Magoddy in Manhattan

by Joan Hess

  “You sound like a cop.”

  “Probably because I am a cop.”

  “Are you now?” He held out his hand, and for a fleeting second of insanity, I thought he wanted to hold mine. I then realized he was offering to make me another drink, and I awkwardly gave him my glass. “That’s very interesting,” he murmured as he went to the desk. “Very, very interesting.”

  I wished I could see his face, but I couldn’t. Not any more than I could interpret his tone of voice or stop myself from admiring the broadness of his shoulders. His hair brushed the back of his neck like dark, downy feathers.

  I’d suspected as much, but now it was a certainty: Manhattan was too damn dangerous for the likes of me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There was a gentle tap on the door. “Durmond?” called a woman’s voice. “Are you awake?”

  He handed me the drink, then opened the door. “Come in and join us, Geri. There’s someone you might like to meet.” He took her hand to usher her in, closed the door, and beamed at me as if I were a student who’d produced a clever answer. “This is Arly Hanks, Ruby Bee’s daughter.”

  Geri wrinkled her nose at him. “Kyle’s with me.”

  “Oops,” Durmond said as he reopened the door. “Sorry about that, Kyle. Come have a drink with us.”

  The straggler came into the room and introductions were made. Both seemed uninterested, despite my self-perceived role as assailant’s daughter.

  “I’m so glad that you were able to come on such short notice,” Geri said with a perfunctory smile, then opened her briefcase, took out some, papers, and handed them to Durmond. “These are copies of the medical forms and insurance paperwork from the hospital. The Krazy KoKo-Nut Company will absorb all the cost, naturally. I cannot believe they’re forcing us to use a hotel with absolutely no security. This is Manhattan, not some idyllic little suburb.” She glared at her companion. “I assume you spoke to your father about all this?”

  Estelle’s description of Kyle’s ferrety face was accurate. He wasn’t sending adoring looks at Geri, however, and he sounded miffed as he said, “I tried to call my father to tell him about the—incident last night, but he wasn’t in his room. I left a message with the desk. This hotel isn’t my idea, either. It’s a directive from Interspace Investments.”

  “This is not the time for excuses. Poor Durmond was shot and then subjected to … further indignities. If you cannot arrange for proper security, I’ll do it myself!”

  Kyle flushed. “Do you want me to rent a uniform and go stand by the door?”

  “At least you’d be doing something useful, for a change.” Geri sat down on the edge of the bed and began to sort through papers in her briefcase.

  Durmond and I watched all this in silence. We even exchanged significant looks, although I had no idea what they signified. Kyle clearly had several retorts in mind, but after a moment of twitching his lips mutely, he leaned against the door and folded his arms.

  “So the contest will continue?” I asked Geri.

  “Yes. It’s totally absurd, but the show will go on. My secretary”—she glanced at Kyle—“managed to touch base with my boss. He was displeased to hear what happened, but he was quite firm about our continuing here in the Bates Hotel.”

  Durmond put his hand on my shoulder, which sent off all kinds of adolescent fireworks—invisible, I hoped. “You’ll need to find a room for Arly. I’m sure she’s thrilled at the opportunity to watch the Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff in all its flaky splendor.”

  “Flaky is right,” Geri said grimly. She slammed closed the briefcase and consulted her watch. “I’ll go downstairs in a minute and speak to Rick. I’m quite sure Krazy KoKo-Nut will be delighted to provide the salary for a temporary doorman, should Rick resist, as well as a room for you, Arly. And please forgive me—I’m not at all like this usually. But less than a week ago the account was literally thrown onto my desk, and then I was assigned to work with someone who has no experience in promo, and my boss is being as beastly as Scotty Johanson, and Mother’s livid because I—” She broke off as tears began to wobble down her cheeks. Seconds later, she was sobbing and the rest of us were patting her on the back and murmuring inanities. Even the broody Buddha relented and sat beside her, cradling her hand and sounding quite as ineffectual as Durmond and I.

  It fit perfectly into the lunatic scenario. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Mrs. Jim Bob, Brother Verber, and Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Buchanon marched into the room and announced they were planning a ménage á quatre in the next room. Oh, to be in lazy, hazy Maggody, where nothing ever happened.

  Brother Verber stumbled along the side of the road, singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” as best he could, considering he couldn’t rightly recall the words. He couldn’t rightly recall why he was doing it, for that matter, but he was having a splendid time. The night was balmy, the stars glittery, the world bathed in a most lovely glow of goodwill to all men.

  And to all women, he corrected himself with a hiccup. Goodwill to all women, including Sister Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon Buchanon, or something like that. Why, if she should pop out from behind a tree, he’d just throw his arms around her and tell her what a perfect saint she was, from her halo straight down to her trim ankles.

  He lurched to a stop at the edge of the highway. After several minutes of making real sure there was no car or truck bearing down, he started across the road, then paused on the yellow stripe to think whereall he was going.

  It came to him like a bolt of lightning from the Almighty Hisself. There was no doubtin’ this kind of divine inspiration. No doubtin’ and no disobeyin’. The Almighty thought he should go right over to Sister Barbara’s house and tell her what a saint she was and beg her to join him on her knees in a prayer of thanksgiving for the miracle of creation.

  Brother Verber gazed toward the heavens above, real grateful for the suggestion. He then took a jar from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and took a deep swig, took another for good measure, and set off down the yellow line, doing his best to walk on it but having a darn tough time of it. It didn’t make much sense for it to be weaving like a snake, but it was.

  He resumed booming out his battle hymn and doing his best to keep time. “Marching as well wore, with the crease of Jesus, leaning on the floor!”

  Marvel hitched a ride with an old guy in a delivery truck and listened to a lengthy story about a fishing tournament. In that he was a guest, he didn’t point out you could buy fish at the market without having to sit in a boat all day. When they reached the highway, the driver let him off and told him to have himself a nice evening.

  Marvel peered both ways, not especially caring which way he went. Problem was, he was getting hungry and there wasn’t so much as a house in sight. He had a couple bucks in his pocket, but that wasn’t going to buy him anything in no-dude’s land. He’d already learned it could get damn dark without any city lights, and spookier than the hallways of the housing project where he lived with his mother and sister. His mother, who was going to kill him, that is, and his sister, who probably needed help with her arithmetic homework.

  He was scratching his head and trying to guess which way to walk when a car came over the hill. For some reason, there were two bare feet poked out the backseat window. Marvel was wondering about that as the car stopped.

  “Is this the road to Cleveland?” the driver asked. His voice broke like he was a kid, but Marvel looked harder and decided the honky was old enough to drive.

  “Why you be going to Cleveland?” he countered, still uneasy about the feet resting on the sill.

  “Who are you talking to?” demanded the other end of the feet. They were mystifying, but the voice was belligerence personified—and then some.

  The driver turned his head to mumble something, then looked back with a smile that hinted of terror. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

  “You’re going to Cleveland for your honeymoon?” Marvel said with an incredulous snort. “Shit, nobody goes to Cleveland fo
r a honeymoon. Why you be doin’ something crazy like that, man?”

  “We’re sorta off the track, but we’re aiming at Niagara Falls, and we can get there if we can get to Cleveland. My bride’s so dadburned itchy—I mean, feeling poorly and she seems to think this ain’t the road to Cleveland. I’ve been telling her I’m pretty sure it is, but she wants me to ask somebody.”

  “Somebody with more brains than a mess of collard greens,” said the other end of the feet.

  Marvel scooped up his backpack and went around the car. As he got in the front seat, he took a quick look at what all was in the back. It was too dark to see much, but the aura of malevolence was enough to make him shiver.

  “I’ve got to tell you, man,” he said as he closed the car door, “getting to Cleveland’s real tough. You take this road, and that road, and then another road, and if you aren’t careful, you splash down in Lake Michigan. I’ll just ride along with you so you won’t get lost. No, you don’t have to thank me; I’m happy to oblige. Lemme think …” He paused, watching the driver to see if he was going to buy it. The sissy white boy looked more like he was about to faint. “Yes, I thought about it, and to get to Cleveland, we go straight down this road. You just do the drivin’, and your main man Marvel’ll tell you where to go and when to turn.”

  I slept poorly and woke with a headache. Having become accustomed to nothing rowdier than dogs barking and owls hooting up on the ridge, the perpetual roar of traffic had kept me awake half the night. Trying to sort through Ruby Bee’s tale had taken care of the other half. I’d gone back to her room after I finished the drink in Durmond’s, but the light was out and a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the doorknob.

  Geri arranged for me to stay in 204, which adjoined 202, which I did not fail to note. Neither did I fail to note I was entertaining ideas (okay, fantasies) that were unseemly and unacceptable. Glumly reminding myself of the reason I was there, I pulled on some clothes and took the elevator to the lobby to look for coffee.

  A blond woman was speaking to a teenaged girl. The woman looked earnest, the girl exceedingly bored. I pegged them as the “sour pickle” and her mother and went over to introduce myself and mumble an excuse for my presence.

  “Isn’t this incredible?” Frannie said. “Your poor mother treated so harshly, and Durmond with a bullet wound! I realize this is Manhattan and people are gunned down every day, but I thought that we’d be staying in a decent hotel with—”

  “Mother, it’s nine o’clock,” Catherine said sullenly.

  “Don’t interrupt, dear.” She gave me an apologetic look. “Catherine has an appointment to get her makeup done for the press reception this afternoon. Geri’s hoping there will be some television coverage and reporters from some of the major food magazines. I’d like to think there will be an adequate showing to justify our expenses.”

  I nodded obediently, if not enthusiastically.

  Frannie took Catherine’s arm. “I do wish there were a doorman to get us a cab. I feel so vulnerable standing on a curb with my hand in the air, and I always worry that some homicidal maniac will run us over without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror. Come along, Catherine. We’ll have to make the best of it.”

  “I don’t want to have my makeup done.”

  “Don’t whine, dear. You must look your best for the media. We’re not here for our health, are we?”

  She tightened her grip and propelled the girl out the door. I was amused to see a doorman on the sidewalk and waited to see if it might prove to be Kyle in his threatened rental uniform. When he turned to respond to Frannie, I realized it was the Italian retiree who’d come into the lobby the previous afternoon. Mr. Cambria, the manager had called him.

  It was so curious that I sank down on the arm of the sofa and replayed the conversation. Rick had been deferential, nearly obsequious, when Cambria arrived. Had he plied him with expensive scotch, settled him in the penthouse, changed the linens—and asked him to be a hotel doorman?

  A man in a blue suit came into the lobby from a hallway. We blinked at each other until I determined he was a plumber rather than a policeman. He stuffed a considerable wad of money into his pocket and continued out the door, spoke to Cambria, and then hurried up the sidewalk toward, I supposed, the next aquatic crisis.

  I was still puzzling over the identity of the doorman when Geri swept into the lobby with a briefcase, a clipboard, and an unhappy expression. “Good morning,” she said to me as she went to the desk and banged the bell. “This whole thing’s just impossible. How can I be expected to put together a decent press conference when the food editors won’t even take my calls? I’d have more luck with the tabloids; it’s right up their sleazy alley. That vile KoKo-Nut is apt to cause hair to grow on your palms, and there are extraterrestrial overtones.”

  “At least you have a doorman,” I said.

  She banged on the bell three more times in rapid succession, then frowned at the indentations on her palm. “At least I have a doorman. I made it clear to Rick that I’d arrange it if he didn’t. Now, if I only had a hotel manager, and a fifth contestant, and photographers and judges and time to check the kitchen and …” She sniffled, but withstood tears. “Where is Rick? This is so maddening!”

  Horns began to caterwaul outside. As we both watched, two men hopped out of a truck and began to unload cardboard cartons. Cambria observed them from his post, his hands behind his back and his head bobbling in approval. He held open the door as the four cartons were brought in on a dolly and came in after them.

  “Ah, good,” Rick said from behind the desk.

  Geri spun around. “Where have you—”

  “Busy. Guys, take those up to 319 and stick them just inside the door. It’s unlocked.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Geri said, clearly ruffled by his interruption. “Those are the cases of KoKo-Nut for my contest, and they’re not going upstairs. They’re going straight to the kitchen, and right now! I have more than enough problems without losing track of the key product.” She paused and shook her head. “Although why there’s so much of it is beyond me. I put in a request for one, which was one too many to begin with. We have enough to contaminate the water supply for the entire city.”

  Rick rubbed his temples. “No, Miss Gebhearn, the kitchen isn’t cleaned yet, and the cartons will be in the way of the crew. They can be safely stashed upstairs until it’s time to bring them down.”

  “They are going to the kitchen. There’s ample room along the wall.” Barely stopping short of stamping her foot, she pointed imperiously at the deliverymen. “Take them down that hall and put them in the kitchen.”

  “They need to go upstairs,” Rick insisted.

  Geri slammed the clipboard down on the counter and turned on him with all the fury of a prep school princess. “I’ve had it with you, buster! I am in charge of this travesty, but there’s damn little to keep me from taking the next train to the Cape. You can call the CEO of whatever the investment company is and tell him how you screwed up this promotion and you refused to cooperate and you failed to provide security until this morning so that you ended up with the police. While you do that, I’ll be changing into sweats and pouring myself a Tab!”

  Rick looked as if he might come across the desktop to throttle her, but Cambria intervened, saying, “Rickie, my boy, this is not the time to make waves. I believe you ought to allow the little lady to do as she wishes, and without interference. There’s no reason why the cartons cannot be stored in the kitchen.”

  The deliverymen waited, as did I, for the next round. It wasn’t Broadway quality, but it had potential. Geri had her fists on her hips, her jaw squared like a pugnacious boxer, and her mouth was stretched to expose glistening white teeth. Rick looked from Cambria to her, slowly uncurled his fists, and said, “Take the cartons to the kitchen, guys.”

  Geri was too well-bred to gloat, but I could see it took effort on her part. “Fine. I’ll need the key to the kitchen door.”

  “Why should
you need the key?” said Rick. “That’s out of the question. I need to have it handy for when the cleaning crew shows up. I don’t have time to call your fancy office and wait until you come back here to open up for us.”

  “I’ve decided that we don’t need a cleaning crew,” she said with a shrug. “It’s a bit dusty in there, but I’ll have Kyle wipe down the surfaces and run a mop. In the meantime, I want those cartons kept stored in a secure place, and I have no doubt that the minute I step out the door, you’ll have them moved to God knows where.”

  The KoKo-Nut wars did not escalate, to my disappointment. Rick snarled under his breath, but went into the office and returned with a key with a cardboard tag. Geri took it, beckoned to the deliverymen, and led them down the hallway. Cambria returned outside to guard the gate.

  And I remained on my perch, remembering what life in New York had been like. Daily confrontations had been the norm. No one bothered to remark on hostile exchanges with cab drivers, vendors, pedestrians, skaters, clerks. In Maggody, a single cross word was repeated, analyzed, debated as to its merit. I could easily imagine Mrs. Jim Bob saying, “Well, Eula had no call to say that Millicent’s daughter looked like a tart, even though she does. Of course, Millicent did tell Lottie that Eula’s meringue was sticky, and …”

  “That’s settled,” Geri said as she returned to the lobby and retrieved her clipboard to make a flamboyant checkmark. She waited until the deliverymen trudged out the door. “I wish I had my mother’s zeal for this sort of publicity thing, but I don’t. I’d much prefer to handle nice, quiet little accounts for detergents and pet food.”

  “You said last night that this was dumped on you at the last minute,” I said, aware that sympathy had been tacitly requested.

  “A week ago. I’m the new kid in the office, so I’m given all the assignments no one else wants. Have you ever tasted this Krazy KoKo-Nut? It’s so nasty I almost barfed. Now I’m obliged to chirp its praises to the media, when I’m dying to do nothing more than lie in the chaise at the summer house. It’s simply not fair!”