Looking for Rachel Wallace

“Has anything happened?”

“There was an incident last night, and there have been protests. But I don’t think they’re related.”

“The incident last night was the real goods,” I said. “The other stuff was probably what it seemed.”

“What happened last night?” Julie said.

“Spenser contends that someone tried to run us off the road last night in Lynn.”

“Contends?” Julie said.

“Well, I was on the floor, and he swerved around a lot and then the car behind us was gone. I can’t speak for sure myself. And if I were convinced no one were after me, Spenser would be out of work.”

“Aw, you’d want me around anyway. All you chicks like a guy to look after you.”

She threw her drink at me. She threw like a girl; most of it landed on my shirt front.

“Now we’re both messy,” I said. “A his-and-hers outfit.”

The bartender slid down toward us. Julie put her hand on Rachel’s arm. The bartender said, “Is there something wrong, ma’am?”

Rachel was silent. Her breath blew in and out through her nose.

I said to the bartender, “No, it’s fine. She was kidding with me, and the drink slipped.”

The bartender looked at me as if I were serious, smiled as if he believed me, and moved off down the bar. In maybe thirty seconds he was back with a new martini for Rachel. “This is on the house, ma’am,” he said.

Julie said to me, “Why do you feel last night was serious?”

“It was professional,” I said. “They knew what they were doing. We were lucky to get out of it.”

“Rachel is hard sometimes,” Julie said. She was patting the back of Rachel’s left hand. “She doesn’t mean everything she says and does always. Sometimes she regrets them, even.”

“Me, too,” I said. I wonder if I should pat the other hand. My T-shirt was wet against my chest, but I didn’t touch it. It’s like getting hit with a pitch. You’re not supposed to rub.

Rachel said, “Julie and I will dine in our room tonight. I won’t need you until tomorrow at eight.”

“I better wait until Julie leaves,” I said.

They both looked at me. Then Rachel said, “That’s when she is going to leave.”

I said, “Oh.” Always the smooth comeback, even when I’ve been dumb. Of course they were very good friends.

“I’ll walk up with you and hang around in the hall till the waiter has come and gone.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rachel said. She wouldn’t look at me.

“Yeah, it will,” I said. “I work at what I do, Rachel. I’m not going to let someone buzz you in the lobby just because you’re mad at me.”

She looked up at me. “I’m not mad at you,” she said. “I’m ashamed of the way I behaved a moment ago.”

Behind her Julie beamed at me. See? her smile said, See? She’s really very nice.

“Either way,” I said. “I’ll stick around and wait till you’ve locked up for the night. I won’t bother you—I’ll lurk in the hall.”

She nodded. “Perhaps that would be best,” she said.

We finished our drinks, Rachel signed the bar tab, and we headed for the elevators. I went first; they followed. When we got in the elevator, Julie and Rachel were holding hands. The skirt still fit Julie’s hips wonderfully. Was I a sexist? Was it ugly to think, What a waste? On Rachel’s floor I got out first. The corridor was empty. At her room I took the key from Rachel and opened the door. The room was dark and silent. I went in and turned on the lights. There was no one there and no one in the bathroom. Rachel and Julie came in.

I said, “Okay, I’ll say good night. I’ll be in the hall. When room service comes, open the door on the chain first, and don’t let him in unless I’m there, too. I’ll come in with him.”

Rachel nodded. Julie said, “Nice to have met you, Spenser.”

I smiled at her and closed the door.

10

The corridor was silent and Ritz-y, with gold-patterned wallpaper. I wondered if they’d make love before they ordered dinner. I would. I hoped they wouldn’t. It had been a while since lunch and would be a long wait for dinner if it worked out wrong.

I leaned against the wall opposite their door. If they were making love, I didn’t want to hear. The concept of love between two women didn’t have much affect on me in the abstract. But if I imagined them at it, and speculated on exactly how they went about it, it seemed sort of too bad, demeaning. Actually maybe Susan and I weren’t all that slick in the actual doing ourselves. When you thought about it, maybe none of us were doing Swan Lake. “What’s right is what feels good afterwards,” I said out loud in the empty corridor. Hemingway said that. Smart man, Hemingway. Spent very little time hanging around hotel corridors with no supper.

Down the corridor to my left a tall thin man with a black mustache and a double-breasted gray pinstripe suit came out of his room and past me, heading for the elevator. There was a silver pin in his collar under the modest knot of his tie. His black shoes glistened with polish. Class. Even more class than a wet Adidas T-shirt. The hell with