Free Live Free

“Front desk? My name’s Jim Stubb. Am I being paged?”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk paused. “We’ve been having a little disturbance here, but I believe you are.”

“What’s the message?”

“I don’t know, sir. You can find out by calling the bell captain, sir. One nine.”

“I can find out from you too—” Stubb began, but the clerk had hung up. Fuming, Stubb banged down the handset, picked it up again, pressed one nine, and identified himself.

“The message is call eight, seven, seven, sir.”

“I thought it was. I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with this Mickey Mouse.” Stubb cradled the handset a second time and grinned, then pressed the number.

“Hello? Eight seventy-seven.”

“It’s me again, Cliff. You’ve got the kid hollering for me, and I’m getting sick of tipping him.”

“Jim, you didn’t have to hang up on me.”

“Only if I wanted to look at myself when I shave. You want to say I’m not tall enough to look in the mirror? Go ahead, say it. It isn’t true, but say it.”

“Jim, you’re trying to put words in my mouth. I never said anything like that to you.”

“Like hell.”

“Okay, maybe I kidded you a couple of times. But Jim, it was only kidding. Now I need you. What the hell did I say in that note? A hundred and fifty a day? I’ll make it two hundred.”

“You said two C’s. Make it three.”

“Now you’re kidding. Two fifty.”

“Goodbye, Cliff.”

“Jim, don’t hang up. Three hundred. Okay.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Plus expenses, right.”

“It’s a deal. What’s the job?”

“Come up to the room, Jim. Hell, you know I can’t talk about it on the phone.”

“You’ve got a big, big client, and they’ve told you, you own the mint. You’ve got every man you’ve got on it already. What is it, Cliff? CIA? Saudi Arabia?”

“You’re working for me now, so knock it off. For three hundred a day you can get your ass up to this room.”

“I don’t start till tomorrow, right? Any rough stuff?”

“You start right now, Jim—I’m paying you three hundred for the rest of tonight. No rough stuff at all, I swear to God. A pussycat, so get your ass up here.”

“Like you say, boss.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Stubb hung up, nodding to himself. “It sure is,” he whispered.

He found his shoes, jammed his feet in them, and put on his jacket and trenchcoat. Lifting the mattress, he thrust his arm under it and pulled out Proudy’s gun. In the bathroom, he stood on the toilet to retrieve the cartridges from the top of the medicine cabinet.

A Little Tippy

“My coat,” Candy muttered. “My God, I haven’t got a coat.”

A woman nearby turned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I don’t have a coat,” Candy explained. “I was just talking to myself.” After a moment she added, “I’ve been in the bar. Must have left it there.”

The woman nodded. It was not clear whether she was agreeing that was the most probable explanation or acknowledging that Candy had indeed been in the bar; perhaps both.

Candy turned away, doing her best to walk straight and succeeding pretty well. There was a long rack of coats, with a shelf above for hats, in a narrow room that formed a buffer zone between the bar and the lobby. A weary redhead stood behind a small counter that closed the entrance.

Candy smiled at her with as much charm as she could manage. “Can I get my coat? My boyfriend has the checks.”

The weary woman shook her head. “You’ll have to get them from him.”

Candy bit her lip. “Please. I want to go home.”

“Like that, huh?”