New York city smug... quick wiseass front. Shooting down every guy who said hello to her at the inn. In Peter's mind she was a blond version of Ali MacGraw. Trouble.... One week- end, though, he'd asked her if she wanted to go on a cross-island trip with him. See the West Hills' jungle. See the beaches on the other side. And surprise! She'd said sure.... Twenty-four hours later the two of them still hadn't stopped talking. An amazing day of straight talk about each other. Striking chords in each other like crazy. Strangers, practically. Crying together before the first day was over. Huddled together on a dark, deserted beach called Runaway... because they'd both been so damn lonely. Because there'd been so many things they'd wanted to tell somebody....
Halfway up the hill, Peter saw a sign: RENT. Another sign: ROOMS; it showed a little black angel sleeping on folded hands.
A doorway, at the crest of the hill read WELCOME, and that seemed just about right to Peter.
A tall goateed man and a boy sat at a buckling table covered with dominoes, in the foyer.
'Yes, mon?' The older fellow spoke. A soft, serious voice, much more businesslike than Peter expected from the look of the place from outside.
'I need a room, please. I'm very tired.'
The black man looked at Peter strangely. Shrugged. Then he went to a little school desk, where he scrawled a line in a red ledger. He took six dollars in advance for the room.
'Dis bway will take yo' up. Yo' be served breakfas' in de momin', mon. '
The young boy pointed to a dark stairway. Then he walked ahead of Macdonald, holding a candle in a soup dish.
The boy began to whisper to Peter as they climbed the stairs. His small candle slowly revealed the hotel, like in a murder mystery.
'T'marra yo' cum fishin' in me fadder boat, mon. Catch grouper. Lotsa big snappers, too.'
Peter suddenly started to laugh when they reached the top of the stairs. 'I'm sorry. ' He turned to the boy. 'I'm not laughing at you. I can't go fishing tomorrow, though.'
'Too bad, mon. Yo' missin' good shit.'
Peter and the black boy turned into a slanting, lopsided hallway with unpainted doors on both sides of a long, tattered runner. A dim light shone at the other end of the hall. A black telephone sat on the floor under the light. Suddenly Peter understood that this was an all-black hotel. Welcome. Inside his room, he hid his wallet between the rusty pipes of the sink. He bumped his head hard on the pipes and felt strangely, ridiculously exhilarated. For a minute he even forgot about the tall blond man. The butcher.
Then he just sat on the bed with his head propped up so he faced the door. With the Colt revolver lying across his boxer shorts. Listening to the rickytick rhythms of reggae out in the streets; listening to pigs rooting in the hotel's backyard.
Before he could sleep, he had the urge to go back out into the moldy hallway. He picked up the black telephone and asked for number 107. He got through to a night operator with a beautiful lilting voice. Nighthird. Then to a groggy, very distant-sounding woman. Then to Jane.
'Hiya, Laurel.' Peter's face lit up with a sleepy smile. 'This is Oliver Hardy speaking. I think I'm going crazy, babe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Our strategy for Brooks Campbell was a simple one: we tried to give him too many choices and produce decision stress.
Harold Hill was a completely different problem. We went right for Hill's balls.
The Rose Diary
Fairfax Station, Virginia
At 2:30 in the morning, two Virginia state troopers, James Walsh and Dominick Niccolo, tramped across the dewy back lawns of a big white house way out in the sticks.
A nearby neighbor had reported that something strange was going on at the house. What sounded Re screams for help.
Around at the back, the policemen discovered that the kitchen door wasn't locked. Not all that unusual for the rural community of Fairfax Station. Not usual, though.
Inside the kitchen they were greeted with the loud ticking of an electric clock. The hum of a refiigerator. The indistinct sounds of an empty, or sleeping, house.
The kitchen was lit by an orangish night-light over the sink. Several coffee cups and half a box of Dunkin' Donuts were sitting on the kitchen table. The remains of half a dozen sandwiches.
Dom Niccolo turned on the hall light and called out in a high-pitched tenor's voice. 'Hello. Is anyone home? This is the Virginia State Police.' No answer.
The two men continued to walk through the dark house, turning on lights. Calling out, 'Is anyone home?'
A standard lamp in the living room was already on. As they entered the comfortably furnished room, they were startled by the loud crashing of the refrigerator making ice.
'That son of a bitch. ' James Walsh grit his teeth.
The troopers heard another noise. A young black retriever came running downstairs, wagging its tail and jumping up on the two men, licking them.
'Pup scared the shit out of me, too. ' Walsh grinned.
'Jesus Christ, Jimmy.' Dom Niccolo knelt to look closer at the dog. 'She has blood all over her side. Look at this, Jimmy.'
