“I used to love to go. You remind me of that one with the mustache—I can’t think of his name.”
“Peter Sellers. Richard Pryor.”
“No.” She giggled. “I can’t think of it. He’s handsomer, but you’re handsome too.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you reach? I’m sorry, but you can’t lie on top. I don’t like that any more.”
“All right.” He moved until their faces were no longer together, their bodies forming an X. Afterwards, he got up first and went into the bathroom to wash. Candy went in when he left, and he lay on the floor listening to her, hearing the toilet flush, then flush again.
He hoped she would lie down with him instead of asking for the blanket back, and she did. “Everything okay?” she said. “Copacetic?”
He had been wondering if he had caught a disease, syph or maybe herpes. She’s probably thinking maybe she’s pregnant, he thought. No, she isn’t. He said, “Not while you were gone. I missed you.”
“Uh huh. You were cold.”
“Right.” He chuckled.
“Me too. My feet are cold from that damn cold floor in there. Can I put them against your legs?”
“Okay.”
She lay with her back to him, the soles of her feet against his calves. He made sure they were covered by his topcoat, tucking it in, then pulled up the blanket. Old Mr. Free was standing there in the dark, ready to light the hot water heater for Candy’s bath. Barnes thought: That’s who called. She must have told him to come up.
“I’ll be gone before sundown, so what do I care?” Free said. “You like women, don’t you, Mr. Barnes?”
“Yes,” Barnes admitted, “yes, I do.”
“You’re a bigger man on the inside than on the outside, Mr. Barnes.”
“Thank you,” Barnes said, “but I’d rather be bigger on the outside too.”
“Don’t be any bigger fool than you can help, Mr. Barnes. You said you wasn’t widely respected. I said I respect you, and I do. Only you’ve got hold of a few things you don’t understand hardly at all. Right now you’re trying to figure out how you can ask me about that treasure—some way that will get me to tell you what I don’t know myself about something you’re not even close to understanding.” Old Mr. Free pointed to the wall. There was a sign on it, a white sign of painted boards with black lettering that said something.
Barnes went to it and pushed it aside and looked through the hole in the wall behind it. It was Madame Serpentina’s room, but Candy Garth sat there naked on Madame Serpentina’s bed smoking one of Madame Serpentina’s cigarettes. After a moment Barnes saw that the rumpled sheets of the bed were not rumpled sheets at all, but heaps of rings and diamond bracelets. The key to the room lay on the dresser near the hole, beside Madame Serpentina’s hairbrush, and he knew that if only he could seize it he could open the door and go in—although it would not be necessary for him to walk down the hall and turn the key in the lock, because the wall itself would melt away, the whole house be transformed. He thrust his arm through the hole, feeling a deep pleasure.
Outside, the doorman’s whistle blew thinly and shrilly. He opened his eyes, uncertain for a moment where he was. Gray light shone through the drapes. The whistle blew again. Going to catch an early flight, Barnes thought. He remembered the year he had covered the whole East Coast for Continental Compactors, Inc. The whole damned East Coast. Boston to Miami by plane a couple of times. Philly to New York on the train, riding the ferry from Long Island to Connecticut.
Candy had rolled away, taking the blanket with her—that was surely for the best. One arm was thrust out from under his topcoat, and his feet were cold. The towel lay in a crumpled heap to one side. He stood up, wrapping the towel around him. Candy looked like a bear lying there in her brown blanket, her back to him. The bed that could not be mussed was still unmussed, pristine. The witch slept like an actress in a movie, her profile, almost but not quite too strong to be lovely, outlined against the white sheet, her enormous eyes closed in sleep. Stubb lay on his back, his mouth open, his face strange without its glasses.
Barnes went into the bathroom and switched on the lights. His cheeks were blue with stubble; he rubbed it with both hands, wishing that he, or someone, had a razor; there was none in the litter of cosmetics the two women had spread over the basin table. He examined himself again, combing back his hair as well as he could with his fingers. “Oh, I’m strong at the finish/’cause I likes me spinach … .” His eye was in the pocket of his topcoat. He wondered if Candy had realized it was missing. She’s probably wondering if I noticed how fat she is, he thought, if she’s still awake.
He laughed softly to himself.
His underwear was dry; he put it on. His shirt was still a little damp at the collar, but he put that on too. All the crease was out of his trousers, but otherwise they didn’t look too bad. Perhaps when evening came he would still be here, and perhaps Stubb and Candy would be gone. He would press them under the mattress then.
He made sure his empty wallet was still in the pocket, put on his trousers, switched off the light, and left. The other three were asleep. He put on his tie, his somewhat rumpled suitcoat, and his eye. For a moment he was afraid Stubb was going to wake up when he stepped out into the hall, but he never stirred.
Three doors down, that was what the bellboy had said. The latch was taped back. The room might be rented by now, but if it were, it would be locked. If anyone came to the door, he could pretend he had come to the wrong one. Or try to sell them something—they would get rid of him fast enough. He pushed gently against the door, and it swung back.
Stakeout
The room was quiet and dark. Barnes stepped inside and closed the door silently behind him, then stood
