Present also were the usual camp followers. A few leading players from the movies, strangers with familiar faces, some overused, passé. Along with other types of entertainers—sharp wits, sharp tongues, atrocious characters, bizarre personalities, needed for perverse amusement, suffering by comparison, making the powerful and beautiful appreciate themselves all the more.
Wiley felt out of place. If he fit in, as Mrs. Gimble had predicted, he had to do some serious self-reappraising, he thought. He turned to speak to Lillian.
She wasn’t there.
She’d slipped away, nowhere in sight. Probably, Wiley decided, she didn’t want to be seen with him because that would cramp her ambitions. Couldn’t blame her. But at least she could have said good-bye, thanks for the lift, or anything.
What now? Wiley wondered. Ask for Mrs. Gimble? She was his only in, had offered to arrange things with what’s-his-name … Argenti. However, that would mean getting into the battle going on at the reception desk. He was there on such a flimsy invitation.
He spotted a porter.
He remembered la mordida, grabbed the porter’s arm, said “Por favor” and slipped him 600 pesos. Fifty dollars. Extravagant, but worth it if it worked.
The porter understood the money. He took Wiley’s luggage and provided interference through the crowd, across the reception area and outside to a courtyard, where there was an electric cart with a white awning top. Luggage and Wiley aboard, the porter started the cart and steered it down the cobblestone street.
“What number is your bungalow, señor?”
First to Wiley’s mind came eleven. He skipped from it to thirty, then to seventy-five, and told the porter, “Seventy-eight.”
The porter nodded and said, as though he’d heard, “One-fourteen.”
Wiley confirmed that and sat back to enjoy the ride. Along the way they passed people. Several said hello because he appeared to be someone they should know, or wanted to. Two Mrs. Gimble types gave him just enough of an eye, and a little farther on, so did a man and a woman together.
No sign of Lillian.
Wiley thought perhaps she’d been ejected. If so, what was he doing there? His concern was canceled by recalling how efficient she’d been.
The cart turned left, climbed up a narrower street, then right for a short distance. It stopped at the foot of a flight of wide white stairs that led to a landing. A heavy white door was discreetly numbered 114. The porter used his passkey. He placed the luggage inside, said “Muchas gracias” twice and departed.
It was a large square room, about twenty by twenty, with a high, domed ceiling. White splashed sparingly with yellow, green, blue. The floor was white marble, strategically softened with thick curly-wool rugs, also white. Two facing sofas and a matching chair were covered in a natural muslin-like linen that incorporated an almost indiscernible blue stripe. On a table of inch-thick milk glass was a silver salver of fruit, next to the latest issues of Vogue and Réalités, next to a cut-crystal container of Dunhill cigarettes, next to a humidor containing a dozen Havanas.
Off to one side was a small, wet bar, already well stocked, including two bottles of Tattinger ’62.
Three oil paintings and two pen sketches on the walls. Well done, certainly of value. Wiley went up close to one, a small boldly stroked landscape. It was just ordinarily hung with wire. He remembered his hotel in Acapulco had horrible lithographs screwed to the walls. Didn’t rich people steal? Or perhaps when they did, it was never mentioned, merely added to the bill. Smart way to sell paintings, Wiley thought.
It occurred to him there was no bed. Were the sofas convertible? That didn’t seem in keeping.
Two doors on the interior wall. One was a closet. The other would surely be the bath. However, Wiley discovered it opened into another room, the bedroom, nearly as large a room as the first and just as tastefully appointed. The bed was king-size. Fresh-cut flowers were on the side table by a window. And there was the bath, all marble and chrome, with a tub large enough for two or even three, depending.
Sweet Jesus, he’d appropriated a suite. He would have settled for a reasonably comfortable room. According to law, the price tag had to be somewhere. Wiley found it, practically hidden on the inside frame of a closet door.
Three thousand seven hundred fifty pesos per day.
Three hundred dollars a day.
His next thought was to run, get out.
But he didn’t want to, really. Besides, 114 had been the porter’s choice. The porter had to know something. Yes, he definitely should trust the porter.
He unpacked, undressed, took a shower to wash away the sand and seawater film left from that swim with Lillian. Washing her away, he thought, and when he was rubbing dry with a huge yellow-striped towel, his mind was free of her. Next moment, however, she jumped back in full force. Time would help. By tomorrow, maybe even by later that night, she’d be vague, in proper perspective.
As for now, he was hungry. That half of a half of a papaya hadn’t been much to go on. Should he push his luck as far as room service?
He called and asked what they had to offer. It was only six o’clock. Did he want an early dinner or only something to tide him over? They would send him a menu. No, he’d tell them what he wanted, and they could tell him what they didn’t have. He’d start with some smoked Scottish salmon. Make that a double order. Then some soup, say, cream of avocado. Steamed mussels with butter sauce. Roast rack of lamb, charred outside, pink in the middle; cottage-fried potatoes, and arugola and endive salad. He’d do his own oil-and-vinegar dressing. Chocolate mousse for dessert and, as an afterthought, an assortment of cheeses, especially Brie. Coffee, of course. And a carton of Camels.
“Sí, señor.”
Maybe the guy hadn’t understood a word, Wiley thought. Anyway, he’d already clicked off.
Wearing only a towel, Wiley poured a vodka on the rocks and lighted a cigarette. He took it out onto the walled terrace that went with the suite. He looked down on the tops of other bungalows and out to sea. The water was calming. The sun was becoming yellower, headed toward sinking. Jasmine contributed to the air.
A fragment of laughter, a heart-shaped sound, came from somewhere nearby.
Wiley pulled hard on his drink, felt it hit inside and spread, like an injection. He went back to the living room, sat on the couch. He was paging through Réaltiés—detesting the fact that a pair of Jacob chairs that no one would ever sit on had sold for eighteen thousand dollars at the Hôtel Drouot auction on October 3, 1976—when he heard someone at the front door.
Room service?
Couldn’t be. Too soon.
Keys in the lock.
A porter, a different one, entered carrying luggage. Followed in by a man of about forty. A lean man in a gray business suit, white shirt, gray silk tie. Evidently from somewhere north because he had a topcoat over his arm, a gray homburg and a black Hermès attaché case in hand.
Wiley, literally caught with his pants down, peered over the back of the sofa. He’d better take the offensive, could always retreat. “What’s this?” he asked, acting rankled.
“I’m terribly sorry. I thought this was my suite,” the man in gray said. He was as reticent and his voice as colorless as his appearance. He introduced himself: Arnold Prentiss, an American.
“There must be some mistake,” Wiley told him.
“My mistake,” Prentiss said. “I’ve never seen such organized confusion.”
The porter examined the key that was stamped 114.
Wiley told the porter, “Find Mr. Prentiss another suite.”
“Sí señor.”
“That’s the best solution, don’t you think?”
Prentiss agreed. He apologized for the disturbance.
When they were gone, Wiley went in the bathroom, sprayed on some underarm antiperspirant, gazed into the mirror.
Look at me looking at me, he thought solemnly, living on the edge, getting by on pure nerve. It certainly was no ballroom dance. He grinned a sa
rdonic sorry-for-himself sort of grin. It changed, grew into an I-don’t-give-a-shit smile. Looking on the brighter side, he was having a hell of a lot of fun.
One thing, though, he wished he’d thought to get the 114 key from the porter. He didn’t want to risk asking for one at the front desk.
Dinner arrived. He had it served on the terrace. He’d forgotten to order wine, sent the waiter back for a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild ’67. In the dimming light he ate slowly, enjoying every mouthful, treating himself. He noticed the orange and red bougainvillea against the white wall, then saw it lose color. The waiter had lighted candles. It was almost pleasant to eat alone.
The phone rang. Like an alarm.
He let it ring, and finally it stopped.
It rang again.
On impulse he went in and answered it. No response. Someone was on the other end; he could hear breathing. Then whoever it was clicked off.
Wrong number, Wiley decided. It gave him an idea, a long shot. He got the hotel operator on the phone. Was there a Miss Holbrook registered, Miss Lillian Holbrook? Without hesitation, the operator said Miss Holbrook was in bungalow 11.
He’d certainly been right about her being able to take care of herself. Should he give her a call? Better yet, he’d make it face to face.
He dressed, put on a pair of straight-legged jeans, French-made, and a cream-colored pure-silk shirt. The jeans fit so snugly that their pockets were practically useless. Nowhere for him to carry his money. One hundred and twenty brand-new hundred-dollar bills. He’d have to hide it somewhere in the suite. He recalled those American Express commercials against carrying cash. Every hiding place seemed obvious, because suddenly Mexican hotel maids were ingenious thieves.
The lamp. Big, fat original ceramic lamp. He turned it over on its side, used the round end of a nail file to undo the screws that held its base. Because the money was new, it didn’t make too thick a wad. It fit into the hollow of the base with room to spare. He replaced the base, straightened the lamp, and felt fairly secure about it.
Bungalow 11, Wiley found, was quite a ways over and higher up the slope. A choice location it shared with only one other bungalow. Those two bungalows were twice as large as any of the others. Wiley walked by it. The front was solid, no way of seeing in. He decided against going right up and ringing the bell. There was the distasteful but real possibility he’d be intruding upon a very personal moment.
Should he just leave be?
Along one side of the house was a narrow walkway, nearly concealed by bougainvillea. Wiley went down along the side. A high wall there went around the entire rear of the place, like a compound. The roof of the adjacent bungalow would help. He climbed a latticed inset to the roof. Now, just below him was the private terrace of bungalow 11, and across the way the bungalow itself, all the windows and doors wide open, lights on.
His eyes were like binoculars. His view of the living room featured a sweating silver champagne bucket with the cloth-wrapped neck of a bottle protruding. Layers of lazy smoke in the air. He heard a Janis Ian on the hi-fi. The window to the far left showed him the bedroom. The closet was open. An array of colors, clothes, dresses. Were those all hers?
Pale green in motion.
It was Lillian in an ankle-length strapless dress, with the skirt slit nearly to the hip on one side. A flowing, defining fabric. Wiley caught only a glimpse of her, but it was enough to cause him to clutch inside, a sensation that wasn’t fright but similar. She was incredibly beautiful, wearing some makeup now, but still not much.
Wiley heard her, out of view, say: “How much did you lose?”
“Twenty thousand.” A man’s voice.
“Why don’t you pay your bets?”
“Sometimes I forget, I have so much on my mind. You know how it is.”
“But you’re always right there when you win.”
“A few thousand more or less matters to me?” He had an accent. “Anyway, instead of money, Lucio wanted me to settle in ponies for polo. I gave him four.”
“The worst of your string, no doubt.”
“I let him choose.”
“Really?”
“I had faith in his poor judgment. Of course, he cheated himself miserably.” He spoke with iambic exaggeration, up and down scale several times in one sentence. Obviously an Italian.
“That cigar is suffocating,” Lillian complained.
The man now came into Wiley’s view of the living room. He was about 210 or 220 pounds, four or five inches over six feet. Mixed black and gray hair, a short curly mass of it, and a matching full beard made his head seem abnormally large. A Herculean head. For the same reason his eyes appeared small, set deep in under bushy brows. With the beard it was difficult to see exactly where his mouth was when closed. Altogether, a powerful-looking man. He was wearing a double-breasted white dinner jacket, no tie, at least not at the moment. That bothered Wiley.
Now Lillian came into view.
“Put it out,” she said.
“Why begrudge me such a small pleasure?” He tossed the cigar out the window onto the terrace, where it lay smoldering. “I’ll do anything for you,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Meno. I feel cranky tonight for some reason.”
Meno. The name meant nothing to Wiley.
“Perhaps you do not want to be with me?”
“Perhaps.”
“Am I not generous enough for you?”
“You’re generous.”
Meno embraced her from behind. “Be nice, my angel.” He was the typical cooing Italian lover. “Be nice to me.” One hand caressed her bare shoulder, the other went for her breast. She stepped away from him. He shrugged as though it was her loss.
She was gone from Wiley’s sight, then suddenly she reappeared in the double doorway twenty feet away and gazed straight out. Wiley was taken by surprise. He ducked down a little late.
He heard her footsteps on the terra-cotta tiles of the terrace. One, two, three, four, pause.
“You really shouldn’t buy me so many expensive things,” she said.
“Why not?” Meno came out to her.
“Well, it is rather … embarrassing.”
She sounded so obviously coy, Wiley thought.
“I want people to talk about us,” Meno said. “It is good for my reputation.”
“Your reputation is bad enough.”
“I am a roué?”
“You are.”
“I chase after beautiful women.”
“You do.”
“They chase after me.”
“By the hundreds,” she said.
“They are as forgotten as meals. You are the only …”
“We are going to dinner, aren’t we?”
“I have a more appetizing suggestion.”
“You always do.” She added a little wicked laugh.
Wiley felt cheap and foolish. He wanted away from there. If he moved, they’d surely hear him. He pressed his fingers to his ears, closed his eyes, tried to think of some excuse for himself. To hell with it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t stay there another minute.
As noiselessly as possible, he crept across the roof, climbed down and walked away.
6
To bed at ten, to sleep at half past three.
At four Wiley got another phone call. Again, no response to his hello and someone breathing on the other end of the line.
Another such call at six. Wiley told whoever it was to fuck off.
He got up at eight feeling as though he’d been on the phone all night. He decided on a walk before breakfast, took an apple from the salver and went out. A cloudless day, the sun so bright it was shining the blue out of most of the sky. He’d forgotten sunglasses. That was truly him, he thought, not programmed for sunglasses in December.
He walked down to the private beach. No one there yet, except hotel beach boys raking the sand and washing down the catamarans resting just above the surf line. No one at the lagoon-like swimming pool either. Cushions were being dis
tributed for the sunners to come. From the bar, a circular thatched structure located in the center of the pool, came the clinking of glasses and bottles being made ready. Incongruous, a sort of sad sound at this hour.
Wiley walked along the quay of the marina. A number of good-sized boats were tied up. Two were especially impressive. The largest, about a 250-footer, had a sleek black hull and polished chrome fittings. On its stern was the name Oscuro, and beneath that, Panama. Moored next to it was a 200-or-so footer that sat lower in the water, had racier contours and, with its white hull fitted with brass, a more virtuous demeanor. It was called Sea Cloud. Its port of registry was also Panama.
As Wiley passed by the yachts, like anyone who’d never owned one, he wondered how it would be. He imagined himself coming topside in the morning, scanning the horizon, arbitrarily pointing out a direction and telling the captain, “That way.” He guessed the price of those largest two yachts. The black, five million easy. The white, perhaps a million less.
Wiley thought of the secondhand boat his father had recently bought, for a couple thousand, a 21-foot Bonanza cruiser he was overhauling, enjoying having that to do. For nearly three years now, Wiley’s parents had lived on the Florida Keys just south of the seven-mile bridge near Bahia Honda. They had sent him photos of their mobile home that was really immobilized, with a yard and permanent fence around it. They liked it there, they said, and had made many new friends, also retired. Wiley had put off visiting them. Two months ago he’d sent for an offering brochure on a $300,000 home in Boca Raton.
He walked out on the breakwater, all the way to the tip. Removed his shirt and sat on a slanty rock just above the ocean. The water was deeper there, choppier, but he could still see bottom. Dark triangular shapes moving there, probably shadows. But no, they were darting and skimming slowly along. One came nearly to the surface, and Wiley saw what it was.
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