Shriver (21 page)

“Can't help you there,” Shriver said.

“Odd how she seems to have dropped off the face of the earth, much like the wife in your masterpiece.” He held up his copy of
Goat Time
. “I'm like a bloodhound, Mr. Shriver. I sniff a tantalizing odor, I must follow it. Good night.”

When he was gone, Delta finished off her shot of tequila. “This is definitely the strangest conference I've ever been to.”

Shriver signaled for another drink. Anything not to think about tomorrow.

Half an hour later, Delta once again had to hold him up as they zigzagged across the lobby. On the elevator, he managed to pull away from her and lean against the wall. He shut his eyes.

“Whydja tell Krampus you were in my room?” he asked as the elevator spun inside his head.

“I didn't like how he was picking on you.”

“But you c'd get in big trouble.”

“Aw, what's the difference? I know you didn't do anything to that poet.”

“But you lied.”

“Lied schmied. We all make stuff up. What's the truth anyway? Right?”

“Right.”

Next thing Shriver knew, he was outside room nineteen.

“Did you really lose your key?” Delta asked. She patted his pockets.

He pointed at the door.

“In there?”

He nodded.

“Well, I guess you'll have to crash in
my
room.”

He tried to resist, but she dragged him along the hallway. From nearby came the sound of tinny music and laughter.
A door creaked open and there stood the willowy brunette cheerleader. She wore a towel as she skipped down the hall to another room, her shoulders brown and soft. She smiled as she passed.

“ 'Lo,” Shriver said, and waved.

Delta opened the door to room twenty. A light went on, and he blinked his eyes. Next time he opened them he lay on the bed, watching the stucco ceiling spin. He moaned and shut his eyes again. Something tugged at his shoes and socks. His feet felt cool and free. A mist came over him. The conference—Simone, the real Shriver, everyone—felt far, far away. Something small but heavy climbed onto his belly and chest.

He clicked his tongue and muttered, “Mizzer Bozhangle.”

He reached out his hand to stroke the cat's rabbitlike fur. He felt the soft face, the wirelike whiskers, the thin, cool ears. The kitty purred like a far-off train.

“You're my bez fren,” he mumbled, rubbing under the cat's little chin. He was so happy to be home again, in his own bed, with his kitty.

After that—nothing.

Shriver awakened slowly, his mouth dry, his eyes stuck together. On his chest he felt the familiar warm weight of Mr. Bojangles. Oh, thank God, he thought. It's all been a dream. With some effort he managed to move his arm to stroke the cat's back, but when he touched the animal he felt nothing but smooth flesh. He forced open his eyes only to see darkness. As his eyes adjusted he made out a thin wedge of sunlight over against one wall: curtains. From somewhere far off, he thought he heard someone calling him—“Mr. Shriver?”—before a train horn pierced the darkness.

Realizing where he was, he tried to bolt up in bed like a man awakening from a nightmare, but the considerable arm draped across his chest kept him flat on his back. Dear Lord, he thought as images from last night came to him in short bursts: the whirring helicopter, Detective Krampus's electric jacket, Dr. Keaudeen's leopard-print thong—all seen through a scrim of fluttering insects. Then the distinctive font of a manual typewriter:
THE IMPOSTER
.

Finally, and most distressingly, he remembered how Simone's eyes had drilled into him as the real Shriver towered next to her in the hotel lobby. He groaned.

Meanwhile, Delta Malarkey-Jones breathed rhythmically beside him, letting out an occasional nose whistle. Shriver tried to delicately lift her arm from his chest, but it was dead
weight. Her entire body may as well have been lying across him.

He heard a telephone ringing on the other side of the wall. With some effort he glanced over at the glowing digital clock. It was past eleven. As he set his head back on the pillow he could feel the jelly of his brain sloshing against his cranium.

Again, he thought of Simone's brown eyes compressed into burning slits as he'd clung drunkenly to Delta in the lobby. It had been many years since he'd seen a look of such disappointment on a woman's face. Of course, Simone had been angry about his deception, but she had also been upset, he was sure, to find him in the arms of Dr. Keaudeen. He remembered how she had cried while she drove away from the party. Yes, she must have had feelings for him. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine what might have happened had the real Shriver not appeared, but then his headache returned, along with the image of Simone's searing, coal-hot glare.

Shriver again tried to lift Delta's arm. He started at the wrist, which was relatively light, then moved upward to the bulbous elbow. She remained sound asleep, her breath coming in warm, halitosic puffs against the side of his head. He tried not to look at her, afraid she might not be wearing any clothes beneath the covers. He himself was still in his undershorts and T-shirt, but that was not, by any means, very comforting.

With some effort he managed to hoist her forearm high enough so that he could slip out from beneath it. Once he was free, he lowered the arm gently. Delta grunted and continued sleeping.

When he stood he saw sparks before his eyes and felt a knife push into his forehead. He paused, waiting for the whiskey-poisoned blood to start moving away from his brain. He
found his clothes neatly folded on a chair. He quickly slipped into his pants and shirt, then tiptoed to the door in his bare feet. With shoes and socks in his hand, he opened the door slowly, making as little sound as possible. He took one more look around the room, his eyes pounding inside their red sockets. Delta remained passed out in bed. He didn't know if he'd ever see her again. “Farewell,” he said to the large lump in the dark. Then he eased the door shut behind him.

He squinted in the unbearably bright hallway as he padded next door to room nineteen. Then he remembered: he had no key.

A door opened behind him.

“Hello.”

The cheerleader stood there in her uniform.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a dry croak.

She smiled, and he could not make up his mind as to whether it was an innocent smile or a smile that said she knew exactly what had happened last night—whatever
that
was—and was amused by the whole idea.

“I left my key in my room,” he told her.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“That's the least of my troubles, actually.” He rubbed the cat-scratch scabs on his hand.

“Oh, you poor thing. Here.”

She reached over her shoulder into a backpack shaped like a teddy bear and pulled out a small bottle.

“What happened?” she asked, delicately touching the three red lines on the back of his hand.

“Oh, that was an incident with a cat,” he said, shuddering.

“This will help,” she said. She took his hand and poured some kind of oil onto the wounds. Then, with tiny but strong fingers, she massaged his hand, front and back.

“I don't know what it is,” she said as she pushed her thumbs deep into his palm, “but this stuff really relaxes me. Plus, those darn skeeters don't like it at all.”

Shriver's hand felt warm and loose, as though it had been made of stone and was now turning into rubber. Even better, the itching had stopped.

“There,” the cheerleader said. “How's that?”

“Lovely. What is that stuff?”

She held up the bottle. “Sunflower oil.”

As they rode the elevator together, the cheerleader stood in the corner, smiling, while Shriver slipped on his socks and shoes. In these close confines, she could probably tell he had not showered in several days. He reeked, in fact, and his face was pocked with gray whiskers, his thin hair greasy.

“I'm a little stressed myself today,” the girl said. “The semifinals are this afternoon.”

“Oh. That's exciting. Congratulations.”

She smiled. “It's always been my dream to win the championship.”

The door opened on a bevy of cheerleaders.

“Where have you been?” they cried.

“Good luck with the key situation,” the brunette said before running down the hallway with her friends.

“Good luck with the semifinals,” he shouted at her retreating back.

At the front desk, he found Charlevoix at her usual perch. “Has the maid come in yet?” he asked.

“The maid? Why do you ask, Mr. Shriver?”

“Why, because she has the key,” he said.

“What key?”

“The key to my room, of course.”

As she stared up at him with a puzzled expression he
realized that this was the sister, Sue St. Marie. He quickly explained the situation.

“Oh my,” she said. “That's never happened here.”

“Yes, I know. So, the maid?”

“Right. Let's see.” She checked a printed schedule. “Luna
was
on duty this morning.”

“What do you mean, ‘
was
' on duty?”

“Went home early. Tummy trouble.”

“Oh, Lord,” Shriver said.

“Maybe you should have some breakfast at the saloon while I call my little sister.”

“Mr. Shriver!”

Edsel Nixon approached the front desk.

“I've been trying to call you,” he said. “What's going on?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know? Some guy showed up last night and he says he's
you
.”

“Oh, that. Yes, I've met him.”

“Who is he?”

“He's Shriver, I guess.”

“I don't understand.”

“We'll talk about it later,” Shriver said. “Right now I need to get into my room. I locked myself out.”

Sue St. Marie hung up the telephone.

“I'll have to leave a message with maintenance,” she said. “Lord only knows where he is.”

“How long will it be?”

She shrugged. “We might have to change the lock on the door.”

“Maybe we should grab some breakfast?” Edsel Nixon suggested.

In the saloon, Shriver ordered his favorite, oatmeal and a
side of toast. He made this breakfast for himself every day back home. Taking in the aroma of oats and milk, he longed for his tiny kitchen, the decrepit gas stove, the old toaster. Mostly he longed for a bath. He could feel every speck of grime and sweat on his body.

“Have you talked to Simone today?” he asked Nixon.

“Mm-hmm,” Nixon said, avoiding his eyes.

“Did she tell you about the party last night?”

“She mentioned something . . . ” Edsel's voice trailed off in embarrassment.

“I swear to God, Mr. Nixon, I did not sleep with—”

Edsel put up his hand to end the conversation. “Things happen, Mr. Shriver.”

“Not
that
thing!”

Edsel waved the topic away and dug into his raisin bran. Parched, Shriver drank from a thimble-sized glass of watery orange juice, then took a bite of food and nearly gagged. The oatmeal tasted gummy no matter how much milk he poured over it.

“So, who
is
this guy who's pretending to be you?” Nixon asked.

Shriver sighed and set down his spoon. “Does everyone know about it?”

“It's the talk of the town.”

“Does anyone believe him?”

“Hard to say.”

“Simone?”

“She sounded upset when I spoke to her.”

Shriver leaned in and asked, “Was he there?” though he was afraid of the answer.

“Who?”

“The other Shriver.”

“Where?”

“At Simone's house.”

“She didn't say.”

In between two of the potted ferns that cordoned off the saloon from the main lobby, Shriver saw a dark blur.

“Don't look now,” he said, “but there's someone spying on us.”

Edsel Nixon glanced around the lobby, but the figure by the ferns had disappeared.

“He's gone,” Shriver said.

“Who was it?”

“Remember yesterday by the river?” Shriver asked. “This person has been following me at least since then. He dresses in black and rides a motorcycle. I think it might be—”

“This imposter fellow?”

“I never considered that.” Maybe the real Shriver had been here all along, Shriver thought.

“What I don't get,” Edsel said, “is why anyone would go to the trouble of coming all the way out here just to pretend to be
you
.”

For a moment, Shriver considered confessing to Edsel Nixon, but the expression on the young man's face was so earnest and trusting that he couldn't bear to tell him the truth.

“I don't get it either,” he said.

Light glinted off the hotel's front door as it opened on the far side of the lobby. In walked Simone with the real Shriver.

“Uh-oh.”

Simone looked tired, her shoulders hunched beneath a simple blue blouse. But even in this state, with her hair disheveled and bags beneath her eyes, she glowed. The real Shriver, meanwhile, gave off a curious aura of unkempt cool.

“Is that him?” Edsel Nixon asked.

“Don't tell them I'm here,” Shriver said, slipping beneath the table.

“But—”

“Shhh!”

From beneath the table he heard Simone call out from across the room: “Edsel!”

Shriver watched Edsel's feet twitch. He felt bad asking his handler to lie for him. The poor lad didn't have a dishonest bone in his body.

“Have you seen him?” Simone asked, closer now.

“Seen who?”

Two sets of feet appeared beneath the tablecloth: tasseled black loafers and a sensible pair of pale blue pumps. Shriver thought they were standing a little too close together.