showed no sign of sagging; the narrow, almost boyish hips had not begun to widen and grow soft. Her legs were still as slim and strong as when she was sixteen, receiving her first man, and her stomach was still perfectly flat.

  She touched her navel gently. It was true, what the press agents and copywriters and gossip columnists had said—her navel was too large and too obvious when she moved. Experimentally, she twisted her hips in the shifting motion which had invariably produced wild cheers from the audience. Her navel moved clearly, as if tracing the complex contortions of her body. It was sexual almost to the point of obscenity. That was nice.

  Her tan was dark, almost purple-brown, the result of both a naturally olive complexion and long hours at the pool. She was proud of the fact that it was an allover tan, acquired from sunbathing in the privacy of her terrace. She liked the allover tan, which made her body look healthy and inviting, and unblemished by strap marks and white sections. To accentuate the effect of smoothness, Maria carefully shaved her body every day, all over. It was a matter of vanity, she realized, and self-indulgent sensuality she derived from feeling the sharp edge of the razor on her skin. But she liked it, and anything she liked, she invariably did.

  As she combed the straight black hair which fell below her shoulders, she thought of the night before. Essentially, it had been dull. That beastly Zaragoza industrialist had eluded his wife once again and had pounced on her table, scaring off the dark American at the bar. The American was too pudgy for her taste, but he had a look of boyish evil that she found interesting. Besides, she did not yet know him, and that would never do.

  Perhaps he would be at the pool this morning. If so, she would strike up an acquaintance. She never had trouble striking up an acquaintance with any man.

  Maria Theresa walked to the night table and sipped her coffee. She would wear her best bikini today, the brief one in Italian racing red. She predicted that it would take half an hour.

  Miguel lounged on a canvas deck chair and watched the sunlight play on the surface of the pool, which was slightly ruffled by a breeze blowing in from the sea. Although it was nearly 11:30, few guests had come out to enjoy the sun; no more than a dozen people beside himself were there, and no one was swimming. Apparently the clientele of the Reina slept late—or perhaps they merely stayed up very early. He wouldn’t know. He had gone to bed before midnight, leaving the girl in the corner to have it out alone with the Spaniard.

  Bryan appeared at the far end of the pool, a book in hand. They exchanged brief, impersonal nods, and Bryan seated himself in a stiff-backed chair near the diving board, his back to the pool and to Miguel.

  Miguel leaned back and turned his face up to the sun, closing his eyes. Bryan was playing it very cool, maybe too cool. Or perhaps he just didn’t like Miguel, though that hardly made sense—Bryan had asked him to take the job in the first place. Still, Miguel was sure that Bryan could have explained the whole business the night before if he had wanted to. The delaying tactic was a dodge, a diversion, or perhaps something worse—a double cross. Miguel didn’t like it.

  Of course, he reflected, it was possible that Bryan didn’t know the situation or didn’t know it fully. Considering the strange and ridiculously secret nature of the proceedings thus far, it was entirely possible. The American brain, whoever he was, might not have cut Bryan in any more than necessary, and Bryan didn’t want to admit it.

  Another possibility occurred to Miguel. Maybe Bryan was afraid of the third man. Miguel smiled. That would be interesting to see—a man who could intimidate Bryan Stack. But in his time, Miguel had seen many men as tough as Bryan, and tougher men meet their betters.

  He heard a splash and looked up. Someone was in the pool, a girl. He could see her dark head bobbing up, then ducking down again. She began to swim, using a slow, smoothly efficient stroke. Reaching his end of the pool, she stopped and stood in the waist-deep water. It was the girl who had been in the bar, he saw, wearing a flame-red bikini. She smiled at him, and he felt a slight ache in his stomach. Then she began to swim back to the diving board.

  After a few moments, she returned to his end, holding on to the pool lip with one fine, carefully manicured hand. She looked directly at him, and he smiled, about to address her in Spanish until he remembered his orders from Bryan.

  “Good morning,” he said in English.

  “Good morning,” she replied, with a slight British accent. “You should try the water, it’s invigorating.”

  “I intend to, but not until a little later, when the sun is warmer. Will you have a drink with me while I wait?”

  She shook her head. “Too early. Can you make it a lemonade?”

  “I think so.”

  “Fine.”

  He stared at her, fascinated, as she climbed the short ladder and walked dripping across the concrete toward him. Her bikini was brief and very sheer; through the fabric, the twin points of her nipples showed clearly.

  “One layer of cloth,” she announced, sitting in a chair across from him. She did not seem annoyed by his stare, but merely amused. “I prefer it that way. It dries more quickly, and you feel less encumbered in the water. I find clothes encumbering in all sorts of activities. Have you got a cigarette?”

  He passed her the pack, and signaled to the waiter, ordering a beer and a lemonade. “I saw you in the bar last night,” he said noncommittally.

  “I saw you, too, and spent most of the time wishing you would come over and take me away from that terrible man.”

  “I thought he might be your husband.”

  She smiled. “Are you always so cautious?”

  “Usually.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  She laughed then, showing very white teeth. Her lips were light pink, no doubt the result of lipstick, but the effect was stunning with her deep tan. He noticed her wide, sloe eyes, and wondered what mixture of blood coursed through her veins.

  “Are you Spanish?”

  “Not exactly. I’m one of those people who’s hard to place. According to the records, I’m half Moroccan, one quarter Spanish, and one quarter Portuguese. Don’t ask me who accounts for which part.”

  Miguel nodded. With variations, it was a fairly common Iberian heritage. The Arab blood explained, to some extent, her dark complexion and her fine, hard features. The eyes would be mostly Portuguese, and the temperament—knife-edged and moody—would be Spanish. Altogether, a ticklish and rewarding combination if ever he knew one.

  “Do you disapprove?” she asked.

  “I’m half Mexican,” he said, as if that were sufficient explanation. She seemed satisfied.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just relaxing. In the States, I sell bed frames. Out of Cincinnati, Ohio. My name’s Michael Sands. My friends call me Miguel.”
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  “My name is Maria Theresa Gonzales. My friends call me Cynthia.”

  “It’s a strange nickname.”

  “I got it when I was working in London.”

  “What do you do?”

  “All sorts of things,” she smiled. “I can’t seem to hold a job.”

  “And you learned English in London?”

  “Yes. I have lots of friends there.”

  She crossed her slim legs as the drinks came. They sipped for a moment in silence.

  “And what are you doing here?” he asked, finally.

  “The same as you, just relaxing.” She did not offer any more, and something in her manner indicated to Miguel that he should not probe.

  “Do you think,” he said, “that you could relax over lunch with me?”

  “Very straightforward, aren’t you?”

  “I’m only here for a week.”

  “Let’s make it dinner,” she said. “In my room. I’ve been here long enough to know what the kitchen makes well, and I can promise you … a memorable meal.”

  Damn! Miguel thought. Damn, damn, damn. It was cruel tricks of fate like this that could drive a man berserk. “I’m sorry, but I have a dinner date. Could we make it tomorrow night for dinner?”

  “Tomorrow for lunch would be better. About twelve-thirty?”

  “Your room?”

  “Of course. 313.”

  “I’ll remember,” he promised, finishing his drink. He stood. “I think the sun’s hot enough for me now. Coming in?”

  “Certainly.” She rose lithely and arched her back in the sunlight, pushing forward her breasts. “You see? All dry. It really is a wonderful suit.”

  “It really is,” Miguel agreed, thinking that he would much rather spend the evening with her than alone in his room, eating dinner over the charts and plans that Bryan was bringing at six, prior to the big meeting. It was all arranged, and probably for the best, but he could not help thinking how terrible was the plight of a man torn between the conflicting desires of greed and lust.