Revenant Rising (12 page)
Colin allows Bemus and the hotel personnel to hustle him into the lift, then thinks better of it. “Did you see that?” he stage whispers to Bemus.
“What?”
“The brunette in the lobby when we came in.”
“You have any freakin’ idea how many brunettes were in that lobby just now?” Bemus responds in a loud voice.
“The spectacular one by the door,” Colin continues in an undertone. “You had to have seen her—the one holding her coat and a gift box. She was wearin’ a wine-colored outfit and if we reverse this bleedin’ lift right now she may still be there.” Colin makes a stab for the control panel and a button that will at least stop the lift.
“Not!” Bemus blocks the action. “There’s people waitin’ for you upstairs. They’re lettin’ you register in the suite instead of at the VIP desk.”
“Then you go. You go back to the lobby and see if you can find her.”
“Okay, okay, I
did
see her and she was a looker, but jeezus, man, do I hafta remind you my contract says I don’t supply porn or do procuring,” Bemus moans for everyone to hear and the hotel people stifle smiles and snickers. “I gotta ask, though,” Bemus continues, “what you’d have me tell this spectacular brunette if I did glom onto her? Would I congratulate her and proclaim her Colin Elliot’s pick-of-the-day? Is that what you’ve got in mind?”
“Okay, leave off, you’ve made your point.” Colin laughs, freeing the other passengers to join in.
They’re all still in high spirits when they reach a high floor and the one-bedroom suite where the general manager and a personal concierge are waiting.
Colin signs in with a nom de hotel of longstanding—Boris Gudonov—and tolerates a certain amount of bowing and scraping from lower-echelon hotel staff who have scurried in to demonstrate the obvious.
“Thank you,” he says to the bloke showing how to open and close the curtains. “
Thank you
,” he says to another bloke working the controls for the telly. “I can take it from here,” he says to the bloke lining up bottles and glasses on a bar cabinet equipped with a mini-fridge and herds the lot of them out the door. This without any interference from Bemus who’s apparently got something else on his mind.
“What?” Colin says once they’re alone. “Let’s have it, then.”
“I’m waitin’ to hear why you’re puttin’ up here ’stead of at Nate’s place the way planned.”
“That’s easy. It came to me whilst I was pacing the aisles of the plane last night. I naturally got thinkin’ about confinement and—”
“I thought you were only thinkin’ about keeping your fans entertained.”
“Give me a break, I needed the exercise. I wasn’t swanning, I was stretching my legs, and it came to me that if I went through with the plan to stay at Nate’s he’d be breathin’ right down my neck, wouldn’t he? Telling me what to do, when to do it, overseeing what I eat and drink, doing bed checks, I can even imagine.”
“So this is another bid for independence.”
“Call it whatever you want. Now, can you see about getting my things sent over here? All I’ve got left is a change of underwear and a pair of jeans.”
Bemus busies himself with the phone. Colin rifles through the one bag he does have with him, the designer duffel that’s seen him from Denver to L.A. to New York. He’s in a sudden hurry for a dose of the headache powder that’s been his all-purpose fallback remedy for donkey’s years or for however long ago it was introduced to him by a half-forgotten studio technician in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.
“If he’s home he’s not pickin’ up,” Bemus says just as Colin retrieves the box of Polks Extra Strength from his sponge bag.
“What the fuck,” Colin mutters when he sees that the box that was factory-sealed when last seen is now open, half empty, and leaking the fine white powder that makes the medication so quick-acting.
“Did you hear me?” Bemus says. “Nate’s either not home or not—”
“You been sampling my stuff?” Colin waves the box at him, creating localized fallout.
“Not hardly. Not that crap that’s gonna get you in a boatload of trouble one of these days.”
“Save the lecture. I’m asking if this was open when you packed my stuff in L.A.”
“Can’t really say. All I did was gather up any loose items and zip the bag shut. But if I’d known you were carryin’ that powdered crap I might of pitched—”
“Leave off, will you? Not the time for it. This has obviously been tampered with.”
“If I’d seen that the box was open I woulda thought you opened it, wouldn’t I?”
For answer Colin dumps the entire contents of the duffle on one of the couches and paws through the assortment of toiletries and clothing with mounting concern when his photo wallet doesn’t show up.
“Somethin’ else been tampered with?” Bemus asks. “If it’s your dirty underwear you can be real damn sure it wasn’t me messin’ with it.”
The bodyguard keeps it up, this low-level banter designed to conceal his belief Colin left home with an open, half-consumed box of Polks and simply doesn’t recall. So what’s Bemus going to believe if Colin suddenly announces the photo wallet is nowhere to be found? What then?
Bemus soon loses interest in the laughably transparent ploy and returns to the desk to ring Nate’s numbers again. Colin uses the opportunity to search through the contents of the duffle once more and turn out all the pockets of the rumpled evening clothes he’s wearing. Still no photo wallet.
“Now what?” Bemus notices and hesitates his dialing.
“Relax, will you? I’m just gettin’ this ready for the valet,” Colin says of the tuxedo. “Little too expensive to just toss.” As afterthought he asks Bemus if housekeeping serviced the rooms whilst he was out.
“Out where? Oh, you’re talkin’ about the rooms in L.A. Jeez, man, how long you gonna be hung up on that? Yeah, as a matter of fact housekeeping did come in to replace towels and a guy came in to inventory the minibars while I was waitin’ to pick you up from the Icon gig.”
That’s it. Colin clears off a space for himself on the couch. That has to be it. He sinks down in the cushy space. And not the first time his personal effects have been dipped into or stolen from. He resigns himself to seeing current photographs of his boys splashed across the pages of whichever rag paid most to the hotel employee that nicked them.
But wait a minute. The boys’ names weren’t on the photographs, and the only name on the case was the name of the manufacturer. The cuttings that included his own name—carried in the wallet as bitter reminders—are long gone. Disposed of on the flight to L.A. Flushed, they were.
So what’s the big deal? Why is he getting his knickers in a knot when it can’t be dead-proven those are his sons in the photographs? And what of the tampered-with headache remedy? Didn’t Anthony, his older boy, once secretly confiscate everything in his sponge bag, the thought being to hasten Colin’s return from an overnight to Manchester? The diminished supply of Polks has Anthony’s name written all over it, although it may take some doing to figure out when and how the lad carried out the scheme.
Bemus interrupts the partial relief taken from these reasonings by signaling that he’s got Nate on the line.
“Oh no you don’t,” Colin says when the bodyguard-assistant attempts to hand over the cordless receiver. “No need for me to talk. Just tell him where I am and to send someone with my gear.”
Bemus relays the request even though Nate could have heard it direct from the source without straining much.
“He’s bringin’ it himself. This afternoon,” Bemus says after a slight pause.
“Is he havin’ a meltdown over the change in plans?”
“Not that I could tell.”
Bemus makes no secret of his own meltdown when relieved of duty a short time later and told to make himself scarce for the next twenty-four.
“But you can’t be left . . . You’re not supposed to be . . . But you
can’t
. . .” the brawny bloke whines and carries on as though he’d been ordered to leave a fast-crawling infant in the middle of a dual carriageway—enough reason to give him a furlough even if he hadn’t earned it.
“Oh but I
can
, my good man.” Colin springs to his feet and maneuvers Bemus to the door. “Just watch me . . . No,
don’t
watch me!” Colin gives him a shove into the hallway and quick bolts the door.
That leaves Colin unattended for the first time in recent memory. It’s not as though he hasn’t been alone in a room for hours at a time, but for the last two and a half years there has always been someone in the very next room, ever-watchful and always expecting him to take a misstep. If Nate was an executive nanny in the days before the accident, what is he now? A warden? A warden with a seemingly endless supply of prison guards?
He takes another look at the accommodations, ignoring the perks and peculiars the worshipful staff—guards?—pointed out earlier. He takes the whole tour, eyeing potential for this to become a prison with wainscoted and damask-covered walls, marble and parquetry floors, chandeliered ceilings, and sumptuously curtained windows. The reassessment notes the softening effect of sculpted carpet, the civilized colorations of numerous upholstered pieces, the luster of polished pieces, the gleam of gilt, the sparkle of crystal—none of these features brand new or in absolute first-rate condition, a discovery he finds pleasing without knowing why.
A quick look out the windows says why. Seen from this height, Manhattan’s Central Park reminds him of nothing so much as home where the first yellow-greens of spring will also be veiling trees and brightening lawns—home, where lack of newness and perfection are treasured qualities.
He sighs and turns his back on the windows. He can’t be homesick already. Gone less than a week and now that the notion’s planted, home is all he can think about.
A rapid calculation and resetting of his watch to NY time establishes that if he rings home now they’ll just be sitting down to tea, they’ll all be in one place.
He makes the call with every intention of turning the talk to the leafing-out of specimen trees, the blooming of countless shrubberies, the progress of ongoing restorations and conversions, but all they want to talk about is his surprise appearance at the awards show that they’ve preserved on tape. Even little Simon gets in on the act. When brought to the phone the lad babbles on and on about seeing Dad on telly—“Dad” and “telly” being the only intelligible words. When it’s Anthony’s turn to speak, he’s near-unintelligible in his excitement. Colin’s mother, gone dithery over the win, may or may not be paying attention when told his whereabouts and given the number where he can be reached.
After ringing off he showers, dresses in his last-remaining clean clothes and falls asleep on an uncluttered couch, the dose of Polks Extra Strength that was supposed to get him over the hump forgotten about.
Colin is slow coming awake when a phone call announces Nate’s arrival with the luggage. According to his reset watch he slept close to three hours. Not long enough. He’s still in the bath, splashing cold water on his face when the door chime rings; he takes his time answering it.
After a bellman deposits the bags in the bedroom and is dismissed, Nate confounds expectations by saying nothing whatsoever about the change of venue. He says nothing about the under-the-radar trip to L.A. when he examines the Icon statuette that’s found temporary pride of place on the baby grand piano. No comment about Bemus’s conspicuous absence, either. Maddening this is, this waiting for the other shoe.
“Well?” Colin says when it appears Nate’s ready to sit down, maybe enjoy a beer.
“Well what? You looking for congratulations? That it? For this?” Nate remains on his feet, pings the Icon with a snap of middle finger and thumb. “I hope you realize you should’ve left this behind to have personalized.”
“That the best you can summon?” Colin assumes an adversarial stance.
“Congratulations are in order, no question about that. And no real surprises there because I’d never have allowed use of ‘Revenant’ in the soundtrack of that movie if I’d thought it wouldn’t win best song.”
“You just didn’t count on me showin’ up to collect the prize and set matters straight.”
“I’ll give you that, but I should’ve seen it coming, I should’ve realized you wouldn’t sit still for the insult any more than you’d accept staying at my place when you’re in rebellious mode.”
“You
did
recognize it was an insult, then, this bein’ passed over to perform my own bloody tune?”
“Yeah, I saw the potential for insult—right from the start—and I thought you could live with it once you’d claimed the prize—which was always a given.”
Nate shows no signs of wanting to stay long. If Colin’s in rebellious mode, Nate’s in wary mode—extreme wary mode—even though there are no metaphorical elephants in the room now that the two touchiest subjects have been addressed.
“Just so you know, David Sebastian’s office is sending over some reading material. There’ll be the fine points of the agreement we’re seeking from the record label later in the week, the agenda for tomorrow, and profiles of the applicants I’ve assembled for the new team. Reminding me—David’s taken on a new associate who’s slated to work with us throughout the contract negotiations. Her CV is included in the packet they’re sending, so you’ll have a chance to see that her credentials are impeccable. Plus, word has it she was hand-raised by David.”
“Don’t you mean handpicked?”
“I heard that he had something to do with her upbringing. Mentoring, maybe more. May still be something going on between—”
“Who the fuck cares? I don’t care who she’s sleeping with and neither should you. Don’t waste your time on that shit. You’re turning into a gossipy old woman along with everything else. This new solicitor needs to know how to argue and how to pick holes in contracts, that’s all any of ’em are good for.”
“Duly noted,” Nate says with a withering expression. “A few more things I want to mention—Kingsolver’s planning a dinner party around you on Friday and if you’re bringing a guest I’ll need to know her name. Next, but not necessarily in order of importance, there’s the matter of every media outlet in the civilized world clamoring for a statement about your impromptu performance at the Icon show. So far they’ve all been turned down. Subject to change, of course.”