This helped. And it helped, too, when I pointed out to myself that I was alive right now and here with Tom, which at five o’clock yesterday would have seemed like a Christmas miracle. I promised myself I’d stay alert and not let either Tom or me end up in the morgue. After that I told myself to shut up.
We checked in at the Marriott Key with a minimum of fuss, took our negligible luggage with us into the dining room and had lunch/dinner before we headed upstairs to our room on the concierge floor. The extra barrier of keycard exclusivity would give us that much more peace of mind.
All the while we were eating the Marriott’s tasty food, electricity had been building—outside the hotel and inside our clothes. The flicker of lightning on the windows was getting more and more frequent. The lights dimmed a couple of times. Dark clouds had spread out like spilled ink until the whole sky was blackened. Streetlights had been duped into turning on.
We rode up to our room on the special concierge-level elevator and let ourselves in. The view was magnificent. Lake and city arrayed in front of and beneath us under the dramatic, black sky. I did the visual interpretation for Tom while he ran his thumbs slowly along both wings of my collarbone and nuzzled my ear.
Too bad the X-Games don’t have an undressing competition. We would dominate in our division. For style as well as speed.
Lightning struck so close by I could almost feel its heat radiating off the flat brightness on the window. Heat. I put my arms around Tom’s neck and we moved in close enough to drive each other wild. Teasing. Tantalizing. Some very sensitive parts ever so slightly brushing. Our personal storm intensifying in the momentary postponement of full body contact.
I touched my lips to the smooth, salty warmth of his shoulder and then worked my way up to kiss the pulse that was throbbing in his neck. Lightning flashed again and the thunder resonated in my bones. “Oh, my, Tom. Listen.” I whispered. “They’re playing our song.”
And then the storm got so out of control we had to lie down and take shelter on our big safe, luxurious bed.
After a considerable while I found myself resting on his chest. Face to face, skin to skin. Feeling satiated and exhausted but still affectionate in an intellectual way. There was something I wanted to know and this seemed like a promising, if somewhat sweaty, opportunity to ask him.
“So. I’ve got a question I’ve been saving for a moment when you’re in a good mood and no one is trying to kill us.”
He put his hand to my face with the accuracy that so took me off guard, brushed my hair out of my eyes, and secured it behind my ear. Then he started caressing my flushed cheek with his gorgeous, brilliant fingers. Darn. And a mere second ago I didn’t desire anything.
“Well,” he began, oblivious to the enthusiasm with which my girl parts were responding to his simple gesture of friendship. “I suppose anybody at any time may decide to kill us and take all our fabulous money, but I’m feeling pretty safe right now. And if I were in any better mood, I’d need CPR.”
His fingers searched out my mouth and he delivered a very accurate, very warm and cheerful kiss to it. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”
I suppressed all my natural responses and forged ahead. Focus, girl, focus.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ve been wondering. You told me your fiancée, back in the day, though beautiful, was perhaps not the woman for a blind man. So. Am I? Am I the kind of woman for a blind man? Am I a lot of fun?
Both of our bodies vibrated to rhythm of his laughter. “You’re the kind of woman for a lucky man, Alice,” he answered, rolling us both over onto our sides, face to face. He touched his forehead to mine. “You’re the woman I want. And you’re almost too much fun. Now go to sleep before you kill us both.”
Chapter Fourteen
But after all that, I was still wired.
I would have liked to talk myself down but my inner part-time librarian was also part-time OCD. At the Memorial-Nottingham Branch we had a cart for returned books and videos. Sometimes I would be the one to push it around the aisles like a stroller for baby books and tuck each one into its own special place. It was…soothing.
Maybe all that sorting and shelving had given me a compulsion to get every single thing handled. I found myself obsessing about whether I should have pocketed that stupid scrap of plaid. Then I traveled back in time and revisited my three dead guys, the beatings of Rune’s mom and my Margo, the ransacking of Tom’s house. And mine—
Stop it, Allie!
Tom was out cold. I wrestled with the assorted components of the awesome and famous Marriott Bed. I moved my Euro pillow and two of the “soft-but-firm” down pillows to the foot of the bed and hung out there until the air conditioner chilled me. Then I migrated back to a more conventional position, pulling the silky, one hundred-gazillion-thread-count sheet and the fluffy comforter over me. For comfort. Time passed. Alas, no luck.
It wasn’t the bed’s fault. The bed was doing its job flawlessly. I couldn’t get settled down. After what felt like eons of positioning and repositioning, I got up. It wasn’t midnight yet. Early. I decided to take a shower and calm down. Then, once I was clean, but still not all that much calmer, I decided to get dressed and go downstairs to the bar. Have a drink to knock me out.
My clean, fresh clothes felt lovely on my clean, fresh skin. Everything all over myself felt good. I might not have peace of mind enough to call it a night but my body, at least, had achieved nirvana. So the corporeal part of me was euphoric. And my soul was also pretty darn blissful. It was the barking guard dog chained to the inside of my head who circled and circled and circled some more. But couldn’t lie down.
I paused by the bed, watching Tom sleep in the pale light from the bathroom. I couldn’t leave him a note, but I’d be back in a half hour. He was out. He’d never miss me. I stuffed the key card into my jeans pocket, grabbed my purse, and headed downstairs.
Jake’s Lounge was empty of patrons, but still open. The bartender hovered in front of his pyramids of luminescent bottles, watching late-night ESPN. I waited for a moment out of the light, scanning the surroundings for anything sinister. Except for a lady with a very nice handbag and matching shoes, waiting for the elevator, and a pair of business guys dragging their own rolling luggage, it was just me and the bartender in view at the moment.
I slid onto a stool, thinking that this scene was that line out of the Joni Mitchell song about the girl sketching her lover’s face on a bar coaster in the blue light from a TV. That song. It’s about irresistible attraction, doomed longing, and sex, of course. I’d always thought “A Case Of You” was maybe the sexiest song ever written.
“Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet”
Obsession. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who let the hunger of holding on and the dread of losing make me abandon common sense. I considered turning around and going back up to the room to lie still in the darkness by this man, who was fast becoming my one all-consuming desire. That would have been good. That would have been so smart. But then my phone rang my any-old-unidentified-caller ringtone—The Who’s “Who Are You?”
That jarred the Joni-induced heat out of the pit of my stomach.
“Yes?” I was hoping for a wrong number. No such luck.
“Miz Harper? It’s me. Ulysses Grant. Up at the apartments by Lake Shore. We got us a problem.”
Damn.
On second thought, I was relieved to hear his voice. He wasn’t among the dead.
“Uh, hi, Ulysses. Mr. Grant. What’s up?”
“It’s about Felix and Muff and Frank. I got somethin’ to tell you. Somethin’ you need to know. You’re involved. You and that blind Mondo guy.”
“Involved how? And who’s this Felix? And Muff? And Frank?”
“They’re dead guy
s now, Miz Harper. You met Frank. Or at least you saw him th’other night. White guy. He’s—he was—in a chair like mine. Mebbe he’s got him angel wings now, for all I know, but I seriously doubt it.” He paused to laugh, a harsh rumble that ended badly in a dry cough. He picked his story back up.
“Muff. Fat guy with a lot of long dreads in a bundle. Him, I hardly knew, but Felix—Felix Reposado. Skinny dude, all’a time flashy shirts, shades. He was around a lot. Somethin’ of a player.”
Oh, come on. Felix Reposado? What kind of name was that? Sounded like cheap tequila in a cat-shaped bottle. Had to be an alias. Still, it seemed pitifully fitting for the dip-shit ferret we’d all come to know and not miss very much.
As if in answer to my unspoken disrespect, Ulysses snorted. “Not like that was Felix’s real name. He never told nobody his real name. I b’lieve it was somethin’ like Raymond. Raymond Leon Somethin’. Sorry son’a bitch. Loser from birth.
“He knew somethin’, though. Ain‘t no way on God’s green Earth he and Muff and Frank shot each other over money they ain‘t even got yet. I know for sure they didn’t. They was none of ’em the brightest bulb in the hall, but they wasn’t that dumb. Somebody should check the ballistics on that crime scene.”
Is everybody a CSI?
“But, hey. I can’t keep puttin’ money into this phone forever, girl. You rich. Not me. Come pay me a visit. I’ll be waitin’ in the rec room where we met before. And don’t bring the blind guy. He looks like easy money on a stick down here. More easy money than anybody down here ever seen. Just you. You white, but you could fit in.”
Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence with the condo board, Ulysses.
“We need to talk. Ain’t nobody safe unless we do. Not you. Not the Mondo guy. Not me. Will you come? Now? Tonight?”
Would I? Hell no. Not if I were smart. Then again, not having a clue about any of this was making my inner guard dog ultra nervous. Seemed like everybody knew everything about Tom and me. Like, for example—“Ulysses? How did you get my cell number?”
“Honey, ev’rybody got your number. His, too. This is the Age of the Internet. Age of In-fo-mation, baby. Didn’ anyone tell you that? We poor, but we tec’ savvy.” He hawked up that laugh again, and then turned serious.
“Another thing. That kid. That Rune boy. His momma’s so-called significant other was prowling around tonight, lookin’ for him. Says he has rights. Cust’dy rights.
“I may not be smart and rich like you and the blind guy, but I know trouble when I see it. That guy is trouble with the big T. This is one dangerous situation for your blind guy and for Rune, too. You care about that boy, Miz Harper, you need to hear me…hear what I got to say. What I got to show you.
“An’ you think about this, girl. If those guys didn’t kill each other, if somebody else is killin’ for money, who’d you think would be next?”
Terrific. Old Lady Obsession grabbed me again.
I had to go. Had to find out.
Tom was blind. And fast asleep. Besides, Ulysses was right. Bringing Tom back to the projects would be like waving a major chunk of cash around. And Rune threatened by this big-T trouble-guy? That pushed me right over the edge.
I was scared. I knew this was semi-crazy. But Ulysses would be waiting for me, at least. Crazy or not, here I went.
Be careful,” he growled.
“You, too.”
Careful?
No bleeping kidding. I could see myself driving out the Shoreway and on into history like Amelia Earhart. Except I wouldn’t even make the news. If I vanished, Ulysses would probably just cross me off his list. He hadn’t struck me as a man who would go out of his way to find trouble. Tom wouldn’t have a clue where I’d gone. Maybe ever, or at least until it was way too late.
I spent a long couple of minutes weighing the consequences between scaring Tom or letting him wonder what had happened to me for the rest of his life. Or until he got over it and forgot all about me. Or until they found my body.
Ah. There was my answer.
I stopped at the front desk. The guy there looked wide awake so I figured him to be the night desk person. I asked him if he had paper and an envelope so I could leave someone a note.
He did.
I wrote a very succinct message to Tom about where I was going. I did not try to explain why I was going there without him. This was a note for life or death, not diplomacy. And I didn’t have time or heart for a maybe goodbye. I shoved it into the envelope and wrote down Tom’s name and the room number.
The guy was watching me with mild interest.
“Uh,” I said. “Will you still be here at two a.m.?”
His eyebrows went up and he grinned. “Does it look like I’m doing that lousy a job?”
“No. Of course not. I just….”
I handed him the envelope.
“Look. If I don’t come here and take this back by two a.m., please call this man in this room and read it to him. Okay?”
A well-trained hotel guy, he accepted the envelope without blinking and tucked it neatly into the breast pocket of his suit.
“Of course. I’ll take care of it. And I’ll hope to see you back with us before then.”
Me, too.
Once outside, I scooched up against the wall and made myself as small as I could until the valet brought the car. The rain had all but stopped, but the gutters were swirling muddy water. The smell of hot asphalt tempered in the hiss of cold rain was intoxicating. Tom had opened my third eye onto the world of the senses. In so many ways.
I put that thought out of my head, tipped the valet, and drove off into the steamy darkness, wondering if I could order a vanity plate that read “DAMN.”
Chapter Fifteen
I parked in the lot as close to the building as I could. My modest rented Maxima was the nicest, newest vehicle there. It had all its hubcaps. I stood by the car, debating.
Stay? Go?
Run?
I didn’t see a soul anywhere, and it was dead silent for such a big, tall place. Was someone in there waiting for me? Watching from behind one of those blank, hovering windows? My neck prickled. My heart hammered. I could hear it all the way up in my ears. If Tom had any idea I was down here, he’d be frantic. And probably livid. And justified.
Breathe, Allie. Get a grip.
I breathed.
The night air was warm and heavy, weighed down by the rain. I could hear my great lake now. Out there heaving away in the darkness. I breathed again, deeper, inhaling its mossy perfume. I wanted to raise my arms and invoke its power to protect me. That’s how I feel about Lake Erie. Like it is the earthly deputy of God.
Okay. Better now. Stop with the lake worship, Alice. Get going.
My sandals grated against rough concrete. I picked up the pace. Out of the parking lot. In through the doors. Down the echoing hall. One new addition to the corridor since last night was the yellow crime scene tape stuck across one of the doors.
Chill, chill, double chill. I knew what crime that one marked. Make my chill a triple. Three dead before dawn. Right behind that door. Goose bumps swarmed up my bare arms all the way to my neck.
That did it. I was almost running.
The common room at the end of the bleak passageway hadn’t changed. The upended chairs and tables were still down and over. The TV was droning some paid programming thing about a nifty floor steamer/cleaner you could have put to excellent use in this very room.
I kept walking. Ulysses was sitting all by himself. Of his two former companions, one was dead, one off somewhere unknown tonight. Ulysses was waiting for me right where we’d first found him, hardly twenty-four hours ago. His back to the door. His head tilted at a good angle for watching. Or sleeping. Poor old guy. He should be in bed. I slowed myself way down, letting my sandals slap on the floor so as not to embarrass him for falling asleep
.
Now I was right behind him.
He didn’t move.
I called his name. “Ulysses?”
Ever read The Iliad and The Odyssey?
“Ulysses? Ulysses!” I was almost shouting now. His head was lolled back more than I’d thought. His eyes were a little bit open, but the pupils were rolled up out of sight. Only the whites, which were not white at all, but yellowish and crosshatched with tiny red vessels, showed…
Wake up, Allie.
Forget the eyes. I was getting caught up in the details because I hated the big picture. Ulysses A. Grant was dead.
I put my hand to his neck, still hoping, remembering Renata and that almost-peed-my-pants groan. But Ulysses was silent and although his skin was warm, he wasn’t breathing. When I pressed my shaking fingers to his wrist for a pulse, a folded up piece of paper dropped out of his limp hand onto to the floor. That’s when I knew for sure.
I didn’t scream. People who find bodies on TV scream. Big, echoing, throat-shredding shrieks. Staring down at Ulysses, I could feel my whole body screaming out fear and horror loud enough to shatter glass, but the sound that fought its way out of me was a pitiful croaking moan.
Here was all that was left of this old man, now that his quirky humanity, his hopes and pride had just…gone. My moan for Ulysses—who’d died and left me here all by myself—was truer than any phony actor scream I’d ever heard. It got the job done for me and for him.
Besides, by the time I’d wrenched up enough breath to be loud, I was warning myself, Shhh! Don’t scream, Allie. Screaming is for when you believe someone will come to help you. This isn’t the time or the place for that.
I fumbled around in my purse, shoveling crap out onto the floor, digging for my phone. Once I had it trapped in my stupid, sweaty, trembling hand, I punched in 9-1-1.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
The voice that came out of my mouth sounded nothing like me.
“A man. Ulysses A. Grant,” the voice said. It was calm. “He is dead. In the rec room on the first floor of the westernmost high-rise across from Joe’s Super Market on Lake Shore. Please send somebody right away,” Then I threw my phone and my purse down onto its scattered contents, beat my fists against my knees, and bawled like a baby.
Too Lucky to Live Page 8
