Sean carried her bag out of the railway terminal on her shoulder. She was about to hail a taxi when one made a tire-squealing U-turn and pulled up to the curb in front of her. It happened with a suddenness that froze her in her tracks. Other taxi drivers, already in line, honked in protest.
The driver's voice carried out over the blaring horns. “Get in quick before one of those old fuckers starts shooting!”
Sean leaned down and instantly understood why the driver had done what he had. He was a kindred spirit of the girl Sean had become. He was wearing a T-shirt that advertised German beer, and his jeans were two washings away from becoming shop rags. Tattoos covered both arms to the wrists and most of his neck. His hair was blazing orange with bright-blue tips, and he had stainless-steel hoops through his earlobes, studs in his nose, and a ball under his lower lip. A pair of enormous blue eyes were set in an enthusiastic face that looked like a clean page waiting for experience to line it.
Sean climbed in the front door-the one the driver threw open. She rested her duffel between them and placed the backpack in her lap.
“Where to?” he asked as he pulled out into traffic.
“What I need is a hotel room where I can get some work done. Where it's quiet and not too expensive.”
“What kind of work?”
“I'm working on a novel.”
“No shit? I know a place that's perfect. My aunt used to stay there, paid by the month. It's a great old place. Classy, but it's in a funky part of town.”
“Sounds good,” Sean said.
He reached into an ashtray overflowing with receipts and gum wrappers and found a business card. It had a lightning bolt hand-painted on it, WIRE DOG was hand-printed over the bolt, and a phone number written below it. “They call me Wire Dog.”
“Wire Dog?”
“I'm a soundman. Electronic wires. Dig?”
“I dig, Dog.”
“Cab belongs to my old man. He's down with bottle flu at the moment. I pick up a few coins this way. You got a name?”
“Sally,” Sean lied. “Sally McSorley.”
“Anytime you need a ride, Sally, call Wire Dog. Best ride in town and reasonable. Hotel Grand it is.”
The neighborhood had seen better days. A few of the buildings were boarded up. The structures which had businesses in them-a thrift shop, a beauty supplies store, and a used office furniture store-seemed to be holding their collective breath so they wouldn't be noticed by wrecking crews. The cab passed a church where a half-dozen disinterested people were perched on the steps taking in the sunshine. Wire Dog pulled up in front of a hotel skinned in stained brick with carved sandstone accents and air-conditioning units plugging a majority of the windows from the second floor up. He carried Sean's duffel into the lobby. The Grand had once been an elegant establishment, but age had added a subtle patina that made the interior resemble a photograph taken in another century.
The front desk was directly across, forty feet from the front door, at one end of a cathedral-like lobby at least sixty feet long. The floor and counter were covered in marble. Two twenty-foot-tall columns, located just inside the front door, stopped at a ceiling laced with detailed plaster molding. A chandelier loomed over the lounge, which consisted of two facing leather couches and four armchairs all set on a massive oriental carpet. The elevator was at the far end of the lobby, positioned between a pair of columns identical to the ones framing the front door.
Wire Dog dropped Sean's bag at the desk and palmed the bell.
An elderly man dressed in a sports coat and green tie shuffled from the office.
“Hello, Skippy,” he said to Wire Dog in a surprisingly deep voice like a Shakespearean actor's. He lowered his bald head and stared at the boy over his reading glasses. “New earring? Is that a ball bearing under your lip?”
“You aren't moving forward, you're sitting still, Max.”
“And more tattoos. Aren't you afraid of ink poisoning?”
“They're vegetable-based.”
“Imagine how much that's going to cost to remove when you grow up.” Max peered at Sean. “Room?”
“Yes, please.”
“How long?”
“Three or four days.”
“Forty-five dollars per night. How will you be taking care of this?” Max asked.
“Cash.” She pulled folded bills from her jacket pocket.
Wire Dog sighed out loud. “Aw, Max, give her a price break. She's a friend of mine. If she had a lot of money, why the hell would she stay here?”
“Oh, a friend of yours, Skippy! In that case it should be double. No telling what manner of sand a friend of yours might kick up. For old time's sake, I'll call it thirty-five a night, payable each day before two in the afternoon. Skippy's aunt Grace,” the old man explained to Sean, “was with us for almost thirteen years, which makes the boy family once removed.”
“I'll be out for a while if anyone is looking for me, Max,” an elderly woman's voice chirped.
Sean pulled the guest card toward her and started filling it in with lies.
“I'm just going to the coffee shop,” the old woman continued. She was frail and bright-eyed like a bird. “If my niece calls, tell her I'll call her back. Do I have any mail? I'm expecting a note from my great-nephew Peter.”
“I'll be right here, Betty,” Max promised. “No mail delivered yet today.” He took the card from Sean. “Phone calls are extra. No loud music, no overnight guests.”
“No getting drunk and setting fires, no bothering the resident spooks, and no cloning sheep in the rooms,” Wire Dog added.
Max scowled at Wire Dog. “No cloning of anything.”
Sean said, “I'm a writer looking for a quiet place to edit something I've been working on. You won't even know I'm here.”
“She's a novel author,” Wire Dog boasted.
“A novelist.” Max winked at Sean and held up a finger. “Room four-sixteen will be perfect. Tom Wolfe stayed in that room once. Native son, you know. If you need anything, just let me know.” He looked down at the card Sean had filled out. “Miss McSorley.”
Sean handed over the cash and took the receipt.
The brass fence on the ancient elevator gleamed. The operator looked as if he had come with the equipment. He was a stooped man in a crisply starched white shirt with cuff links and a belt cinched tight just below his chest. He called out the floors as the numbers crept by outside the cage. “Two. Three. Your floor, ma'am. Four.”
Four-sixteen was unexpectedly large, with high ceilings and tall narrow windows, which, when she opened the drapes, let in plenty of daylight. She could get onto the fire escape platform by unlocking the window without the A.C. unit. The push-button telephone and the TV set were the only contemporary evidence in an otherwise perfectly preserved '40s room. There was a small brass plaque on the front of the table which read: AUTHOR TOM WOLFE SAT AT THIS DESK ON 10-13-1969.
The tiled bathroom had a deep, claw-footed tub, a pedestal sink, and a toilet with its porcelain tank set up high on the wall. Sean wouldn't have been surprised to have found a TOM WOLFE SAT HERE sign on the seat.
55
New Orleans, Louisiana
Bertran Stern was waiting for the Saturday morning FedEx delivery. Four decades as Sam Manelli's personal attorney had given him something of a cast-iron constitution. Bertran didn't worry about anything, didn't fear anyone but his own best client-and only then what his client was capable of doing to those few people Bertran loved. The lawyer had willingly traded his morals, ethics, and very soul to the devil for a seven-figure income and substantial perks.
