being clobbered in place.
I reexamined the damned hole in the window. It didn’t look like anything but a hole in the window. I put the cool handle of the .38 against my forehead and felt my stubbly face. I had things to do, but before I did them I had to answer the knock at the door behind me. “Who is it?”
“Security,” came the answer.
Before I could open the door or say “Come in,” he used his passkey and came in.
“Come in,” I said.
The talc had worn off his face. He looked tired and a lot older, but the lightweight jacket and derby hat gave him a kind of Pat O’Brien look. Or maybe Oliver Hardy would be more appropriate. “I’m going off duty now,” he said, looking at my soiled underwear and the pistol in my hand. “When I get back at midnight, I expect you to be gone, Peters.”
“I thought we were pals,” I said, reaching for my pants. “And what happened to your Irish accent? You lost it.”
“I put it back in my pocket,” he said, backing me up so I had to dance to get my second leg in my pants. “I’ll get it out the next time to impress a tourist. Now the reason we are not friends, Mr. Detective from Los Angeles, is that you did some lying to me in the early hours of this morning. Maybe it was your final April Fools’ Day joke of the night, but this is the day after and I’m feeling tired. This ship does not rock while I’m at the helm. I’ve got a police department pension and a modest income from this job. I’ve got a married daughter and three grandchildren. I’ll show you their picture.”
He pushed back his coat, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and opened it. I had my pants on so I could stand up and take a look at the photograph he held out for me. The kids were two girls and a boy. The boy looked like “Security.”
“Nice-looking kids,” I said, handing back the wallet and reaching for my shirt.
“Damn right,” he said, shoving the wallet deep into his rear pocket.
“Look, Security …” I started.
“Name’s Carmichael, but you don’t have to bother remembering it, because you won’t have to use it again. Just before you checked in yesterday, you tried to get our desk clerk Sudsburry to let you look at the guest register for the last month or two. Then you tell some tale about Albert Einstein being a relative.”
“I didn’t say he was a relative,” I countered, starting to button my shirt and remembering my stubbly face. “I said I was working with him, which I am, or for him on a case. I don’t know where Sudsburry got the relative bit.”
“Maybe it had something to do with relativity,” said Carmichael. “I don’t know, but this A.M. one of the cleaning crew found the guest registers for the past three months on the floor of the ladies’ room. Beginning to sound like a coincidence to you, Peters?”
I pushed the bed out of the way so I could get into the bathroom. He followed me through the door.
“A coincidence,” I agreed, squeezing some Burma-Shave out of the tube and into my palm. I was almost out of shaving cream. I’d have to remember to save the tube. Too damn many things to remember.
“Then someone decides to take target practice on your door,” Carmichael went on. In the mirror over my shoulder I could see him tilt his derby back. Maybe he was getting ready to ask, “Getting up in the world, aint ya, Rico?” I had an answer for that.
“Coincidence?” I tried as I shaved.
“A crock.” Carmichael’s right hand gripped my shoulder. He was a good sixty or sixty-five but had the grip of a beat cop who had killed many an hour doing tricks with his night-stick. “I don’t care what’s what or who’s who or why’s why. Be gone when I come back on at midnight.”
“Midnight,” I said without wincing, as I held my Marlin razor away from my face.
Carmichael let go of my aching shoulder and went out the bathroom door and out of sight. I heard the door to the room open. “Oh, and the room is still on the
I reexamined the damned hole in the window. It didn’t look like anything but a hole in the window. I put the cool handle of the .38 against my forehead and felt my stubbly face. I had things to do, but before I did them I had to answer the knock at the door behind me. “Who is it?”
“Security,” came the answer.
Before I could open the door or say “Come in,” he used his passkey and came in.
“Come in,” I said.
The talc had worn off his face. He looked tired and a lot older, but the lightweight jacket and derby hat gave him a kind of Pat O’Brien look. Or maybe Oliver Hardy would be more appropriate. “I’m going off duty now,” he said, looking at my soiled underwear and the pistol in my hand. “When I get back at midnight, I expect you to be gone, Peters.”
“I thought we were pals,” I said, reaching for my pants. “And what happened to your Irish accent? You lost it.”
“I put it back in my pocket,” he said, backing me up so I had to dance to get my second leg in my pants. “I’ll get it out the next time to impress a tourist. Now the reason we are not friends, Mr. Detective from Los Angeles, is that you did some lying to me in the early hours of this morning. Maybe it was your final April Fools’ Day joke of the night, but this is the day after and I’m feeling tired. This ship does not rock while I’m at the helm. I’ve got a police department pension and a modest income from this job. I’ve got a married daughter and three grandchildren. I’ll show you their picture.”
He pushed back his coat, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and opened it. I had my pants on so I could stand up and take a look at the photograph he held out for me. The kids were two girls and a boy. The boy looked like “Security.”
“Nice-looking kids,” I said, handing back the wallet and reaching for my shirt.
“Damn right,” he said, shoving the wallet deep into his rear pocket.
“Look, Security …” I started.
“Name’s Carmichael, but you don’t have to bother remembering it, because you won’t have to use it again. Just before you checked in yesterday, you tried to get our desk clerk Sudsburry to let you look at the guest register for the last month or two. Then you tell some tale about Albert Einstein being a relative.”
“I didn’t say he was a relative,” I countered, starting to button my shirt and remembering my stubbly face. “I said I was working with him, which I am, or for him on a case. I don’t know where Sudsburry got the relative bit.”
“Maybe it had something to do with relativity,” said Carmichael. “I don’t know, but this A.M. one of the cleaning crew found the guest registers for the past three months on the floor of the ladies’ room. Beginning to sound like a coincidence to you, Peters?”
I pushed the bed out of the way so I could get into the bathroom. He followed me through the door.
“A coincidence,” I agreed, squeezing some Burma-Shave out of the tube and into my palm. I was almost out of shaving cream. I’d have to remember to save the tube. Too damn many things to remember.
“Then someone decides to take target practice on your door,” Carmichael went on. In the mirror over my shoulder I could see him tilt his derby back. Maybe he was getting ready to ask, “Getting up in the world, aint ya, Rico?” I had an answer for that.
“Coincidence?” I tried as I shaved.
“A crock.” Carmichael’s right hand gripped my shoulder. He was a good sixty or sixty-five but had the grip of a beat cop who had killed many an hour doing tricks with his night-stick. “I don’t care what’s what or who’s who or why’s why. Be gone when I come back on at midnight.”
“Midnight,” I said without wincing, as I held my Marlin razor away from my face.
Carmichael let go of my aching shoulder and went out the bathroom door and out of sight. I heard the door to the room open. “Oh, and the room is still on the
Similar Books
