Shriver (20 page)

Another round appeared on the table. “Gratis,” the waitress said before slinking away. The whiskey charged down his gullet and thudded into his belly. A warm chill spread out toward his extremities. Smoke-shrouded specters moved around the bar, murmuring.

“So Keaudeen didn't make a move on you?” Delta asked.

“Yes,
that
happened, but . . .”

“You turned her down?”

“Course I did,” Shriver said, his tongue like a dead thing in his mouth. “I'm drunk.”

“Well,” Delta said, “you may be the first author to escape the jaws of that Venus flytrap.”

More drinks appeared. “Where're theez comin' from?” Shriver asked.

“People keep buying you drinks,” the waitress said, nodding toward the ghosts on the other side of the smoky room. “Fans.”

“But you don' unnerstand,” he said. “I'm not the guy.”

The waitress looked over at Delta, who said, “He's having a slight identity crisis.”

The waitress looked down at Shriver and said, “It's okay. We all have our bad days.”

Then she moved off into the fog. Shriver tried to follow
her figure but she was lost among the spirits there. Over near the bar, his back to the bartender, a tall, dark figure lifted a glass in a toast to Shriver before being engulfed in a cloud of smoke. Shriver wondered if perhaps he had died—when he fell off Simone's car?—and this was some way station on the route to heaven. Or maybe he'd been drained of blood by mosquitoes. But no, the itchy lumps on his hands and face could only mean that he was still earthbound.

“I think I'd better get home,” he said, thinking not of the Hotel 19 but of his cozy apartment, where Mr. Bojangles waited for him by the door. But the distance between this place and there seemed to him unbridgeable, too far to even contemplate. “Lez go,” he mumbled.

He stood and his legs buckled, but Delta held on to him and walked him out to the parking lot. As she poured him into the car, the wind picked up, and a roaring sound filled the air. The mosquitoes, buzzing angrily, were blown away in the maelstrom.

“What on earth?” Shriver said.

From over the rooftops, a helicopter appeared, engine screeching, its floodlights shining down into Shriver's eyes.

Delta climbed in and they screeched out of the lot. Overhead, the copter shuddered and whirred.

“Faster!” Shriver shouted to Delta, convinced now that the black airship was following him.

“I'm trying!” Delta hollered back, but the helicopter remained directly above.

“It's raining!” Shriver cried.

“That's not rain!”

But surely it was rain, he thought, as the wet, oddly scented drops plopped onto his face, and then he saw the moon through the trees, a fat, full, white moon, and stars like the
freckles on Simone's chest all across the sky—except for there, directly above, where the helicopter swooped like a dragon.

The car bumped over a curb and there it was, Hotel 19, appearing particularly ominous now, as if all lit up with people waiting to murder him. Delta slammed on the brake and threw the gearshift into park.

He was unable to speak or move. Battery acid coated the back of his throat. Delta climbed out of the car and went around to the passenger side.

“Let me help you, hon'.”

She took hold of his arm and, with a powerful tug, pulled him from the seat.

“I dun feel so great,” Shriver whimpered.

“No problem. I gotcha.”

She walked him toward the entrance. The hotel sign was a neon blur in the sky. Off to the left he glimpsed a large, familiar dark shape, but he could not decipher it. Meanwhile, mosquitoes leaped about his face—he felt one sting his earlobe—but he didn't care anymore.

“Y' know, I'm nod who y' thing I yam,” he said.

“Yes, sweetie, I know,” Delta said, dragging him toward the entrance.

Unable to keep his increasingly heavy head up, he leaned into her copious bosom for more support.

The automatic doors slid open. The hotel lobby seemed endless, a football field long.

“No, you don' unnerstan',” Shriver said, then he yelled into the lobby: “I'm a imposter!”

“Well, well, well,” someone said from the other side of the room. “Look who's here.”

There, at the end zone, stood a small figure with yellow hair. Shriver squinted.

“S'moh!” he exclaimed, recognizing her now in the haze. He attempted to stand up straight but was unsuccessful, leaning even harder against the pillar of Delta Malarkey-Jones. As they crossed the endless lobby, Simone eyed the big woman suspiciously. Then she turned a pair of laser eyes to Shriver.

Ecstatic that she had come all this way to see him—to hear his apology—Shriver tried to tell her he loved her, but his dry mouth refused to make a sound.

“I think Mr. Shriver needs to get to bed,” Delta said.

Simone's lower lip trembled, but her eyes blazed at Shriver. “Who do you think you are?”

“I dunno,” Shriver answered, then belched.

“You're drunk.”

“No,” he whined, even as he had to lean against Delta just to stay erect.

“I feel so . . . so . . . so
betrayed
,” Simone moaned. Her eyes grew moist, reflecting the harsh lobby lights.

“But, S'moh,” he said. “Tha' woman. Dr. Keau . . . Dr. Keau . . .”

“Oh, I don't give a damn about
that
,” she hissed. “Though it's no surprise to me you'd be so depraved.”

“She s'duced me!”

“I
knew
it!” Delta exclaimed.

“Nothing happened!”

“That's not how it looked to
me
,” Simone said.

Even in his whiskey-addled state Shriver could detect Simone's jealousy. If he could just convince her that Dr. Keaudeen had ambushed him, he figured, she might back down and give him another shot.

Then, from somewhere nearby—the bar? the restroom?—a man materialized beside Simone.

“Who's this?” Delta asked.

From the way she looked at him, Simone apparently expected Shriver to provide the answer. He took in the man standing next to her: the facial stubble, the aroma of nicotine and whiskey, the eyes raw from reading, the expensive-looking suit jacket and black T-shirt and designer jeans. Shriver became impossibly, unacceptably sober. So this is him, he thought. He tried to say the name, to force the air from his mouth. “Sh . . .” he said. “Shhh . . .”

The man stepped forward, grinning, and extended his hand.

“The name's Shriver,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Shriver just stared at the hand, then up at the man's face. Look at him, he thought, with that smug expression. He certainly is feeling proud of himself for crawling out of the woodwork and ruining my plan.

“How could you do this to me?” Simone cried.

“Lemme explain.”

But she turned away. The real Shriver placed his hand on her quivering shoulder.

“Take your hand off her, you . . . you . . . imposter!” Shriver said.

“Me?
You're
the imposter.”

“What the hell is going on?” Delta Malarkey-Jones asked.

“Just calm down, everyone,” Simone said, pulling her shoulder away from the real Shriver's hand.

“Tell
him
to calm down,” the writer said.

“You keep your hands to your
self
,” Shriver countered.

“Mind your own damn business—whatever
that
is,” the real Shriver said, moving closer, his face just inches away. Shriver could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“You're drunk,” he said.

“
You're
drunk.”

Delta stepped up and gave the real Shriver a menacing look. “Careful, pal.”

The writer turned to Simone and asked, “Is this the gruesome gal he fornicated with earlier?”

“Hey!” Shriver said. “I didn't fornicate with
anybody
.”

“Stop it, all of you!” Simone said.

The two men stood eye to bloodshot eye.

“How do we know you're the real Shriver?” Shriver asked.

“How do we know
you're
the real Shriver?” the real Shriver asked.

“Oh my God,” Simone groaned.

“Let's see your driver's license, pal,” Delta said.

“Certainly.” The real Shriver pulled out his wallet and displayed his license.
Caleb David Shriver
. “Now
yours
.”

“My pleasure,” Shriver said, before realizing, again, that his wallet was upstairs.

“Well?”

“My wallet is up in my room.”

“We can wait.”

Shriver blinked.

“What now?” the real Shriver asked.

“I've misplaced my key.”

“How
convenient
.”

“Never mind,” Simone said. She dried her eyes and straightened her spine. “We'll discuss this tomorrow.” She glared at Shriver. “And then you'll be going.”

“But, Simone—”

“Good night.” She turned to the real Shriver. “Let's go, Mr. Shriver.”

Grinning triumphantly, the writer followed her to the door.

“Simone!” Shriver called after her. But she did not turn back. He watched her step out into the parking lot, escorting the real Shriver to her car. Where was
he
going? Shriver wondered. Was he staying with Simone?

“What the heck is going on?” Delta asked. “Who was that guy?”

“That was me.”

“Everybody's gone bonkers,” she said, dragging him toward the elevator.

“Wait,” Shriver said. “I need a drink.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh,
yes
.” Shriver headed across the lobby to the Prairie Dog Saloon and sat at the bar.

“Double whiskey comin' up,” the bartendress said.

Delta plopped down next to Shriver with a sigh. “Shot of to-kill-ya.”

When the drinks arrived Shriver swallowed his in one gulp and ordered another.

“You sure you want to do that?” Delta asked.

“You're probably right. I should just go after her.”

“Who?”

“Simone, of course.”

Shriver heard the wheels and pulleys inside Delta's head snap into place.

“You've got a thing for her,” she said.

“That man—that other Shriver—he probably has his mitts on her right now.”

“You're really smitten.”

“She's very susceptible to charming writers,” Shriver said.

“You forget, Mr. Shriver. This is my twelfth conference. Professor Cleverly would never fall for another writer.”

“
Another
writer?” Shriver said, remembering Simone's story of the short poet. He slammed down his second whiskey and coughed.

“Her first husband was a writer,” Delta said. “She supported
him for years, and when he finally made it big, he dumped her for his glamorous New York editor.”

“He dumped Simone?”

“Like a used paperback.”

“What's his name?” Shriver asked. “I'll break his legs.”

“Break
whose
legs, Mr. Shriver?”

Detective Krampus appeared at Shriver's elbow. Even in the dim hotel bar his red suit coat vibrated.

“Oh, no one. I was just . . .” He prepared to be arrested—was it a crime to impersonate an author?

“I've been ringing your room for some time now,” Krampus said.

“What do you want, Detective?”

“I had a nice chat this evening with one of the cheerleaders in town for the competition. Beautiful young girl. Brunette.”

“What about her?” He obviously hasn't heard the news, Shriver thought.

“She said she saw Ms. Smithee in your room last night.”

“How could she have seen that? I never had any cheerleader in my room.”

“She saw in through the window.”

“Through the window?” Shriver pictured the girl standing atop her comrades, defying gravity.

“You told the human pyramid story quite well at the panel today,” Krampus said. “We were all enthralled.”

“And she said Ms. Smithee was in my room?”

“Indeed. Passed out on your bed, by the sound of it.”

“I have no recollection of that.”

“Nevertheless,” Krampus said, “it is the last-known sighting of our missing poet.”

Delta cleared her throat. “Do you honestly think Mr.
Shriver had something to do with Gonquin Smithee's disappearance?”

“I'm just doing my job, Ms. Malarkey-Jones.”

“I truly do not remember when she left my room,” Shriver said.

“You've said that before, and it is duly noted.”

“
I
remember,” Delta said.

“You do?” Krampus asked. “But you told me earlier—”

“You jarred my memory, Detective. I remember now that Ms. Smithee left just before I did.”

Shriver, like the detective, watched her eyes closely. Was she telling the truth?

“And what time was this?” Krampus asked her, flapping open his notebook.

“No idea. I was pretty sauced.”

“But not too sauced to remember her exit.”

“Just sauced enough to forget it for about twenty-four hours.”

“Interesting,” the detective said, writing it all down. “So you were still in the room when the cheerleader saw inside.”

“That's right.”

Shriver knew then that Delta was lying. He'd been alone when that happened.

“Funny,” Krampus said, “she did not mention you being there.”

“I may have been in the can.”

Krampus waited, as if expecting Delta to recant. But she just sipped at her tequila and smiled.

“Okay, then,” he said, shutting the notebook. “I guess that explains that.” He started to go, then stopped and turned to Shriver. “By the way, I still haven't been able to locate your former wife.”