I hung up and leaned my head against the wall beside the pay phone, wishing I had some way to ask Betty to spirit Long's cocaine out of the elevator. Somebody tapped me roughly on the shoulder. I whirled, my hands raised defensively, to find a clean-cut young man in a blue blazer and gray slacks, who held up his hands, open and placating. 'What?' I said, then looked down at the cop shoes beneath the slacks. 'Hotel security?' I asked. The kid nodded. 'What's up?'
'Can I see some ID, sir?' the kid asked in his flat cop voice, his cold blue eyes checking out my rumpled jeans and muddy boots.
I started to complain but assumed I'd already called enough attention to myself, so I showed the kid a valid North Dakota driver's license, making sure that he saw the sheaf of credit cards and the retired Grand Forks deputy's card, too. 'Airlines lost my bags during the delay in Denver,' I explained.
'You staying with us, Mr. Malvern?'
'Too cold here,' I said. 'I'm running from an early winter dose of cabin fever and I don't think I've run far enough south. Just stopped in to use the telephone to let my wife know where to find me – crazy woman won't fly – and pick up some new clothes.' The kid handed the driver's license back. 'One more quick call,' I said, 'then back into a cab.'
'Good luck,' the kid said but he didn't mean it.
'Sorry. Guess I forgot how sensitive the ladies are down here,' I said. 'I knew I shouldn't have farted in front of her.'
'You're lucky she didn't call the police,' the kid said, shaking his head. 'She has before. For less reason.'
'Thanks,' I said, shaking my head, too, then turned back to the telephone to call Hangas.
'Sarge, I need a quiet favor,' I said when Hangas answered.
'Name it,' Hangas rumbled, then added, 'I need to talk to you, too.'
'Remember that damned expensive glass of wine I bought you?' I asked. Hangas just chuckled. 'Run out and pick up my woman, then bring her there. And maybe you should watch your back a little bit.'
'It's like that, huh?'
'Probably just horseshit and gunsmoke,' I said, turning to find the security kid's eyes on me, 'but who knows when you're going to run into the typical Texas experience.' I hung up, smiled at the kid, and hustled out of the lobby as quickly as I could.
I nursed a couple of Scotches at the Four Seasons bar until Hangas and Betty showed up just before eight o'clock.
'Sorry it took so long,' Hangas said as Betty wrapped me in her arms.
'You look terrible, love,' she whispered, her lips against my ear.
'I've been better,' I said, then to Hangas, 'Thanks, man. But maybe we'd better get a table.' We found one in a dark corner, settled in, ordered drinks, and went to business. I told them about the aborted meeting with Sissy Duval and the shooter.
'Unless they were using four cars, they weren't on my tail,' I said, 'so the only way the shooter could know how to cover the meet would be a scanner tap on Renfro's cell phone, and I don't know why they would do that. Hell, he's just a hairdresser. And as far as I can figure, the only reason to whack her would be because she knows something about Enos Walker or Amanda Rae Quarrels. And right now I'm just too tired to think about it.'
'You've got a room here?' Betty asked as the cocktail waitress brought the drinks. I nodded. 'So can we go up when we finish our drinks?'
'But I don't think that Renfro and I were the real target,' I said, 'or they would have handled it differently.' Hangas knew what I meant: somebody would have walked over to put a couple of rounds into the backs of our heads. But Betty didn't realize that. Then I took a healthy slug of the double Macallan, relaxing for the first time since the silenced gunfire started. 'Then I nearly got arrested because I farted in front of a woman dressed in the skins of endangered species.'
'A good piece of luck that you picked up the vests,' Hangas said.
'It wasn't luck, man. I guess I've been on a hair trigger ever since that Rooke asshole tried to kill me, and I've been watching my back ever since,' I admitted, then turned to Betty. 'The best piece of luck is that they haven't checked the serial number on your piece yet.'
'See, I am involved,' Betty said brightly, as if she'd just won a prize.
'I'm sorry, love,' I said, then hit the whisky again, hard, and circled my finger at the cocktail waitress. 'Shit. Molly McBride and Mandy Rae Quarrels don't exist, Enos Walker and Sissy Duval are in the wind, and I've got something less than three weeks before I'm indicted for capital murder. What the hell, let's have one more.' For once, nobody argued with me.
'I caught up with Enos Walker's older brother,' Hangas said quietly. 'He's got a big church operation over on the East Side. He seems dead straight and mightily embarrassed by his little brother, but I'd bet anything that he knows where he is. Trouble is, we've got no leverage on him. Same trouble with Eldora Grace. She's nervous as a cat in a Vietnamese neighborhood.'
'Bigot,' I said, but Hangas just smiled like a man who had done three tours in the Mekong Delta as the cocktail waitress set another eighteen-dollar glass of wine in front of him.
'She knows something but she's one hard-nosed woman.'
'Let's leave her alone,' I said, 'and leave this shit alone, too, tonight. I'll think about it tomorrow.' I settled the tab with cash and asked the waitress for a telephone. I ordered a couple of cheeseburgers and a six-pack of Bohemia beer from room service to be delivered to my room, then a bellhop to pick up Betty's bags, which Hangas had stashed under the table. 'And get me another key for my wife,' I said. Hangas and Betty both looked at me. 'Tomorrow,' I added, 'tomorrow, I'll explain everything. Maybe.'
Hangas made his goodbyes, and we finished our drinks silently.
Up in the room Betty waited until we'd finished the cheeseburgers and I was on my second beer and she'd fired up one of Cathy Scoggins's bomber joints before she asked, 'So what's my married name?'
'Malvern. An ugly name but give it a couple of days,' I answered, tossing her the walletful of fake ID, 'Mrs. Hardy P. Malvern.'
'What's the P stand for?' she asked, handing it back.
'Peter,' I admitted. 'It took ten days in the Grand Forks cemeteries to come up with that one. It's only my second best fake ID, but it's a good one. Social Security number's valid, driver's license is current, and credit cards are live, all the other stuff is state-of-the-art.'
'You should have been a criminal,' she said, handing me the joint.
'I am,' I said, hitting it, and handing it back. 'And now you are, too.'
'Well, Hardy Peter,' she said, smiling, 'what's next?'
'After this doobie,' I said, grinning, 'maybe you could help me out of these clothes and into a Hardy Peter nap…' Then a wave of giggles swept over us. When it was over, I said, 'Fuck, I'm nearly sixty years old, I've been beat up, tortured, and shot at. I shouldn't be giggling like a kid.'
'You'll live longer that way,' Betty said.
After Betty pushed the rolling room service table out in the hallway, she stepped over to me, kissed me softly, then began helping me out of my clothes. I could feel the bullet bruise spreading across my back, so I tried to avoid questions by keeping my T-shirt on, but she eased it over my head before I could stop her.
'Jesus H. Christ,' Betty whispered when she saw my back. 'Honey, can't you find some other hobby? Something besides… besides whatever it is you're doing.'
'Many are called,' I allowed, 'but few are chosen.'
She wasn't amused. 'How the hell do you know the shoulder blade's not broken?'
'Doesn't hurt enough?'
'How the hell would you know?' she asked angrily. 'You've got half a quart of whisky in you.'
'And four codeines, too,' I admitted. Tears filled her eyes as Betty drew back her hand to slap me. I caught her wrist. 'I'm old, babe, but not dead.' The evening's fun seemed to be over. 'I don't hit you,' I said. 'Don't hit me.'
'No, you've got other ways of hurting me, you bastard,' she said, angrily jerking her wrist away, then storming off to the bathroom. 'And you won't fucking quit,' she snapped over her shoulder before she slammed the door.
