“So ’m I, lady.”
She turned to Haynes. “Sixty.”
“Jesus,” Haynes said.
They went back to the Cadillac. Erika got in while Haynes handed a twenty to the attendant, who wanted to know the year of the Cadillac’s manufacture.
“ ’Seventy-six,” said Haynes.
“True slick,” said the attendant and handed Haynes his change.
Looking frequently into his rearview mirror, Haynes turned either west or south every few blocks until he found himself on Nebraska Avenue Northwest, nearing Connecticut Avenue. He turned south on Connecticut and stayed on it. They rode in silence until they reached Calvert Street and were halfway across Taft Bridge. It was then that Erika spoke.
“If you came this way because you’re thinking of dropping me off at Pop’s, forget it.”
“You’ll be safer there.”
“If I wanted safe, prince, I’d’ve taken one look at you and passed.”
“You like getting shot at?”
“No, but it’s a lot more interesting than looking for a job.” She paused. “You want to know what I really like?”
“What?”
“I like eating seventeen-dollar room-service cheeseburgers at the Willard and matching smarts with smooth numbers such as the elegant Mr. Hamilton Keyes and shrewd shitkickers like Sheriff Shipp-with-two-
She paused and added, “You just passed my house.”
“I know.”
“Are we turning around?”
Haynes shook his head.
“Where’re we going—Baltimore?”
“To the Willard.”
“What happened to Baltimore?”
“To hell with Baltimore,” Haynes said.
Haynes inserted the plastic card-key into the slot and opened the door to his room at the Willard. He stepped back out of habit to let Erika enter first, but changed his mind and held out a cautionary right hand. He slipped the hand into the pocket of his topcoat and wrapped it around the butt of McCorkle’s revolver. Then he went in.
There was one light on and it came from a lamp that illuminated the easy chair occupied by Hamilton Keyes, who rose gracefully and said, “I’d almost given you up.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Haynes said.
Keyes parried the thrust with a small polite smile and said, “Good evening, Miss McCorkle.”
“I think evening’s long gone,” she said.
Keyes nodded his agreement and turned back to Haynes. “I apologize for my intrusion, but something’s come up. If I could’ve reached anything other than Howard Mott’s answering machine, I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Before you ask him what’s come up,” Erika said, “ask him how he got in.”
“Hotel security let him in,” Haynes said. “After he gave them a brief lecture on how the nation trembles for my safety.”
“I was rather convincing,” Keyes said as he sat back down. “And they were rather anxious not to have another dead body littering their hotel.”
Haynes turned and went to the refrigerator. He opened it and went down on one knee to inventory its contents. “Drink, Mr. Keyes?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Erika?”
“A beer would be good.”
Haynes removed two Heinekens and poured them into a pair of glasses. He handed one to Erika, who was now seated in an easy chair and separated from Keyes by the lamp. Holding his own glass in his left hand, Haynes sat on the bed, facing Keyes. He slipped his right hand back down into the topcoat’s pocket and asked, “What came up?”
Keyes tugged at the vest of his gray worsted suit that had a tiny herringbone weave. He wore a gold watch chain across the vest, but no Phi Beta Kappa key. Haynes assumed the key was lying forgotten in some top bureau drawer.
After the vest was to his liking, Keyes said, “One might say the level of anxiety came up. Or rose. We’d like to advance the meeting to ten tomorrow morning instead of ten Wednesday morning.”
