J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

I took his hand and drew him into his hotel room, trailing my blouse along the floor like a feather boa. As Wendell came out onto his balcony, I was in the process of closing the sliding glass door behind us. “Why don’t you relax while I clean myself up. Then I can bring a little soap and warm water and we’ll clean you up, too. Would you like that?”

“You mean just lie down like this?”

“You always make whoopee with your shoes on, honeybun? Why don’t you take them old Bermuda shorts off while you’re at it. I have to take care of a little something in the other room, and then I’ll be right out. I want you ready now, you hear? Then I’ll blow out that big old candle of yours.”

The guy was unlacing one sturdy black business shoe, which he pulled off and tossed, peeling off a black nylon sock in haste. He looked like somebody’s nice, short, fat granddaddy. Also like a five-year-old, prepared to cooperate if there was a cookie in the offing. I could hear Renata, in the next room, begin to shriek. Then Wendell’s voice thundered, his words indistinguishable.

I gave my friend a little finger wave. “Be right back,” I sang. I sashayed toward the bathroom, where I set his eyeglasses by the basin, then leaned over and turned on the faucet. Cold water gushed out with a vigorous splashing that masked all other sounds. I shrugged into my blouse, eased over to the door, and went out into the hall, closing the door behind me with care. My heart was thudding, and I felt the cold air in the corridor wash across my bare skin. I moved swiftly to my room, pulled my key out of my pants pocket and jammed it in the keyhole, turned it, opened the door, and shut it behind me. I slid the burglar chain into place and stood there for a moment, my back to the door, pulse racing while I rebuttoned my blouse as quickly as I could. I felt an involuntary shiver run down my frame from head to toe. I don’t know how hookers do it. Yuck.

I crossed to the balcony and closed my sliding glass door, which I locked with a snap. I pulled the drapes and then I moved back to the door and looked out through the spyhole. The old drunk was now standing halfway out in the hallway. Mr. Magoo-like, he peered right, squinting without his glasses. He was still in his shorts, one sock off and one sock on. He’d begun to eye my door with interest. Suddenly I wondered if the man was as drunk as he’d first appeared. He glanced around casually, making sure he couldn’t be observed, and then he moved over to my fish-eye and tried to peer in. I pulled back instinctively and held my breath. I knew he couldn’t see me. From his side it must have been like looking down the wrong end of a telescope.

He gave a shy little knock. “Miss? You in there?”

He placed his eye against the spyhole again, blocking the little circle of light from the hallway. I swear I could smell his breath through the wood. I saw light in the fish-eye again, and I approached with care, pressing my eye to the tiny circle so I could peer out at him. He had backed up and was looking down the hall again with uncertainty. He moved to my left, and after a moment I heard his door close with a thunk.

I tiptoed over to the sliding glass and took a position just to the left, my back against the wall as I peered out. Suddenly…slyly …the top portion of the old guy’s head appeared as he craned around the wall between his balcony and mine, trying to get a glimpse into my darkened room. “Ooo-whooo,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s me. Is it time to party yet?”

This guy’s blood was up. It wouldn’t be long before he’d paw the ground and snort.

I held myself motionless and waited him out. After a moment he withdrew. Ten seconds later my telephone rang, a room-to-room call, if you really want my guess. I let it ring endlessly while I felt my way into the bathroom and brushed my teeth in the dark. I fumbled back toward the bed, peeled my clothes off, and laid them on the chair. I didn’t dare leave my room. I couldn’t read because I didn’t want to risk turning on the light. In the meantime, I was so wired I thought my hair might be standing straight up on end. I finally tiptoed to the mini-bar and extracted two small bottles of gin and some orange juice. I sat up in bed and sipped screwdrivers until I felt myself getting sleepy.

When I emerged in the morning, the drunk’s door was shut with a DO NOT DISTURB tag hung over the knob. Wendell’s door was standing open and the room was empty. The same cart was parked in the corridor between rooms. I peered in and caught sight of the same maid patiently damp-mopping the tile floor. She set the mop aside, leaning it against the wall near the bathroom while she picked up the wastebasket and carried it into the hall.

“¿Dónde están?” I said, hoping that I was saying “Where are they?”