Back Spin (1997) (4 page)

Theme rooms. Myron didn't even want to know. The last line, back in the green big print: ASK ABOUT OUR FREQUENT

VISITORS CLUB. Jesus.

Myron wondered if it was worth a shot and decided, why not? It probably wouldn't lead to anything, but if Chad was hiding out or even if he'd been kidnapped a motel was as good a place as any to disappear.

He parked in the lot. The Court Manor was a textbook two level dump. The outer stairs and walkway terraces were made of rotting wood. The cement walls had that unfinished, swirling look that could cut your hand if you leaned against it wrong. Small chunks of concrete lay on the ground. An unplugged Pepsi machine guarded the door like one of the Queen's guards. Myron passed it and entered.

He'd expected to find the standard motel lobby interior that is, an unshaven Neanderthal in a sleeveless, too-short undershirt chewing on a toothpick while sitting behind bullet-proof glass burping up a beer. Or something like that. But that was not the case. The Court Manor Inn had a high wooden desk with a bronze sign reading CONCIERGE on top of it. Myron tried not to snicker. Behind the desk, a well-groomed, baby-faced man in his late twenties stood at attention. He wore a pressed shirt, starched collar, dark tie tied in a perfect Windsor knot. He smiled at Myron.

"Good aftemoon, sir!" he exclaimed. He looked and sounded like a John Tesh substitute on Entertainment Weekly. "Welcome to the Court Manor Inn!"

"Yeah," Myron said. "Hi."

"May I be of some service to you today, sir?"

"I hope so."

' 'Great! My name is Stuart Lipwitz. I'm the new manager of the Court Manor Inn." He looked at Myron expectantly.

Myron said, "Congrats."

"Well, thank you, sir, that's very kind. If there are any problems if anything at the Court Manor does not meet '

your expectations please let me know immediately. I

will handle it personally." Big smile, puifed-out chest.

"At the Court Manor, we guarantee your satisfaction."

Myron just looked at him for a minute, waiting for the ;

full-wattage smile to dim a bit. It didn't. Myron took out the photograph of Chad Coldren.

"Have you seen this young man?"

Stuart Lipwitz did not even look down. Still smiling, he said, "I'm sorry, sir. But are you with the police?" _

"No."

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm very sorry."

"Pardon me?"

"l'm sorry, sir, but here at the Court Manor Inn we pride ourselves on our discretion."

"He's not in any trouble," Myron said. "I'm not a private eye trying to catch a cheating husband or anything like that."

The smile did not falter or sway. "I'm sorry, sir, but this is the Court Manor Inn. Our clientele use our services for a variety of activities and often crave anonymity. We at the Court Manor Inn must respect that."

Myron studied the man's face, searching for some signal that this was a put-on. Nothing. His whole persona glowed like a performer in an Up with People halftime show. Myron leaned over the desk and checked out the shoes. Polished like twin mirrors. The hair was slicked back. The sparkle in the eye looked real.

It took Myron some time, but he finally saw where this was leading. He took out his wallet and plucked a twenty from the billfold. He slid it across the counter. Stuart Lipwitz looked at it but made no move.

"What's this for, sir'?"

"It's a present," Myron said.

Stuart Lipwitz did not touch it.

"It's for one piece of information," Myron continued.

He plucked out another and held it in the air. "I have another, if you'd like."

"Sir, we have a credo here at the Court Manor Inn:

The guest must come first."

"Isn't that a prostitute's credo?"

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Never mind," Myron said.

"I am the new manager of the Court Manor Inn, sir."

"So I've heard."

"I also own ten percent."

"Your mom must be the envy of her mah-jongg group." .

Still the smile. "In other words, sir, I am in it for the long term. That's how I look at this business. Long term.

Not just today. Not just tomorrow. But into the future. For the long term. You see?"

"Oh," Myron said flatly. "You mean long term?"

Stuart Lipwitz snapped his fingers. "Precisely. And our motto is this: There are many places you can spend your adultery dollar. We want it to be here."

Myron waited a moment. Then he said, "Noble."

"We at the Court Manor Inn are working hard to eam your trust, and trust has no price. When I wake up in the morning, I have to look at myself in the mirror."

"Would that mirror be on the ceiling?" `

Still smiling. "Let me explain it another way," he said. "If the client knows that the Court Manor Inn is a place he can feel safe to commit an indiscretion, he or she will be more likely to retum." He leaned forward, his eyes wet with excitement. "Do you see?"

Myron nodded. "Repeat business."

"Precisely."

"Referrals too," Myron added. "Like, 'Hey, Bob, I

l know a great place to get some ass on the side.' "

A nod added to the smile. "So you understand."

"That's all very nice, Stuart, but this kid is fifteen years old. Fifteen." Actually, Chad was sixteen, but what the hey. "That's against the law."

The smile stayed, but now it signaled disappointment in the favorite pupil. "I hate to disagree with you, sir, but the statutory rape law in this state is fourteen. And secondly, there is no law against a fifteen-year-old renting a motel room."

The guy was dancing too much, Myron thought. No reason to go through this rigmarole if the kid had never been here. Then again, let's face facts. Stuart Lipwitz was probably enjoying this. The guy was several french fries short of a Happy Meal. Either way, Myron thought, it was time to shake the tree a bit.

"lt is when he is assaulted in your motel," Myron said. "It is when he claims that someone got an extra key from the front desk and used it to break into the room."

Mr. Bluff Goes to Philadelphia.

"We don't have extra keys," Lipwitz said.

"Well, he got in somehow."

Still the smile. Still the polite tone. "If that were the case, sir, the police would be here."

"That's my next stop," Myron said, "if you don't cooperate."

' 'And you want to know if this young man' ' Lipwitz gestured to the photograph of Chad- "stayed here?"

"Yes."

The smile actually brightened a bit. Myron almost shaded his eyes. "But, sir, if you are telling the truth, then this young man would be able to tell if he was here. You wouldn't need me for that, correct?"

Myron's face remained neutral. Mr. Bluff had just been outsmarted by the new manager of the Court Manor lun. "That's right," he said, changing tactics on the fly.

"I already know he was here. It was just an opening question. Like when the police ask you to state your name even though they already know it. Just to get the ball rolling." Mr. Improvision Takes Over for Mr. Bluff Stuart Lipwitz took out a piece of paper and began to scribble. "This is the name and telephone number of the Court Manor Inn's attomey. He will be able to help you with any problems you may have."

"But what about that handling it personally stuff?

What about the satisfaction guarantee?"

"Sir." He leaned forward, maintaining eye contact.

Not a hint of impatience had crept into his voice or face.

"May I be bold?"

"Go for it."

"I don't believe a word you're saying."

"Thanks for the boldness," Myron said.

"No, thank you, sir. And do come again."

"Another prostitution credo."

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing," Myron said. "May I too be bold?"

"Yes."

"I may punch you in the face very hard if you don't tell me if you've seen this kid." Mr. Improvisation Loses His Cool.

The door swung open hard. A couple entwined about one another stumbled in. The woman was openly rubbing the man's crotch. "We need a room pronto," the man said.

Myron turned to them and said, "Do you have your frequent visitor card?"

"What?" .

Still the smile from Smart Lipwitz. "Good-bye, sir.

And have a nice day." Then he rejuvenated the smile and moved toward the writhing mound. "Welcome to the Court Manor Inn. My name is Smart Lipwitz. I'm the new manager."

Myron headed out to his car. He took a deep breath in the parking lot and looked back behind him. The whole visit already had an unreal feeling, like one of those descriptions of alien abductions sans the anal probe. He got in the car and dialed Win's cellular. He just wanted to leave him a message on the machine. But to Myron's surprise, Win answered.

"Articulate," he drolled.

Myron was momentarily taken aback. "It's me," he said. .

Silence. Win hated the obvious. "It's me," was both questionable grammar (at best) and a complete waste.

Win would know who it was by the voice. If he didn't, hearing "It's me" would undeniably not help.

"I thought you didn't answer the phone on the course," Myron said.

"I'm driving home to change," Win said. "Then I'm dining at Merion." Mainliners never ate; they dined.

"Care to join me?"

"Sounds good," Myron said.

"Wait a second."

"What'?"

"Are you properly attired?"

"I don't clash," Myron said. "Will they still let me in?"

"My, my, that was very funny, Myron. I must write that one down. As soon as I stop laughing, I plan on locating a pen. However, I am so filled with mirth that I

may wrap my precious Jag around an upcoming telephone pole. Alas, at least I will die with jocularity in my heart."

Win.

"We have a case," Myron said.

Silence. Win made this so easy.

"I'll tell you about it at dinner."

"Until then," Win said, "it'll be all I can do to douse my mounting excitement and anticipation with a snifter of cognac."

Click. Gotta love that Win.

Myron hadn't driven a mile when the cellular phone rang. Myron switched it on.

It was Bucky. "The kidnapper called again."

Chapter
4

"What did he say?" Myron asked.

"They want money," Bucky said.

"How much?"

"I don't know."

Myron was confused. "What do you mean, you don't know? Didn't they say?"

"I don't think so," the old man said.

There was noise in the background. "Where are you?" Myron asked.

"I'm at Merion. Look, Jack answered the phone. He's still in shock."

"Jack answered?"

"Yes."

Doubly confused. "The kidnapper called Jack at Merion?"

"Yes. Please, Myron, can you get back over here? It'll be easier to explain."

"On my way."

He drove from the seedy motel to a highway and then into green. Lots of green. The Philadelphia suburbs were lush lawns and high bushes and shady trees. Amazing how close it was at least in a geographic sense to the meaner streets of Philly. Like most cities, there was tremendous segregation in Philadelphia. Myron remembered driving with Win to Veterans Stadium for an Eagles game a couple of years back. They'd gone through an Italian block, a Polish block, an African American block; it was as if some powerful, invisible force field again, like on Scar Trek isolated each ethnicity. The City of Brotherly Love could almost be called Little Yugoslavia.

Myron turned down Ardmore Avenue. Merion was about a mile away. His thoughts turned to Win. How, he wondered, would his old friend react to the maternal connection in this case?

Probably not well.

In all the years they had been friends, Myron had heard Win mention his mother on only one occasion.

It had been during their junior year at Duke. They were college roommates, just back from a wild frat party.

The beer had flowed. Myron was not what you'd call a good drinker. Two drinks and he'd usually end up trying to French-kiss a toaster. He blamed this on his ancestryhis people had never handled spirits well.

Win, on the other hand, seemed to have been weaned on schnapps. Liquor never really affected him much. But at this particular party, the grain alcohol laced punch made even his steps wobble a bit. It took Win three tries to unlock their dorm room door.

Myron quickly collapsed on his bed. The ceiling spun counterclockwise at a seemingly death-defying speed. He closed his eyes. His hands gripped the bed and held on in terror. His face had no color. Nausea clamped down painfully on his stomach. Myron wondered when he would vomit and prayed it would be soon.