The Consummata

“Ah.”

She didn’t say anything for a second, then: “I know what you must be thinking.”

“Sure. You hate somebody long enough, given the opportunity, you’ll kill him. It’s a logical assumption.”

“You can’t really think I set you up....”

“Possibilities are possibilities, Bunny. It doesn’t suit your style, but I’d still like to hear you say it.”

She gave me that throaty laugh. “I’m glad you think me still capable, big boy, but I’ll say it. It wasn’t me. Not even a little bit....that good enough for you?”

“Good enough, Bunny.”

“That’s all it takes? Just me saying it?”

“Why not? I can always tell if a broad is lying to me. I spent a lot of years honing this bullshit detector.”

“What if I’ve perfected my technique,” she said, something light in her tone now. “Maybe you can’t tell.”

“You’re a broad, aren’t you?”

“I was at my last physical.”

“Then you’re not lying. But if I were you, I’d try checking around the homestead. Look under a bed or two. Maybe you don’t run as tight a ship over at the Club Mandor as you think.”

“You’re laying this on my doorstep?”

“I just figure maybe somebody has a big mouth over there.

I don’t like being made a patsy.”

She sighed. “Way ahead of you, Morgan. I’ve already started things rolling. Where are you calling from?”

“Come on, Bunny,” I said. “I’m not that confident in my bullshit detector.”

I hung up without a goodbye, and went back to the window again, plopped in the comfortable chair, staring out of the darkness into the hazy lights of the city.

Somebody out there wants me dead, I thought. Hell, maybe several somebodies.

The bellboy who brought in the quartet of cold bottled beers folded the five spot into his pocket with a big grin. He seemed glad to have somebody to tell about all the excitement in the other wing. His accent said he was probably not born here, but he spoke English just fine. Another Cuban, maybe.

On the face of it, the “accident” seemed simple enough— 409 was a small suite with a kitchenette that contained a refrigerator, sink, and two-burner gas range. The last person who occupied it had been a middle-aged woman and her dog, five days ago. Assumption was, the maid who cleaned the place had accidentally turned on one of the jets, and the pilot light triggered the explosion.

I said, “Don’t they check the rooms every day?”

The bellboy shrugged and shook his head. “This is not the Fontainebleau, senor. The room was clean, so why bother again, si?”

“Downstairs, I overheard somebody saying a guest was due to check into that room tonight.”

“Yes, and he was a lucky person, that one.”

“Sure as hell was.” I popped open a bottle of beer and tasted it. “Things quieted down over there yet?”

“The hall, it is being cleaned up. I hear they will investigate more, tomorrow, the firemen and the police. But why do they bother?”

“What do you mean, kid?”

He shrugged. “This building is slowly and surely falling apart. One day they will have to close it entirely.”

I nodded and tried the beer again. “I’d like to get over there and take a gander myself.”

He frowned, shook his head. “No one is to go there, senor.”

“For five bucks, I bet somebody could.”

No frown now.

“For ten bucks, senor, I know somebody could.”

The firefighters were long gone. The fire inspector had found more important things to inspect. A single ancient porter shoveling cracked plaster into a trash can was the sole occupant of the corridor. The guests had been transferred to other rooms on other floors, and temporary barricades had been set up at either end of the hall to keep the curious away.

That old Mexican guy with the broom and dustpan didn’t even bother to look up when we arrived on the scene. When he had the trash can filled, he wheeled it away, as if cleaning up after exploding rooms was a common everyday occurrence around the Amherst.

Hell, maybe it was.

The split door to 409 hung on a loose hinge, still in position only because an L bend had diverted the force of the blast. Inside, nothing was left at all. Smoke still drifted, and water from fire hoses pooled like remnants of a bad indoor storm. The floor hadn’t given way, but had been shattered, turned into an expanse of rubble; the ceiling had been ripped apart, exposing twisted, dry beams and only a hole remained where the outside wall had been, letting cool night in. Mattress stuffing was scattered around like moist confetti with barely recognizable fragments of what had been furniture.

Had a man been in there when the explosion occurred— me, for instance—all that would have been left of him would be colorful dabs of red to liven up the joint.

A small alcove had held the kitchen components, but was relatively undamaged. The stove was there all right, an ancient thing whose knobs were so grease-laden, it took a hard twist to open them.

I let the small beam of a borrowed flashlight play around the remains a minute longer, then said, “The cops or firemen haul anything out of here?”

The bellboy gave me an odd glance. “Si. There was one who carried a small damaged box, very carefully. He and another talked for a long time before they left.”

I nodded.

He studied me another moment, then said, “Tell me, senor, and I do not mean to pry, but...should this have been your room?”

“Why do you figure that?”

“Perhaps I have worked in the hotel business too long, for one my age. I sometimes think I see things that others, they miss.”

“That can give a guy a leg up, I guess.”

His nod was crisp, his grin a flash of white in a brown face. “It has been profitable on more than one occasion, senor.”

The tone of his voice was a little pointed and I looked at him. “Maybe you’d like to make a profit out of that ability of yours right now.”

“Senor, you have been most kind already. For the dollars you gave me, you have my eternal loyalty. Or for the rest of the night, at least.”

I laughed. “And this includes your insights?”

Another nod. He whispered: “The old one, cleaning up outside?”

“Yeah?”

“A man in a fireman’s hat, wearing a suit? I hear him tell the viejo hombre to report to him any visitors to this room. He gave the old one a card, a business card.”

I flipped the flashlight off and handed it to him. I carefully stepped around the damp floor to the door and moved out into the corridor. The bellboy followed.

The hall was empty but for the ancient porter, back for another load, and his casual indifference to us was a lousy act. I walked up to him, flipped my wallet open then shut in front of his nose too fast for him to see what wasn’t there; but to the old boy, it was a routine police gesture and he accepted it.

In my best official manner, I asked, “Anyone been around since our men left?”

He had one of those faces so grooved and wrinkled, you couldn’t imagine what it once had looked like; his hair was wispy and white, the top of his skull a great big dead dandelion crown whose seeds weren’t traveling.

He swallowed, didn’t meet my eyes with his rheumy gaze, and shook his head. “No, senor. There has been nobody.”

“Okay, pops—keep your eyes open. You know what to do.”

“Yes, senor,” he said, with as vigorous a nod as he could manage. “I have been