From beneath countless layers of satin and sea-island cotton, a withered hand emerged. It plucked dentures from a dish on the bedside table, seated them over anemic gums. Then it reached out—flexing, grasping—until it closed over the handle of a cane. With a series of groans and imprecations, she raised herself to her feet. The ship was rolling noticeably and she kept one hand against the wall as she moved toward the bedroom door.
“Inge!” she called.
She felt another wash of fear. She hated being dependent, truly hated it, and she was scared and embarrassed by her frailty. All her life she had been independent, and now this rotten old age, this horrible dependency on others.
She turned on the light and looked around, trying to master her fright. Where was that damn girl? It was outrageous, leaving her alone. What if she fell? Or had a heart attack? Take pity on a girl, bring her into your service, and how did she repay you? With disrespect, disloyalty, disobedience. Inge was probably out carousing with some low element of the ship’s staff. Well, this was the last straw: as soon as the ship was docked in New York, she’d send the vixen packing. No notice, no recommendations. She could use her charms—the tramp—to work her way back to Sweden.
Gaining the doorway, the old woman stopped to rest, leaning heavily on the frame. The rapping was louder here—it came from the main door of the suite: and now she could hear a voice as well.
“Petey! Hey, Pete!” The voice was muffled, coming from the corridor beyond. “What?” the woman cried. “Who is that? What do you want?”
The rapping stopped. “Pete, come
!” the slurred voice replied. “We aren’t going to wait all night.”
“Hey, Petey-boy, get your ass out here!” said another drunken voice from beyond the door. “Remember those babes we met in Trafalgar’s tonight? Well, after you left, they came back to the club. And we’ve been sucking down champagne ever since. Now they’re back in my room, shit-faced. Come on, bud, it’s your chance to get laid. And the tall blonde one’s got a rack that—”
The old woman began to tremble with rage and indignation. She took a fresh hold on the doorframe. “Leave me alone!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Get out of here!”
“What?” came the first voice, a little bewildered now.
“I said, go away!”
A pause. Then a giggle. “Oh,
!” came the second voice. “Rog, we fucked up!”
“No, man, I’m sure he said 1039.”
“I’m calling security!” shrilled the old woman.
From the corridor beyond the door there came an explosion of mirth, then the sound of retreating footsteps.
Breathing heavily, the woman pushed herself away from the doorframe and surveyed the room beyond, leaning on her cane. Sure enough: the couch hadn’t been slept in. The clock above the couch read half past eleven. She had been abandoned. She was alone.
Turning slowly, she made her painful way back into the bedroom, her heart pounding. She eased herself onto the bed, laid the cane carefully beside her. Then, turning to the nightstand, she picked up the phone and dialed zero.
“Ship’s operator,” came the pleasant voice. “How may I help you?”
“Get me security,” the old woman croaked.
28
ANH MINH SAW THE HIGH ROLLER IMMEDIATELY UPON HIS ARRIVAL at the blackjack tables of the Mayfair Casino. Mr. Pendergast, that was the name Mr. Hentoff had given her. He looked like an undertaker in his black tuxedo, and she felt a little shiver as he stopped in the doorway and cast his pale eyes about the dim, elegantly appointed room. He must be a very high roller indeed for Mr. Hentoff to assign her solely to him as a cocktail waitress, and she wondered about the odd instructions that went along with the assignment.
“Would you like a drink, sir?” she asked, approaching him.
“Gin and tonic, please.” When she returned with the drink—tonic water only, as instructed—she found the strange-looking man over by the high-stakes tables in conversation with a very nicely groomed young blond gentleman in a dark suit. She went over and waited patiently with the drink on her tray.
“. . . And so,” the high roller was saying—in a completely different accent now—“I gave the guy twenty-two thousand six hundred and ten dollars, cash on the barrelhead, counting it out by hundreds, one bill at a time—one, two, three, four, and when I hit five, up came a twenty, and that’s when I realized I’d been cheated. The brick of hundreds had been plugged in the middle with twenties! Hell, was I pissed. Twenties, along with tens and even some fives and ones.”
“Excuse me,” said the young man, suddenly angry, “I couldn’t care less about your hundreds or twenties or whatever the hell it is you’re talking about.” He moved off quickly, scowling, his lips moving as if thinking furiously to himself.
Pendergast turned to Anh with a smile. “Thank you.” He lifted off the drink, dropped a fifty on the tray, his eyes roving the room once more.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“Yes, you can.” He gestured faintly with his eyes, his voice now low. “Do you see that woman over there? The overweight one in the muumuu drifting among the high-stakes tables? There’s a little experiment I’d like to conduct. Change this fifty and bring her a mess of bills and coins on your tray, telling her it’s change from the drink she requested. She will protest that she did not buy a drink, but you will pretend you don’t understand and start counting out the money. Just keep counting, reciting
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Anh went to the cashier and exchanged the fifty for a miscellany of bills and coins. Placing them on the tray, she walked over to the woman in the muumuu.
“Your change, ma’am.”
“What?” the woman glanced at her, distracted.
“Your change. Ten pound, five pound, two one pound —”
“I didn’t order a drink.” The woman quickly tried to move off.
Anh followed her. “Your change. Ten pound, three one pound, make thirteen pound, twenty-five pence —”
A hiss of exasperation came from the woman. “Didn’t you
? I didn’t order a drink!”
