by G. M. Ford
Andriatta said, “Lost your compass?”
Corso made a slow, deliberate revolution until their faces met, their bodies ran parallel, their feet touched, their legs touched.
“Oh my, what’s that down there?”
“The remote,” he said quickly.
Corso started to roll off her, but she jerked him back.
“Wait,” she said, her voice husky and low. “I think I like this.”
Her breath on his cheek felt warm and smelled like red wine. Her right arm now rested across his back. Try as he might to keep his head up and away from hers, his neck muscles gave out. He relaxed them and let his mouth meet hers.
For half a second the kiss seemed so pure and innocent, then their chemistries exploded. Beneath him, she let him know that she, too, had been drawn into the fireworks. He felt her hands reach beneath his shirt, move up and explore his chest, her fingers digging into his flesh as if she were clawing her way inside him. Her hands moved down and grasped his belt, struggled to open his pants. The hesitation he had felt earlier disintegrated, and instead of attempting to hide his arousal, he pressed it against her as he tore the bathrobe from her body. She dropped her hands to her sides, went limp and said in that husky voice of hers, “Fuck me, Corso.”
He did. She writhed beneath him, crying out for mercy, and for more. He kept it up. No words passed between them, only their eyes spoke as she moved rhythmically, and though she didn’t speak of love, he could feel her excitment and that just made him want to give her more of what she wanted.
When he finally let go, he realized that the primal roar that filled the room was coming from his mouth. They lay in each other’s arms, panting, dripping sweat, their heartbeats and blood pressure gradually seeking normal rates. The telephone rang, a distant tinkling sound. Corso rolled over and picked it up. “Yes,” he said. “Just fine, thanks. Yes. Okay.” He hung up. She raised an eyebrow.
“It was the desk. They wanted to know if everything was okay in here.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
38
C orso brushed the bundle of paperwork from the chair seat, sending the contents sprawling out over the floor. He sat down at the desk and picked at the mess on the floor with his foot. Nathan Marino’s high school yearbook slid from the top of the pile, coming to rest against his ankle. Wilson High School’s flaxen-haired Viking stared blankly back up at Corso, who used his big toe to open the cover. The inside page was blank.
On the far side of the room, the bed was a mess, sheets and blankets strewn this way and that, the duvet huddled on the floor at the foot of the bed like some flowered beast. He imagined he could still see her outline on the sheets. See where she had slid over and made her way across the carpet to the adjoining door sometime during the night.
He pulled the phone book from the center drawer, flipped through the yellow pages, found the number he was looking for and dialed. A young woman answered the phone. “Enterprise,” she chirped.
Corso told her what he wanted, read her his credit card and driver’s license numbers, then suffered on hold for the better part of ten minutes as she ran the numbers through the system.
Another round of twenty questions before they mutually agreed that whenever the Enterprise people arrived with the car, they’d have the desk ring his room, at which point he’d come downstairs and sign on the dotted line.
After replacing the receiver in the desk unit, he picked up the Wilson High School Yearbook and leafed back to Nathan Marino’s picture. He sat and stared at the picture, as if expecting some sort of enlightenment to flow from the photograph to himself. When no such epiphany was forthcoming, he began to leaf through the yearbook, marveling at the freshness of the faces, of the almost palpable hopes and dreams emanating from the pages. He found himself staring at the faces, wondering what they looked like now. Wondering how many of them would like to start over. Maybe get another chance at their aspirations.
He turned another page and stopped. Turned back. Brought the page closer to his face. Read the name under the picture and smiled. “Well, well,” he said out loud.
“That’s a deep subject.” She stood in the adjoining doorway, wrapped in a sheet, her hair sticking out in all directions. “This is what happens when you go to sleep with wet hair,” she said.
“That’s what hats are for,” Corso said, crossing the room to her side, taking her in his arms and planting a small kiss on her cheek.
She looked up into his eyes. “About last night…” she began.
“Why don’t we just let it be?” Corso suggested.
She thought it over. “Such a guy thing,” she said after a moment. “Doing it is one thing. Talking about it”—she waved a hand in the air—“worst nightmare.”
“I’ll try to get in touch with my more sensitive side.”
“No you won’t.”
“You’re right. I won’t.”
She laughed that deep, rich laugh of hers. “How about a shower and we go out to breakfast somewhere?”
“Soon as they bring the car.”
“What car?”
“Enterprise is bringing us a nice new SUV sometime in the next hour or so. I need to be here when they arrive.”
She wriggled free of his grasp. “Let me know when you’re ready, big fella,” she said with a salacious wink, before sliding back through the adjoining door and rustling out of sight.
Corso hurried to the bathroom, undressed quickly and stepped into the shower. Took him twelve minutes to get showered, shampooed and into a fresh set of clothes. He was combing his wet hair straight back when the phone rang. The desk.
Another twelve minutes and he was back in the room with the keys to the new ride. He poked his head into Andriatta’s room. The sound of a blow-dryer was coming from behind the bathroom door. He waited for a lull in the roar, then called her name. Nothing, so he called again. This time she stepped out. “That was fast,” she said.
He twirled the keys around his finger. “We’re mobile again,” he said.
“They must have known how hungry I am.”
“They heard about how cranky you get.”
She laughed. “Let me grab my purse.”
On the way out Corso removed the DO NOT DISTURB card from the door handle. As they started for the elevators, she slipped her arm through his. Half a dozen steps later she changed her mind and took her arm back.
“Unprofessional,” she said.
The lobby was nearly empty. Andriatta began to veer left toward the front doors, but Corso clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Give me a minute,” he said. “I’ve got something I need to do.”
He walked quickly to the reception desk. Behind the counter a dark haired girl in a blue blazer was shuffling registration cards. “Mr. Shields here?” Corso asked.
“I’m afraid not,” she said with a smile.
“When will he be in?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Same toothy grin.
“You’re afraid a lot.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said it sounds like you’re afraid a lot.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Do I…do I say that all the time…I’m sorry…I just don’t know what else to say. It was all so sudden. Nobody…I mean not even Mary Anne…she’s the assistant manager…not even Marys Anne knows for sure.”
“Knows what?”
“Knows why Mr. Shields left so suddenly.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
“He quit?”
“I think he took a leave of absence. Corporate is sending somebody to take his place while he’s gone. At least that’s what people are saying.”
“What people?”
“You know…like in the lunchroom.”
“Do they say anything about why he left?”
“Something personal.”
“Like?”
She shrugged in helpless resignation.
“No idea where he might be?”
/> Another shrug. This time accompanied by a sad shake of the head.
“Okay. Thanks,” Corso said.
When he turned to leave, he found Andriatta close by his right shoulder.
“What was that all about?”
“Just trying to reconcile a couple of facts.”
“What facts are those?”
He put a hand on her back and eased her away from the desk.
“A while back, I was making conversation with the hotel manager…guy named Randy Shields. I asked him if he knew Nathan Marino…you know, just sort of conversationally. He said he knew of him rather than knew him personally.”
“And?”
“He volunteered the information that he wasn’t in the same high school class as Nathan was which was why he didn’t know him very well.”
“And?”
“And this morning I was flipping though that yearbook you picked up and lo and behold there was Randy Shields in all his adolescent glory staring back at me.”
“You must have misunderstood him.”
“Possible.”
“Why would anybody lie about a thing like that?”
He began to move her toward the brass doors. “That’s the question now, isn’t it?”
39
T he frozen snow crunched under the SUV’s tires; it sounded like they were driving on broken glass as Corso wheeled into the parking lot, bounced over the collection of frozen ruts and came to a stop as close to the building as he dared. He took several deep breaths before turning off the car and easing out of his seat belt. Andriatta had one leg out of the car when Corso put a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“Might be best if you stayed in the car,” he said.
“I thought I was a full partner here?”
“I don’t think this guy’s going to talk to me if you’re around.”
“Place looks dead. What makes you think he’s in there?”
Corso pointed to the old Jeep Wagoneer nosed up to the sidewalk, its windows clear, its oxidized red paint dull but free of snow.
“I’m betting that’s him.”
“They have food in there?”
“Pickled eggs and pigs feet,” Corso said.
She thought it over. “Leave the keys,” she said.
Corso climbed out of the driver’s seat and closed the door. He spread his arms for balance as he picked his way through the frozen tire tracks and icy footprints to the side of the building, to the narrow walkway protected by the eaves, where blessedly bare pavement led to the front door.
Charlie’s Bar was nearly empty. Nobody playing pool. Nobody sliding shuffleboard discs down the polished hardwood. Only things moving were the neon signs around the perimeter of the place and the rolling hips of the hula-doll lamp behind the bar. Same bartender. Two guys down at the far end drinking whiskey at ten-thirty in the morning. Herm Marino on his usual stool at the other end, half a beer resting on the bar in front of him.
Corso ordered a Pabst and sat down one stool away from Marino.
“I seen you on the TV,” Marino said. “Sounded like you put the whole damn thing to bed.”
The bartender slid the draft beer onto the bar. Corso nodded thanks.
“Still got a few loose ends,” Corso said.
“About my Nathan?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“That what you doin’ back here?”
“Yeah.”
Marino downed the rest of his beer. He slid the empty glass across the battered wooden bar just as a refill arrived. He took a sip, used his sleeve on his upper lip.
“We don’t need none of our business on the TV. Already been enough of that. Don’t need no more.”
“Last time we talked, you told me Nathan was gullible. You said the only times he ever got in trouble was when somebody else talked him into doing something stupid.”
“What about it?”
“Who?”
“Who?” Marino repeated.
“Who talked him into doing stupid things.”
“You know, kids…classmates of his.”
“Which classmates?”
Marino took another sip. “Kid named Andre Hollingquest. Got himself killed in the war.” He pointed toward the south wall. “Him and that Randy Shields that runs the hotel downtown. They was forever getting my Nathan in trouble.”
Corso picked up his beer and downed it in a single pull.
“Thanks,” he said to the bartender, throwing a five-dollar bill on the bar. He moved one stool closer to Herm Marino and leaned in.
“Mr. Marino…” he began. The other man turned his bleary eyes Corso’s way. “Your son was nothing more than the victim of this thing. He had nothing to do with planning any of this. He wasn’t guilty of anything more serious than maybe being gullible.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Marino picked up his beer, brought it up to his lips, then changed his mind and set it back on the bar. “You let me know…when you figure it out, you let me know.”
“I will,” Corso promised.
Marino ran his thumb and forefinger over the corners of his mouth. His red-filigreed eyes took Corso in, then turned away. “You were right,” he said to the wall.
“Excuse me?”
“I said you…you and my old lady…you were both right. I was way too hard on the boy.” He slid his beer over in front of him but made no move to raise it to his lips. “He was what he was. I shoulda let it go at that.”
Corso wanted to ease the man’s pain, but knew Marino’s sorrow was beyond anything he could say.
“I feel like he’s come and gone without me knowing who he really was.”
He looked to Corso for understanding, got a silent nod. “Like I’d always been looking at him in the mirror or something.” His voice broke. His eyes teared up.
The bartender turned his back and went sliding down to the far end of the bar.
“I hear he was the kind to forgive and forget,” Corso offered.
“What about me? How do I forgive and forget?”
“I don’t know,” Corso said in a whisper.
Herm Marino turned the stool to face the wall. He took a long pull from his beer.
Corso got to his feet. “Take care now,” he said.
Marino waved one of his big gnarled hands but kept his face averted.
Corso started for the door. Six paces from the bar Herm Marino called his name.
“Yeah,” Corso said.
“You make sure you come and tell me what happened.”
Corso said he would. The bartender’s eyes followed him to the door.
Despite the slate-gray skies, the light reflecting from the snow and ice squeezed Corso’s eyes to slits as he slipped and slid his way back to the rental car. Andriatta had started the engine. The interior was like a sauna. Corso got himself all the way belted in before closing the car door.
“You get what you wanted?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Corso said.
“Which was?”
Corso leaned back in the seat and mulled it over. “I confirmed something I been thinking ever since this whole thing started.” Corso turned the heat to low, rolled down the window. “I told the police at the time, but they didn’t want to hear about it. Those guys jumping me in my hotel room had to be an inside job. Somebody with a working knowledge of the hotel and a set of keys had to have helped those guys out. There’s no other way they could have been sure the floor was free of other hotel staff. No way they could have gotten into the room where they keep the laundry. Hell, no way to even know there was such a place. No way to know I was in my room unless they were listening to my phone calls. And all of that’s not to mention the fact that they had a key to my room.” He blew air out from between pursed lips and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s all right there…” he said, “…except the locals don’t want to hear about it.”
> She cocked her head and took him in all over again. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look like somebody shot your dog.”
“Just a sad old man,” Corso said.
“What now?”
“Breakfast.”
“It’s about damn time.”
40
R uth Hadley made him the minute he walked in the door. It was just before eleven and the breakfast crowd had pretty much cleared out. Outside, the Bullseye Diner sign was so caked with drifting snow and ice that the vivid display had been reduced to little more than a glowing memory.
Andriatta and Corso settled into a booth down at the far end, directly across from the register. Ruth finished cashing out the pair of Pennsylvania state troopers, wished them well by name, then squeaked her way over to where Corso and Andriatta sat. “Nice to see you come back,” she said, turning over their coffee mugs and filling them with coffee. Corso allowed how he, too, was glad to have returned and introduced Andriatta as his friend and colleague.
“Concubine,” Andriatta corrected with a smile.
“Well, that’s a lot more fun now, isn’t it?” Ruth said, matching her tooth for tooth. She pulled an order pad from the pocket in her apron. Patted herself down for a pen, found one, clicked the end and waited.
“What can I get for you folks?”
Corso ordered scrambled eggs and rye toast. Andriatta opted for a short stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, eggs up with hash browns and wheat toast.
“Y’all expecting somebody else?” Ruth asked with a wry smile.
“She’s a woman of her appetites,” Corso said.
“How nice for you,” Ruth said before turning and heading back behind the counter. She tore the order from the book, clipped it to a little spinning contraption, then disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors.
“Was that aimed at you or me?” Andriatta asked.
“No idea,” Corso said. “I guess it cuts both ways.”
Andriatta sat back in the booth and thought it over.
“I think she’s got a crush on you.”
Corso was horrified. “She’s a thousand.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? A woman’s gonna think what a woman’s gonna think. Age got nothing to do with it.”
