flaky friend of mine, a stewardess who spent her off-time collecting lost causes, and got the address.
It was one crumbling building on the edge of Elysian Fields near I-10. From the look of it, it had been a hotel at one time or another. Now it was filled with long-haired sweaty kids and covered with graffiti. Don’t drop toothpicks in the toilet or the crabs will polevault to freedom, it said on one wall. God is watching you, it said above that. I wondered if he (or she) was watching Cordelia Clayson too.
I finally tracked down the Administrative Offices on the second floor and walked in. A girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen got up from a desk and walked toward me.
“Yessir,” she said.
“Yes’m. I’m looking for Bud Sanders, have a job for him but can’t seem to connect. Wondered if you might be able to help me.”
“A job, you say?”
“Right.”
“Well.” She considered. “You could leave a message with me, I’d see he got it.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid I’m in a hurry. I really have to get through to him today. If I’m going to use him, that is.”
“Well.” She looked around the room as though he might be hiding in it somewhere. “Wow, I don’t know.” She reached around behind her and grabbed her braids, tugged at them. “There’s money in it for him, huh?”
“Yes’m. Quite a bit, really.”
“Okay. Well, I don’t think he’d want me to let you get away.” That decided, she let the braids go. “He’s on location. Belright Hotel, on Perdido near Tulane and Jeff Davis.”
“Thanks, Miss.”
“Ms.”
“Right.”
“Room 408.”
Chapter Five
T HE LAST TIME I’ D BEEN TO THE B ELRIGHT WAS ON MY honeymoon. We’d ordered chicken sandwiches “with extra chips” and they’d brought enough for a party. They’d also sent up champagne and a fruit basket. I guess we were pretty happy there for a little while. But it was the beginning, still, of a long decline.
The Belright back then had been pricey and plush. Declines were everywhere.
I pretended I belonged there, walked through the lobby and up the stairs, something I wouldn’t have gotten away with just a few years before. But now there wasn’t a porter or other service person in sight, only one youngish, half-bald guy behind the desk picking his nose with a ballpoint pen.
I heaved myself up the four flights and knocked on 408, waited, knocked again. Finally someone opened the door an inch or so and stuck his nose in the crack.
“Yeah.”
“You Bud Sanders?”
“Don’t know him.”
“Maybe I could introduce you.”
Inside the room someone, a man, said, “Who’s that?”
“Some wiseass nigger.”
“I interrupt something between you two fellows?” I said.
He opened the door wider and glared at me.
“Look, fellow,” he said. “We’re trying to get a little work done in here. Why don’t you just go away and let us get back to it.”
“Now let’s see. What kind of work would that be, in a hotel room with all those bright lights I see behind you there? PR film for the Belright, maybe? Hope your demographics are right.”
“Goddamn.”
It was the other guy. A second later the door opened and he stood there by Sanders, sweaty and naked at half-mast. I kicked him in the kneecap, then the stomach, and went on in.
The woman on the bed wasn’t Cordelia. She wasn’t conscious, either.
I spun around and grabbed Sanders by the neck.
“Okay,” I said, “I had to see who you had in here. Now you listen to me. First, you get some help for this woman. Then you find Cordelia Clayson—shut up and listen—and you bring her to me at the fountain in Jackson Square by five o’clock tonight.” The other guy was starting to get up so I kicked him again. “Don’t make it so I have to come find you again. Be there.”
“Man, I don’t know where that girl is.”
“Find out.” I let go of him. “We’re through talking. You better wrap it up, he’s not gonna feel much
It was one crumbling building on the edge of Elysian Fields near I-10. From the look of it, it had been a hotel at one time or another. Now it was filled with long-haired sweaty kids and covered with graffiti. Don’t drop toothpicks in the toilet or the crabs will polevault to freedom, it said on one wall. God is watching you, it said above that. I wondered if he (or she) was watching Cordelia Clayson too.
I finally tracked down the Administrative Offices on the second floor and walked in. A girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen got up from a desk and walked toward me.
“Yessir,” she said.
“Yes’m. I’m looking for Bud Sanders, have a job for him but can’t seem to connect. Wondered if you might be able to help me.”
“A job, you say?”
“Right.”
“Well.” She considered. “You could leave a message with me, I’d see he got it.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid I’m in a hurry. I really have to get through to him today. If I’m going to use him, that is.”
“Well.” She looked around the room as though he might be hiding in it somewhere. “Wow, I don’t know.” She reached around behind her and grabbed her braids, tugged at them. “There’s money in it for him, huh?”
“Yes’m. Quite a bit, really.”
“Okay. Well, I don’t think he’d want me to let you get away.” That decided, she let the braids go. “He’s on location. Belright Hotel, on Perdido near Tulane and Jeff Davis.”
“Thanks, Miss.”
“Ms.”
“Right.”
“Room 408.”
Chapter Five
T HE LAST TIME I’ D BEEN TO THE B ELRIGHT WAS ON MY honeymoon. We’d ordered chicken sandwiches “with extra chips” and they’d brought enough for a party. They’d also sent up champagne and a fruit basket. I guess we were pretty happy there for a little while. But it was the beginning, still, of a long decline.
The Belright back then had been pricey and plush. Declines were everywhere.
I pretended I belonged there, walked through the lobby and up the stairs, something I wouldn’t have gotten away with just a few years before. But now there wasn’t a porter or other service person in sight, only one youngish, half-bald guy behind the desk picking his nose with a ballpoint pen.
I heaved myself up the four flights and knocked on 408, waited, knocked again. Finally someone opened the door an inch or so and stuck his nose in the crack.
“Yeah.”
“You Bud Sanders?”
“Don’t know him.”
“Maybe I could introduce you.”
Inside the room someone, a man, said, “Who’s that?”
“Some wiseass nigger.”
“I interrupt something between you two fellows?” I said.
He opened the door wider and glared at me.
“Look, fellow,” he said. “We’re trying to get a little work done in here. Why don’t you just go away and let us get back to it.”
“Now let’s see. What kind of work would that be, in a hotel room with all those bright lights I see behind you there? PR film for the Belright, maybe? Hope your demographics are right.”
“Goddamn.”
It was the other guy. A second later the door opened and he stood there by Sanders, sweaty and naked at half-mast. I kicked him in the kneecap, then the stomach, and went on in.
The woman on the bed wasn’t Cordelia. She wasn’t conscious, either.
I spun around and grabbed Sanders by the neck.
“Okay,” I said, “I had to see who you had in here. Now you listen to me. First, you get some help for this woman. Then you find Cordelia Clayson—shut up and listen—and you bring her to me at the fountain in Jackson Square by five o’clock tonight.” The other guy was starting to get up so I kicked him again. “Don’t make it so I have to come find you again. Be there.”
“Man, I don’t know where that girl is.”
“Find out.” I let go of him. “We’re through talking. You better wrap it up, he’s not gonna feel much
Similar Books
