‘Maybe you should go to a doctor first and get some shots.’
We went back down to the lobby, and told the fat man I’d take it. By the week.
‘Week in advance,’ he said. ‘No cooking. No boyfriends sleeping over. No loud music. No wild parties. No pot- smoking. No hard drugs. No customers.’
I was delighted. My disguise was a success.
I handed over forty dollars and got a furious stare when I asked for a receipt. But I stared back just as furiously, and finally got what I wanted. It was barely legible, but I figured it was something to show the IRS when they questioned whether a week at the Hotel Hard-On was a legitimate business expense. Then I signed a registration card with the name Beatrice Flanders.
On the way back to the car, we stopped at a Broadway supermarket. I bought roach spray, rat repellent, soap, soap powder, washcloths, Brillo pads,
‘In case of snakebite,’ he said.
We drove back to the hotel, and Dick helped me upstairs with the suitcases and new purchases. It was then getting on to 6:00 P.M., and we decided to get something to eat in the neighborhood before Dick took a cab back to the East Side and I prepared for my first night alone in Room 703.
We went out into the narrow corridor and almost collided with a man coming from the elevator. He drew back politely to let us pass. He looked about thirty-five, but had one of those hard, young-old faces that made it difficult to estimate age. He was tall, at least six feet, slender as a whip, and very, very dark. Jet hair, strong black eyebrows, a complexion so brown it was almost russet. When he smiled at us, he displayed a gleaming array of shiny white teeth, dazzling against his tanned face and beard-shadowed jaw.
‘Just moved in?’ he inquired pleasantly.
I nodded.
‘Welcome to Waldorf West,’ he said wryly. ‘My name’s Jack Donohue. I’m in 705. If there’s anything I can help you with, bang on my door.’
‘Thanks,’ Dick Fleming said gratefully. ‘Appreciate that. We’re going out for dinner. Can you recommend any place in the neighborhood?’
‘Most of them are ptomaine places,’ Donahue said. He certainly did a lot of smiling. Mostly at me. ‘Your best bet is to eat Chink at Tommy Yu’s on Broadway.’
‘Thank you,’ I said in my boudoir murmur. ‘We’ll give it a try.
He nodded and went down the hall to his room.
In the elevator, Dick said, ‘Good-looking guy. And he seems pleasant enough. Won’t do any harm to have a helpful neighbor.’
I didn’t say anything. In many ways Dick Fleming is not with it.
After dinner we walked back to the hotel in silence. There were three men and a woman loitering on the steps of the Hotel Harding. They gave us a cold and silent appraisal as we walked by. We halted a few doors down. When we glanced back, they were still staring at us.
‘You’re sure you want to go back in there?’ Dick asked nervously.
‘I’m sure,’ I said, which was a damned lie.
‘Good luck then.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘If you decide to run, then run. You don’t have to prove anything, to me or to yourself.’
He touched my arm, then turned and walked away, back towards Broadway, a cab, escape. It took a conscious effort to keep from running after him. But I returned to the entrance of the hotel and started up the steps.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’ the woman said in a whiskey rasp. ‘Y’strike out?’
I shrugged. ‘You lose one, you win one.’
They laughed, and suddenly they didn’t seem so sinister; the Harding was just another dirty hotel, and I would survive.
When I got off the elevator and waked down the corridor (which, in honor of the graffiti, I had nicknamed the Tunnel of Love), I saw the door of Room 703, which I had locked, was now wide open. I peeped cautiously around the jamb. A wizened harridan was making up my bed with sheets that looked like the shrouds of a poverty-stricken ghost.
She looked up as I came into the room.
‘Listen here, dearie,’ she whined. ‘I take care of this whole rotten place. Twelve floors, and I got no help. I ask for help, but that owner, he don’t give me no help. I gotta do everything around here, people screaming for this and that, new sheets, fresh towels, and the mess some of these animals make you wouldn’t believe-’
Her litany of woe went on and on as she spread the tissue-thin sheets, a threadbare cotton blanket, and hung two towels in the bathroom. They looked like used flour sacks.
Finally, just to stop that whiny voice, I gave her two dollars.
‘God bless, dearie,’ she said in a voice suddenly strong and vigorous. She folded the bills and stuffed them in her bra. ‘I’m Blanche. You need anything, you just ask for me. I’ll take nice care of you.’
She gave me a horrendous wink. Then she was gone. I closed and locked the door behind her. There was a chain on the doorjamb, but the slot in which it should have fitted was missing. There were four splintered holes showing where it had been. So I got the straight-back chair and jammed it under the knob.
• I struggled with the air-shaft window for almost five minutes and finally raised it a few inches. A cool breeze came in. A breeze redolent of ripe garbage and burning rubber — but cool.
I flopped down in the sprung armchair, kicked off the spike-heeled sandals, flexed my feet and surveyed my kingdom. I knew I should unpack, try to scrub the worst of the scum from the bathroom sink, spray against roaches, and generally try to settle in. But I was too weary to do anything but lean back and wonder just what the hell I thought I was doing.
I wondered myself to the edge of depression. It was too late to back out, too soon to quit. I got up again and uncapped the bottle of vodka Dick Fleming had bought me. Then I looked around. No glasses.
I took the chair from under the knob, unlocked and opened the door and stuck my head out. The hallway was empty. In stockinged feet I padded down the corridor to Room 705 and knocked on the door.
‘Who is it?’ A forceful voice, almost angry.
‘Your new neighbour,’ I said to the closed door, ‘Room 703.’
Sound of chain being slipped. Not one, but two locks opened. Then the door swung wide. He smiled at me.
‘Hel-lo!’ he said. ‘This is wild; I was just thinking of you.’
‘Listen,’ I told him, ‘I’d like a drink. I’ve got what goes in, but I don’t have a glass. I was hoping you might have an extra you can spare until tomorrow when I can buy my own.’
All this in my breathless floozy’s voice.
He stared at me, the smile still there.
‘I can’t find Blanche,’ I explained lamely.
‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘Your husband doesn’t want to go out?’
‘He’s not my husband.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Just a friend. And he’s not here. Have you got that glass?’
The tension went out of his stretched grin.
‘Then you took the place alone,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t understand. Sure, I’ve got a glass you can borrow. Come on in; I’ll wash it out for you.’
‘Oh, don’t bother,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I’ll rinse it.’
‘No bother,’ he said, the white teeth flashing again like a neon sign. ‘Come on in. Just take a minute.’
I entered hesitantly, leaving the door half-open behind me. If he noticed, he gave no sign. He went into the bathroom and in a few seconds I heard water running in the sink.
His room was larger than mine and looked more lived in. He had
