Shriver (24 page)

A moment later, a disappointed Edsel Nixon turned into the hotel parking lot. “I'll drop you off,” he said, “so you can run inside without getting bitten too badly.”

“You are a gentleman, Mr. Nixon.”

The jeep screeched to a halt at the front door, but Shriver stayed put.

“Mr. Shriver?” Edsel said.

At the far end of the parking lot sat the black motorcycle.

“Sir?” Edsel said.

“Do me a favor, Mr. Nixon.”

“Of course.”

“If something happens to me . . .” He turned to his handler, who watched him with curious, concerned eyes. “Please tell Professor Cleverly that . . .”

“Tell her what, sir?”

“Tell her I said thank you.”

Shriver leaped out and ran to the entrance. The lobby was deserted but for the telltale beehive behind the counter. But as he made his way to the desk he noticed Jack Blunt just inside the saloon entrance. The reporter, facing the other way and speaking with someone, had not seen him, and Shriver wanted to keep it that way.

He quietly asked Sue St. Marie if the afternoon maid had arrived.

“I think so,” she replied. “She should be up on the third floor somewhere right now. You can go try to find her if you want.”

“Thank you.”

As he turned to go, the receptionist said, “Oh—some gentlemen have been looking for you, Mr. Shriver.”

He glanced toward the saloon, where Blunt remained with his back turned. “Can you do me a favor, Sue St. Marie?”

She grinned and pointed at her name tag:
CHARLEVOIX
.

“I'm so sorry,” Shriver said. “I can't keep you two straight.”

“No problem, Mr. Shriver. What can I do for you?”

“Those gentlemen in the saloon? Don't tell them I'm here.”

With that he ran around the corner and jammed a finger at the elevator button. The door did not open. The light showed the car stopped at the third floor. From behind him Shriver could hear Blunt talking to someone in the lobby. Nearby was a door marked
STAIRS.
He pushed through and ran up to the third floor.

The maid's cart sat parked in the hallway, loaded down with cleaning equipment and supplies, but none of the room doors were open. She had either stepped away or was in any of twenty rooms on the floor.

He put an ear to the door nearest the maid's cart. Nothing. He went to the next door. No sound. From inside the next room he thought he heard the rustling of sheets. He knocked gently at the door. The rustling continued. He knocked again, this time a little louder. The rustling stopped. He heard a man's voice. He was about to step away when the door cracked open, revealing a sliver of Basil Rather in a royal blue silk robe. He held the door so that Shriver could see only one of his eyes.

“Well, well, if it isn't our own Victor Lustig, come to sell us the Eiffel Tower.”

“Victor
who
?”

“What is it you want?” Rather asked.

“I'm looking for the maid.”

“Can't help you there, old boy.”

“I've locked myself out, you see, and she's the only one with a master key.”

Rather gazed down his long, straight nose and said, “What would you like
me
to do about it?”

The playwright peered back into the room for a moment, opening the door an inch or so more, so that Shriver saw the flash of a pale green maid's outfit.

“Is that the maid in there?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Who's that in the room with you?”

“Who?”

“That's what
I'm
asking.”

“Please, Shriver. I'm very busy.”

He made to shut the door but Shriver inserted his foot in the doorway.

“What do you think you're doing?” Rather asked.

“I know the maid is in there!”

Shriver forced the door open and pushed inside. Near the window, in a pale green maid's costume, barefoot and holding a feather duster, stood Ms. Brazir. A large rubber phallus poked from the front of the skirt, like the head of a snake from under a rug.

“Oh,” Shriver said.

“Are you happy now?” Basil Rather asked.

“I thought you were the maid,” Shriver explained.

The three of them stood there for an awkward moment until Rather cleared his throat and held the door open for Shriver's exit.

“Sorry,” Shriver said.

The playwright sniffed contemptuously and slammed the door behind him.

There was still no sign of the real maid. Afraid to barge into any more rooms—Lord only knew what he might encounter!—Shriver waited in the hallway for an interminable amount of time, then took the stairway down to the second floor, but the maid was not there either. He was afraid to go back to the lobby for fear of running into Jack Blunt—or the motorcycle man in black—but there was no choice. He had to find that maid. Just as he reached the stairway door, the elevator arrived. From inside came girls' voices. Before Shriver could disappear into the stairwell, several cheerleaders, still in their uniforms, their hair slick with sweat, burst into the hall like freed ponies.

“We won the semifinals!” the brunette squealed.

“That's wonderful,” Shriver said.

She paused, letting the other girls continue down the hall. “Feeling better?” she asked. “That was a nasty spill you took on that ladder.”

“Well, I can breathe.”

“That's half the battle, isn't it?”

“I must keep that in mind,” Shriver said.

The girl skipped down the hall.

“Congratulations,” Shriver called out to her. “On the semifinals.”

“Thanks. But we still have to win the finals.”

A door swung open and the girls disappeared into their room.

Shriver took the stairs to the first floor. At the bottom, he cracked the door open. No one at the elevator. He stepped out and poked his head around the corner. No sign of Blunt or the agent in the lobby. He took a breath and walked quickly over to the desk.

“Those gentlemen keep asking for you!” Charlevoix practically shouted.

“Shhh!”

“They're in the saloon,” she stage-whispered.

“I can't find the maid,” he told her.

“She's not on the third floor?”

“Her cart is, but there's no sign of her.”

“Maybe she took a break.”

“Where does she take her break?”

The desk clerk leaned forward and said, “Why are we whispering?”

“Is there a room where the maids go?”

“There's a locker room.”

“Where's that?”

“It's for employees only.”

“Never mind,” he said, and scooted around the corner to the elevators. Maybe the maid had returned to the third floor. He pressed the button. Just before the elevator door opened, Edsel Nixon appeared from around the corner. Shriver waved him forward, but Nixon looked back over his shoulder, toward the lobby, as if someone was speaking to him. It sounded like Blunt.

“Have you seen our infamous so-called Mr.
Shriver
?” came the reporter's voice.

Shriver waved frantically, pleading with the graduate student to reply in the negative.

“Uh, I'm looking for him also,” Edsel told Blunt.

Shriver blew him a kiss and then stepped into the elevator just before the doors rolled shut.

As the elevator ascended, Shriver leaned against the wall, his heart thumping in his ears. If he ever got out of this, he would never leave his apartment again.

The door opened at the third floor. The maid's cart was now gone. Shriver jumped back on the elevator and went down to the second floor. Rounding the corner, he saw the man in black sitting on the floor, waiting, just outside room nineteen. Shriver stopped and turned back, but not before the man saw him. Shriver ran into the stairwell and back up to the third floor. From the landing he watched as the man tore down the stairs to the first floor.

After a moment, Shriver returned to the second floor. He opened the door just as the elevator whirred into motion. Someone was coming. He backed into the stairwell again and waited.

“It's room nineteen,” he heard Jack Blunt say as he exited the elevator. Shriver peeked through the door to see another man accompany Blunt around the corner, followed by Detective
Krampus. What was going on? Why was Krampus here? Had he come to arrest him?

A moment later Shriver heard a knock from down the hall, followed by Krampus calling out, “Open up, Mr. Shriver!”

“Doesn't seem to be anyone there,” someone said in a deep voice.

“He's in there,” Blunt said. “I can hear the son of a bitch breathing.”

“Mr. Shriver, I really must speak with you,” Krampus shouted.

Shriver pounded down the stairs and burst through the lobby door. He ran past the front desk, where Charlevoix called out, “You certainly are popular here!”

He sped toward the entrance. As he got near, the doors slid open automatically. He skidded to a stop just outside. He scanned the lot. Behind him, through the glass, he watched as Jack Blunt and another man—the agent, Mr. Cheadem, apparently—came around the corner from the stairway, followed by Krampus. On the other side of the lobby, emerging from the saloon, came the tall man in black.

This is it, Shriver thought. I'm done for.

Just then he heard the distinctive clip-clop of horseshoes on pavement. Across the parking lot galloped Walter with T. Wätzczesnam astride his sloped back. Shriver held up his arm, as if hailing a cab.

“Yee haw!” the cowboy hollered, waving his ten-gallon hat.

Shriver looked back to see the men running through the hotel lobby toward the door. Nixon, lagging behind, signaled frantically for Shriver to run.

The cowboy steered Walter up to the hotel entrance.

“Climb aboard, Shriver!”

Shriver looked back again. The men had almost reached the door.

“Time's a-wastin', buddy,” T. said, holding out his knobby, weather-beaten hand. Shriver took hold, and, with surprising strength, T. pulled him up onto the horse, where Shriver settled in behind him on the saddle.

“Giddyup!” T. roared, and Walter tore out of the parking lot.

Walter ran at a full gallop, each stride sending Shriver's sore rump in the air and then back down against the hard back edge of the saddle. He had never ridden a horse before. Amazed and terrified by the animal's power, he clutched at T.'s denim jacket as they hurtled down the campus's main drag. Students waved and shouted hello, apparently accustomed to seeing the cowboy professor around town on his trusty steed.

“Hold on, Shriver!” T. cried as he abruptly steered the horse around a sharp corner onto a wide side street.

“Where are we going?”

“To a party!”

They rode past several old, solidly built homes with well-cared-for lawns before slowing and turning up a long gravel driveway. The drive was lined with cars parked beneath a double row of massive trees that formed a green tunnel overhead. Among the cars, Shriver noticed, was Simone's giant vehicle. At the end of the drive stood a white house with tall columns. To Shriver the place looked like a plantation house or the home of the warden in a chain-gang movie.

They rode right up to the front steps and T. pulled the reins. “Whoa!” The horse snorted and came to a stop.

“Where are we?” Shriver asked.

“This is the house of our outrageously overcompensated college president.”

Mosquitoes descended upon them as they dismounted.

“Good boy,” T. said, patting the horse on its powerful flank. The animal snorted and flicked its tail at the ruthless insects.

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the wide, columned porch, the cowboy produced a flask and offered it to Shriver.

“No thanks, T.”

T. looked taken aback. “Very prudent of you, Shriver.” Then he took a long pull, screwed up his face into a pleased grimace, and pushed through the pulsing wall of mosquitoes to the front door.

“Are you sure I should be here, T.?” Shriver asked, rubbing at his saddle sores.

The cowboy snorted, sounding remarkably like Walter the horse. “Of course you should be here, Shriver. This party's for
you
.”

He lifted a heavy brass knocker and banged it against the door. Shriver looked back down the long driveway, estimating how long it would take to run down its length and back to the hotel.

As they waited, there came a shrill noise from the far end of the porch: another insect zapper.
Zzzzzzch!

“Amazing contraption,” T. said. “I'd like to strap one to my back.”

As the bug killer zapped away, the door swung open and a black-jacketed servant appeared.

“We're here for the soiree,” T. said.

The servant, a stoop-shouldered older gentleman, consulted a clipboard. “Your names, sir?”

“My name is T. Wätzczesnam, Ph.D., and this here is the party's honoree, Mr. Shriver.”

The servant checked off T.'s name on the list, then paused. “It seems Mr. Shriver has already arrived.”

“Nonsense,” T. said. “
This
is Mr. Shriver.”

“T.,” Shriver said.

“According to the list, sir—”

“Damn your list, man.”

“T., please.”

“Sir,” the servant said, puffing out his fragile-looking chest.

“Out of our way!” The cowboy pushed past the man, nearly knocking him over. “Come on, Shriver. Let's settle this once and for all.”

Apologizing to the shocked servant, Shriver followed T. inside. They passed into a wood-paneled hall with a wide staircase. T. turned left through an arch into a large room full of people chatting and drinking wine. Over by the tall windows, Christo, Delta's musician friend, played “Somewhere over the Rainbow” on a grand piano. Nearby stood Simone and the real Shriver speaking to a squat man with silver hair and a matching handlebar mustache. When Shriver followed T. into the room, a few faces turned and stared, then, like a wave, other faces turned and stared, the wave coursing through the crowd until it washed up at the back, where Simone's face went hard and red. By now, the room had grown silent except for the piano, which the oblivious young man continued to play.