The Consummata (9 page)

Already the thing was almost put over. The taxi cut through the streets, heading toward the western section of town, and for some reason I got that funny feeling again. A long time ago I learned not to ignore it—a tightness at the back of my neck, and a clammy feeling there, my jaws clamped so tight, any more pressure would chip my teeth.

It wasn’t intuition. Not exactly. And it wasn’t fear or nervousness. It was just this
thing
that had become my best friend.

Call it instinct, or maybe luck again, whispering in my ear like a tender lover.

I said, “Pull over at the corner.”

The driver nodded and began slowing down, edging toward the curb.

Tami looked at me curiously and said, “But we’re not near the Amherst Hotel yet.”

“I know. But I get out here.”

“That is
not
the plan.”

“I
know
, kid. But I get out here—okay?”

She swallowed. Nodded. “What about the clothes?”

Even while she was saying it, I was busy shucking off the coat and pants that had been liberated off the doped-up politician. I got into the stuff Gaita had bought for me, the same gray jacket, black sport shirt and gray slacks, and I made sure the .45 was in place in my waistband.

Then I told the driver to take Tami and his heap back to where he had picked us up.

The hooker’s face in the rear window was tense with worry, her fingers splayed against the glass. I blew her a kiss that got a tiny smile out of her.

Then I walked the other eight blocks.

As I came around the corner, I got a great view of a pyrotechnics display that must have rivaled anything Miami pulled off on July Fourth.

I flinched, but that was all, as I watched the nearest side of the Hotel Amherst blow apart in a shower of brick and glass that decorated a huge orange ball of flame and billows of charcoal smoke.

Cars screeched to a stop, some pedestrians froze and screamed and others ran and yelled, and I moved through them toward the hotel like a sleepwalker, stepping over burning rubble. Sirens were just kicking in as I entered the building.

Not much later, I learned that four people had died in the explosion, and that room 409—where I had reservations under the name of R. Sinclair—had disintegrated.

What the hell. I decided to check in, anyway.

Surely they had other rooms available.

The lobby had only the faintest tinge of smoke, the explosion happening several floors up and on the other side of the building.

I had to stand in line behind flustered, frightened guests who were hurriedly checking out, businessmen mostly but a few couples, hauling their own luggage. I carried an empty suitcase that had contained the change of clothes I was wearing now. The process was slow, because a guest inventory was under way, which would be tricky to execute, because anybody who happened to be out for the evening would start out on the M.I.A. list.

A frazzled-looking group of guests who apparently hadn’t decided to check out (at least not yet), some in bathrobes, all with wild eyes, were clustered among the plump chairs and potted ferns while a female hotel staffer threaded through, checking their names off a list.

The missing would not include the Mr. Sinclair who was supposed to have occupied the room, because he hadn’t checked in yet. And nobody would blame him, either, for taking one look at the smoke-bleeding Hotel Amherst and turning around to go looking for another place to stay.

Checking in, I of course did not use the name R. Sinclair.

I took a room on the first floor under H. Moran, figuring if anybody really wanted to find me, the initials and the
Morgan-Moran similarity would make it easy for them— friend or foe. After all, why hide?

Somebody had been on to our arrangements. Somebody knew what time I was expected to check in, and had made all the preparations for my arrival, and they hadn’t left a fruit basket. Firemen were moving through the lobby, their chatter indicating they were processing an apparent gas explosion. But I figured it was a time bomb set-up.

The firefighters let it slip, as they spoke among themselves, that so far four bodies had been located. Four people dead, casually murdered, in the failed attempt to remove me. Collateral damage, the military called it. I wouldn’t forget that four strangers lost their lives for my sake. They hadn’t done so willingly, their sacrifice had been thrust upon them, but I would avenge them just the same.

The owner of the place, a small bald mustached fellow with a calm his staffers might well envy, had taken over the desk.

“As you can see, Mr. Moran,” he said with admirable professionalism, “we are mostly checking guests
out
, not in. Are you quite certain you want to stay with us? I have no way to tell what kind of inconveniences you may face.”

“Have the fire department boys said you have to shut down? That you’re not to take any new guests?”

“Well, no....”

“Then I’m going to assume my money is as good as the next guy’s.”

I said that in a friendly way, and his smile was friendly back at me.

“You’re welcome to stay with us, though I can’t imagine
why under these circumstances you would want to.”

But I was already signing in. “Hell, friend, I’ll see worse places tomorrow.”

“Really?” Just a polite response, but with some curiosity in it, too.

“Yeah. My business is snatching up crappy blocks of buildings for a song, and then holding them until the government shells out for urban renewal projects. This is the closest lodging to where I want to prowl around.”

That was enough to get his attention, and explain my unlikely preference for this hotel. He’d remember my cover story, I knew, because I noted his shrewd look as he studied me.
Maybe
he
could be part of the next buying parcel
, he was thinking.

I was almost home free, but a fire inspector—he wore a fireman’s helmet and a plainclothes cop’s business suit— caught the tail end of me checking in, and came over to give me a hard time.

“You don’t want to be checking in here,” he said. He was big and blond and about fifty, with shaggy eyebrows as out of control as the worst fire he ever investigated.

“Actually, I do,” I said. “I have business near here tomorrow, and there are plenty of undamaged rooms available, well away from what you fellas are looking into.”

He said he thought I was nuts, and called over a tall, thin cop he called Homer. They talked about me while I stood there placidly, hoping nobody asked me for the I.D. I didn’t have, and that the .45 in my waistband under the gray sport jacket wasn’t bulging at all.

Then the fire inspector trotted off to handle something more important, while Homer the cop said in a high, husky voice, “Buddy, this place is liable to be closed officially pretty soon.”

“Tonight?”

“No, but by tomorrow maybe.”

I picked up my empty suitcase and looked at him. “Friend,” I said, “where else is there around here to go right now?”

“Sir....” His voice was pleasant. Too damn pleasant. “There are
plenty
of other hotels.”

“In season and right now, without reservations?”

“So maybe you’ll have to look around a little.”

“How much got busted out by the blast?”

“Quite a bit.”

“But not in the wing I’m in.” I gave him a big boys-will-beboys grin. “Come on, buddy—during the war I was shacked up with a broad in a London flat, and we never stopped going at it, even when the apartment house took a direct hit.”

The cop let out a half-grudging grunt of appreciation and said, “Awright—suit yourself, mister. I just wanted to warn you what you might be getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m dead on my feet and need to hit the rack. I probably won’t be around that long.”

But the cop was already wandering off, forgetting all about me.

So I sat in the room with the .45 in my lap and looked out the window, watching the reflections of nighttime Miami on the overcast sky, a small section of Miami Beach in the far
background. Down on the street, the curious still milled and two construction trucks were pulling up to the curb to join the fire wagons. Across from the hotel, local TV mobile units had finished their pictures for the late news show and were packing away their gear.

I got up and went over to the bed and sat on its edge, put the .45 on the nightstand, picked up the phone, and dialed a number, and when a familiar voice answered, I said, “Hello, Bunny.”

“Morgan?”

“That’s right. You sound surprised to hear my voice.”

Maybe she’d put out
another
contract on her old friend....

“How’d you get this number?”

“I got sharp eyes, kid. I read the dial on your phone on your desk.”

Her voice was low and tremulous—for a cool customer, she was off her game.

“God, Morgan,” she said, “I
heard
what happened.”

“Who from?”

“It’s all over the radio and TV.”

“Ah.”

She didn’t say anything for a second, then: “I know what you must be thinking.”

“Sure. You hate somebody long enough, given the opportunity, you’ll kill him. It’s a logical assumption.”

“You can’t
really
think I set you up....”

“Possibilities are possibilities, Bunny. It doesn’t suit your style, but I’d still like to hear you say it.”

She gave me that throaty laugh. “I’m glad you think me
still capable, big boy, but I’ll say it. It wasn’t me. Not even a little bit....that good enough for you?”

“Good enough, Bunny.”

“That’s all it takes? Just me saying it?”

“Why not? I can always tell if a broad is lying to me. I spent a lot of years honing this bullshit detector.”

“What if I’ve perfected
my
technique,” she said, something light in her tone now. “Maybe you
can’t
tell.”

“You’re a broad, aren’t you?”

“I was at my last physical.”

“Then you’re not lying. But if I were you, I’d try checking around the homestead. Look under a bed or two. Maybe you don’t run as tight a ship over at the Club Mandor as you think.”

“You’re laying this on my doorstep?”

“I just figure maybe somebody has a big mouth over there.

I don’t like being made a patsy.”

She sighed. “Way ahead of you, Morgan. I’ve already started things rolling. Where are you calling from?”

“Come on, Bunny,” I said. “I’m not
that
confident in my bullshit detector.”

I hung up without a goodbye, and went back to the window again, plopped in the comfortable chair, staring out of the darkness into the hazy lights of the city.

Somebody out there wants me dead
, I thought.
Hell, maybe several somebodies.

The bellboy who brought in the quartet of cold bottled beers folded the five spot into his pocket with a big grin. He seemed glad to have somebody to tell about all the
excitement in the other wing. His accent said he was probably not born here, but he spoke English just fine. Another Cuban, maybe.

On the face of it, the “accident” seemed simple enough— 409 was a small suite with a kitchenette that contained a refrigerator, sink, and two-burner gas range. The last person who occupied it had been a middle-aged woman and her dog, five days ago. Assumption was, the maid who cleaned the place had accidentally turned on one of the jets, and the pilot light triggered the explosion.

I said, “Don’t they check the rooms every day?”

The bellboy shrugged and shook his head. “This is not the Fontainebleau,
señor
. The room was clean, so why bother again,
si
?”

“Downstairs, I overheard somebody saying a guest was due to check into that room tonight.”

“Yes, and he was a lucky person, that one.”

“Sure as hell was.” I popped open a bottle of beer and tasted it. “Things quieted down over there yet?”

“The hall, it is being cleaned up. I hear they will investigate more, tomorrow, the firemen and the police. But why do they bother?”

“What do you mean, kid?”

He shrugged. “This building is slowly and surely falling apart. One day they will have to close it entirely.”

I nodded and tried the beer again. “I’d like to get over there and take a gander myself.”

He frowned, shook his head. “No one is to go there,
señor
.”

“For five bucks, I bet somebody could.”

No frown now.

“For ten bucks,
señor
, I
know
somebody could.”

The firefighters were long gone. The fire inspector had found more important things to inspect. A single ancient porter shoveling cracked plaster into a trash can was the sole occupant of the corridor. The guests had been transferred to other rooms on other floors, and temporary barricades had been set up at either end of the hall to keep the curious away.

That old Mexican guy with the broom and dustpan didn’t even bother to look up when we arrived on the scene. When he had the trash can filled, he wheeled it away, as if cleaning up after exploding rooms was a common everyday occurrence around the Amherst.

Hell, maybe it was.

The split door to 409 hung on a loose hinge, still in position only because an L bend had diverted the force of the blast. Inside, nothing was left at all. Smoke still drifted, and water from fire hoses pooled like remnants of a bad indoor storm. The floor hadn’t given way, but had been shattered, turned into an expanse of rubble; the ceiling had been ripped apart, exposing twisted, dry beams and only a hole remained where the outside wall had been, letting cool night in. Mattress stuffing was scattered around like moist confetti with barely recognizable fragments of what had been furniture.

Had a man been in there when the explosion occurred— me, for instance—all that would have been left of him would be colorful dabs of red to liven up the joint.

A small alcove had held the kitchen components, but was
relatively undamaged. The stove was there all right, an ancient thing whose knobs were so grease-laden, it took a hard twist to open them.

I let the small beam of a borrowed flashlight play around the remains a minute longer, then said, “The cops or firemen haul anything out of here?”