CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Peter called at 7A.M., and I thought I detected a malicious tone in his voice when he announced the time.
I rolled out of bed and instinctively felt under the pillow for my Glock, but then I remembered that we were temporarily separated.
I showered and dressed, and walked to the main building for breakfast.
Peter greeted me with a muted “Good morning,” and I went into the lounge/restaurant. It was Saturday morning and a few weekenders may have arrived the night before, but the place was almost empty.
The waitress brought coffee and a breakfast menu. Having spent forty days in a Muslim country, I felt pork- deprived, and I ordered bacon and ham with pork sausage on the side.
The waitress asked, “Atkins?”
I replied, “No, Catholic.”
After breakfast, I went into the library room. A few people were sitting in club chairs near the sunny windows reading newspapers and magazines.
I perused the shelves and found a Stephen King book,
She smiled and said, “This one will keep you up all night.”
“That’s good. I have diarrhea.”
She slid the receipt book toward me and said, “Please fill that out.”
I wrote the date, the title of the book, Room 203, and I signed the receipt, “Giuseppe Verdi.”
The lady said, “Do you have a room key with you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She punched up Room 203 on her computer and said, “I’m showing another guest in that room.”
“My boyfriend. John Corey.”
“Uh… okay…” She wrote “Corey” on the slip and said, “Thank you, Mr. Verdi. Enjoy the book. It’s due back anytime before you check out.”
“Do I get a receipt?”
“You get the pink copy when you return the book. Or you can just leave the book in your room when you check out if you don’t require a return receipt.”
“Okay. Can I buy the book if I like it?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
I went upstairs to the hotel offices and spotted Susan Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant. She seemed to remember me and smiled tightly. I said, “Good morning. Is Mr. Rosenthal in?”
She replied, “He’s usually in on Saturdays, but he’ll be late this morning.”
I said, “He probably overslept. Can I use one of your computers?”
She motioned me toward an empty desk.
I checked my e-mail, and there were a few inconsequential messages, then a message from Kate, which said, “I tried calling you at the apartment. Please let me know you’ve arrived safely. I’ll be home Monday:) Same flight info. I’ll take a taxi from the airport. I
I smiled.:)
I typed in a reply: “Dear Kate-arrived safely. I’m not in the apartment. Spending a few days R amp;R at the beach.”
I thought a moment. I’m not good at this mushy stuff, so I followed her format and typed, “I miss
I sent it into cyberspace, thanked Susan, and left the office. Downstairs, I asked Peter where he got his hair done and he gave me the name of the place in Westhampton Beach.
I drove into the village, found Peter’s hairstyling place, and got my first decent haircut in over a month. I asked Tiffany, the young lady cutting my hair, “Do you know Peter, the desk clerk at the Bayview Hotel?”
“Sure. He has great hair.” She added, “Great skin, too.”
“How about me?”
“You have a nice tan.”
“I was in Yemen.”
“Where’s that?”
“Saudi Arabian peninsula.”
“No kidding? Where’s that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Vacation?”
“No. I was on a secret and dangerous mission for the government.”
“No kidding? You want a little hairspray?”
“No, thanks.”
I paid Tiffany and inquired about where I could buy a bathing suit. She directed me to a sporting goods store a block away.
I walked to the store and bought a pair of baggy green swim trunks, a black T-shirt, and beach sandals. Tres Hamptons.
I drove back to the hotel and went into the lobby to check for phone messages, and to see if Peter noticed my new haircut, but he was off-duty. There were no messages, and I went to my room and changed into my new swimwear, remembering to remove the tags.
I checked my cell phone for messages, but no one had called, and my beeper was still not charged.
Thinking of Roxanne, I left a few dollars for the cleaning lady, and I exited my room.
I drove down to Cupsogue Beach County Park, parked in the lot and walked to the beach. It was a day of brilliant sunshine, warm temperatures, and a soft breeze.
I spent the morning swimming, catching a few September rays, and running barefoot on the beach, humming the score of
By noon there were a few people on the beach, mostly families, enjoying what could be the last good beach weekend of the waning summer.
I was in better shape than I’d been in years, and I resolved to stay that way so that when Kate came home she’d marvel at my golden tan and my surfer-boy body. I wondered if she’d stayed in top shape in Dar es Salaam. I hoped I didn’t have to say something like, “You’ve put on a little weight, sweetheart.”
I should probably not say that until after we’d had sex.
I ran out to the western tip of the park where the inlet separated this barrier island from Fire Island, where the memorial service had been held at Smith Point County Park. This was the inlet from which Captain Spruck had sailed into the ocean on the evening of July 17, 1996, and seen something that had troubled him ever since.
It was the kind of golden late summer day that makes you reflect on the cycles of the seasons, with corresponding thoughts about the cycles of life and death, and what we’re doing on this planet, and why we’re doing it.
Weird birds circled overhead, then dived after unsuspecting fish, who in the blink of an eye were transported from sea, to air, to bird’s stomach.
Out there, over the ocean, 230 people had started a journey to Paris, but had suddenly fallen three miles through the night sky into the sea. Just like that.
A society can be judged by its response to untimely deaths-accidents and murder-and the society we lived in spent a lot of time, money, and effort to investigate accidents and murder. It was part of our culture that no murder go unpunished, and no accident be written off as unavoidable.
And yet, five years after TWA 800 exploded in midair, apparently and officially as a result of an electrical spark in the center fuel tank, not much had been done to correct the potentially catastrophic problem.
Meaning what? Meaning, perhaps, that the alternate theory-a missile-was still influencing some people’s
