Weekend (6 page)

The bowery building had never been his favorite place. It was a seedy apartment house a half mile down the highway from the Congress, an eyesore if ever there was one. The Goldens had tried for years to buy up the property but for some reason, the owners refused to sell.

“They said they had to go there because Tony the Chinaman, their roommate, was so sick they couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him.”

“Well, Tony’s in the hospital now and they can go back. What’s the problem?”

“They asked Margret to clean up their room and she refuses. Says she’s only paid to clean the dungeon once a week, she did it five days ago, and they can go fuck themselves.”

“And the President of the United States thinks he has problems.”

“The guys say they’ll quit if she doesn’t and I figured you didn’t want to have to go looking for more dishwashers on the July fourth weekend.”

“You’re right, Domingo. Good thinking.” He turned his attention to the fracas.

“All right, hey Margret, HEY!”

She turned away from the dishwashers as soon as she saw who it was, but the Puerto Ricans continued to argue as though she were still there.

“Let them clean their own mess,” she said to Halloran.

“It’s not really their mess,” Domingo interceded. “That’s their complaint.”

“What kind of mess are we talking about?”

“You heard how sick Tony was … throwing up and shitting all over the place.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So the place stinks. They say there’s filthy stuff and crap all over. I don’t want to go in there.”

Halloran stepped back and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was beginning to get hot. He took Margret’s arm and pulled her a few feet away.

“Where are you taking me? I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not taking you anywhere. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

She put her hands on her hips defiantly as she shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Her gargantuan breasts that had so amazed Sandi jiggled suggestively and for a moment Halloran lost his train of thought.

“Put your eyes back in,” she said directly to his face. Margret Thomas was not one to be put out by authority.

He turned red. “Look,” he said quickly. “I don’t need more aggravation today. Clean their fuckin’ room and I’ll put you in for a whole day of overtime.”

“A whole day?” She relaxed her stance. “You ain’t shittin’ me now, are you?”

“Would I shit you?” He laughed, knowing full well what he’d really like to do to her. “A whole day. But keep it to yourself. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”

“One day’s pay. That’s a deal.” She turned and walked quickly back to the dungeon. The Puerto Ricans quieted down and things appeared to get back to normal.

Halloran walked over to Domingo. “I think everything’s under control now. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Hear anything about Tony?”

“Who’s had a chance to check? I’ll try to find something out when I get back to the office.” With that he turned and walked away.

Once inside the dungeon, Margret Thomas filled a pail of water and shook in a generous portion of cleanser. She was happy with herself. Usually she hated to work in the help’s quarters … no tips or extra-friendly guests … but to earn an entire day’s pay for cleaning just one room …

Tony’s rommates stood in the hall watching as she kicked the bent-in aluminum pail set on small wooden rollers. They squeaked over the rough cement floor. Everything about the interior of the dungeon was ugly. The hall walls consisted of naked sheet rock spotted with graffitti in foreign languages, blotchy streaks of dirt, stains from spoiled food and wine, even heel stains resulting from kicks of anger and frustration. Margret turned back and gave Tony’s jeering roommates the finger. Then she pushed open the door of their room. The stench drove her back against the wall.

Never in all her twenty years as a chambermaid had she seen anything like it. Towels, spotted with vomit and excrement, the linen and blankets overflowing with it, and smelly crumpled drippings along the walls. Her stomach turned and she thought she, herself, would heave. When she looked back inside, she saw roaches crawling across the floor, feeding off the blotched linoleum.

She considered forgetting the whole thing. Then she thought about the money. She could do it quickly. She would do it quickly. Pushing the pail further inside, she hurried through the door and began to gather up the soiled towels, holding her breath and cursing as she worked.

“Son of a bitch,” Manny Goldberg said, pounding on the top of his steering wheel. “I gotta drive outta New York, fight the fucking traffic all the way, just to get to the front of this hotel and wait bumper to bumper to get in.” He rolled his window further down and stuck out his head. “Move your ass,” he screamed.

“Manny, for godsakes, calm down,” his wife said, poking him in the ribs for emphasis.

“For the prices they charge around here, the least they can do is give some service.”

“Which doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot.” Flo turned the rear view mirror toward her face to check out her new permanent wave. The ride up had been hard on everything, her hair, her makeup and especially their tempers.

“Will you please leave that mirror alone? I’ve told you a million times not to twist it like that. Whenever I have to check out the rear, you have it so out of place I can’t see a damn thing behind me.”

“It’s your own fault. I’ve asked you a hundred times to put a vanity mirror behind the sun visor.”

“This is a car, dammit, not a ladies’ room.” He sat back and manipulated a thick Monte Cristo from his shirt pocket. Though not exactly a short man, he was a good twenty-five pounds overweight, far from the sex symbol he imagined himself to be. His cheeks were bloated and the sweat had already accumulated under his armpits and around the confines of his collar. He stuck the cigar lasciviously in his mouth, chomping off the end in the process. Flo turned away in revulsion.

They were not unlike many other couples who frequented the Catskills, each indulging in extramarital affairs and pretending the other didn’t know. He had married into her father’s garment business and, along with his brother-in-law, had eventually taken over. Now he was trying to explain to Flo that it might soon be all his.

“Why,” she asked,” “would Mike want to sell out his share, especially now when the business is doing so well?”

“I told you. He’s heavily in debt and he needs money fast. He’s desperate for someone to bail him out so, if in return for his stock I can get him the cash he needs by Tuesday morning. …”

He exhaled a mouthful of smoke in her direction. It amazed her to realize how much she had once been attracted to him. He was a raw animal in those days, an animal she could never get enough of. But lately, the base sensuality was beginning to border on brutality. Both in and out of bed, she found herself growing more and more afraid of him.

She sorely needed a respite from their day-to-day life together. Thank God for places like the Congress!

“I don’t understand,” Manny said, finally pulling up to the security booth, “why you shmucks can’t figure out another system. It’s like the Long Island Expressway here on a Friday afternoon.”

“I need your name, sir,” the guard said, impervious to the insult.

“Shit! No, I mean Goldberg. Like in Manny Goldberg.”

The guard checked his list. “Of course, Mr. Goldberg. We’ve been expecting you. Just follow those cars to your right.” He pointed as he spoke.

“You think this is my first time here? Save your breath for the suckers behind me.”

“Can’t you be a little more gracious?” Flo suggested. “The man’s only doing his job. Someday you might appreciate their security system.”

“The only thing I’ll appreciate now is a cool Tom Collins.”

“You’re not going straight to the bar, are you?”

“Look,” Manny said, pulling up to the front entrance, “this is a vacation, remember? We’re supposed to have a good time and right now, for me a good time means getting a drink.”

“The luggage’s in the trunk,” he said, handing the keys to the carhop. “I’ll be back before you get your room key.” He left her steaming and went on his way.

Flo slipped out of her seat carefully and pressed down the sides of her dress. Then she began to look over the young bellhops.

“Right this way, ma’am,” the kid with her luggage said. She followed him through the main entrance. Manny was already out of sight. “I’ll just leave your stuff here on the side until you get your room assignment. My name’s Jack and I’ll be here whenever you need me.”

That’s good to know, she thought. It may be sooner than he thinks. “Oh,” she said, spotting the hotel’s security chief near the reservations desk. “There’s Rafferty. Rafferty,” she shouted above the crowd, “It’s me, Flo Goldberg.”

Vince Rafferty excused himself and started across the lobby. The tall ex-New York City cop had recognized her immediately. He couldn’t help remembering the last time in the Robin’s Nest cottage three years ago.

“You’re my first Irishman,” she had told him. “And to think I thought the Irish only had freckles on their face.” She had done things to him he thought Jewish women never did and he’d looked forward to an encore the next time she came up, but that time she chose a Greek bartender instead. Well, maybe this year, he thought, though he had also heard last time around that she had taken a shine to Billy Marcus, the young bellhop from Penn State. He wondered. Was he getting too old?

“Hi, Flo,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Where’s your number one?”

“In the bar as usual, fortifying himself. Raff, I think I’m going to need your service.” She looked at him in such a way he wasn’t sure whether there was a double entendre in her choice of words or not.

“I brought a lot of jewelry up this time. We made a killing on the stock market.” Rafferty nodded, saddened that there was no entendre at all.

“You want a safe deposit box, then?”

“I think it’s a good idea, don’t you? I know you’ve never had trouble here with stealing, but I guess one can never be too careful.”

“And you probably brought up more than you can wear.”

“You’ve been around here too long. You’re beginning to sound more and more like my husband. Tell me,” her voice softened, “how’ve you been, really?”

“No complaints. Getting older day by day but so far no ladies have checked out on my account.” The buttons of his shirt strained as his shoulders stretched the garment. Flo let her eyes fall quickly, then slowly rise again.

“I’ll bet.”

“Why bet? Find out for yourself?”

“I just might do that. Take care of my valuables for me?”

“Anytime,” he said. “C’mon, I’ll get you on the express line.”

∗ ∗ ∗

“The first thing I’ve got to do once we get to the room is shower. I’m all icky from the trip. Look how my clothes are sticking to me.” Melinda practically stepped on the bellhop’s foot as she pulled the V-neck portion of her blouse further out and blew air down her cleavage. Grant lingered behind until they got to the elevator, at which point he caught up quickly and sulked in the far corner. He had his hands in his pockets and glared angrily at the floor. He knew exactly what the bellhop was thinking. From now on, whenever they’d walk through the lobby, there’d be looks and remarks and his mother would smile stupidly and wiggle her ass.

“Yeah, it’s a hot Fourth,” the bellhop said, as she rubbed against him not altogether ingenuously in the crowded elevator. Grant squeezed his fingers tight against his palms. The elevator ride was gratefully short and they followed the boy to their suite.

“Just put those suitcases on the rack, sweetie,” she told him, pointing toward the open double closet to her left. It was a gigantic walk-in model, almost as large as the bedrooms in some of the newer high-rise luxury apartments in Manhattan. The bellhop moved slowly, enjoying the way she moved around to open the drapes and inspect the furnishings in her room and Grant’s. Her tight red skirt clearly outlined the well-shaped behind and the way she wiggled it left little to the imagination. Nonchalantly, she unbuttoned a button on her blouse.

“Don’t you just feel like walking barefoot on these rugs?” she said as she shook off her heels. The thick brown nylon pile carpet would be good for more than wading in without shoes, it occurred to her. Her eyes moved critically over the large antique end tables and dressers covered with Carrara marble. Whoever had decorated the room had exquisite taste, she was glad to see. The powers that be at the Plaza and Waldorf could certainly learn something from the Congress.

She walked around to the queen-size bed, wondering if she could possibly get away with stealing the elegant comforter for her bedroom at home. Her hands rubbed sensually over the rich brass headboard. Without giving it a thought, and much to Grant’s embarrassment, she began to bounce up and down on the mattress, letting her skirt rise well above her knees. “Not like those roadside motel numbers,” she said, giving it the Melinda Kaplan seal of approval. “Not that I really know,” she giggled. She fluttered her eyes coyly at the bellhop who she knew was enjoying every minute.

Her jumping had caused another button to become undone on her purple shantung blouse. With her bra nearly exposed, she went for her purse. She hesitated a moment, catching her own image in the wide mirror above the small vanity table to her right. “God, I really do need a shower!”

“Here you go,” she said, holding two dollars out with her hand while the other brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder.

If only they were alone. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the bills, at which point she turned, unbuttoned what was left of her blouse, and headed for the bathroom. Before she could close the door, he saw the remaining clothes peel off her body and drop to the floor. When he stepped out in the hall, he leaned against the corridor and prayed his hard-on would disappear as fast as it came. Room 1465. He made a mental note. He’d have to figure out a way to get back at some point when that gawky kid was out of the way.

Grant didn’t move from the couch the whole time she showered. He stared up at the pale white ceiling and tried to understand why it annoyed him so that she was so damned attractive. Sometimes he wished she’d cut her face with glass and get a terrible scar. Even his father admitted she was still beautiful. “One thing I’ve got to say for her, Grant, is that she keeps her figure 100 percent. She’s some piece of ass, your mother is.”