Slow Burn (14 page)

Jack kept right
on smiling and winking as Lola King stared at the teleprompter and recited the
whole poor-little-girl, 4-H, family-pet nightmare in unrhymed iambic
pentameter. Her recitation was punctuated by periodic spasms of lamentation
from the studio audience, which had unwittingly assumed the role of the classic
Greek chorus.

"Afternoon
Northwest invited Mr. Del Fuego to appear on the program this afternoon, but he
refused." ' "Ooooh," from the audience.

"Here with
us this afternoon . . . representing NUTSS, which as most of you know stands
for Neighbors United To Stop Suffering, an organization whose sole purpose is
to guarantee the rights and safety of our four-footed, our finned and our feathered
friends. Let’s have a warm Afternoon Northwest welcome for . . . Clarissa
Hedgpeth."

A recorded
version of "Walk with the Animals, Talk with the Animals" blared out
of the set as the Hedgpeth woman strode onstage, leading her signature white
standard poodle, Bruce. Wild applause.

She looked like
Carol Charming with clinical depression. Same white-haired, wide-eyed wonder,
but without any of the fun. Just an abiding confusion. Clarissa Hedgpeth always
appeared to be whistling in the dark, as if only her trembling smile held back
the impending floodwaters of disaster.

She waved at'
the audience. "Thank you. Thank you," she said.

Bruce flopped
down on the floor at his mistress's feet and stared stupidly at the audience.
His body was shaved and waved in typical poodle fashion, a puff of hair here
and a knot there, including a tennis-ball-size hairball at the tip of his tail.
The camera panned back to include the coiffured mutt in the shot. As if on cue,
the dog lifted his leg and began to vigorously lick his shaved privates. The
camera quickly panned back to close-ups of the two women. The audience
tittered.

"I wish I
could do that," said Ralph, pushing a fistful of fries into his already
stuffed mouth.

"You
probably ought to try to pet him first," George suggested.

They yucked it
up, stomping around the floor, repeating, ". . . pet him first . . . you
better pet him first . . ." and pounding each another on the back.

Much as it
pained me, I interrupted the revelry.

"I'm glad
you fellas are enjoying your lunch so much, but do you think maybe you could
snap it up a bit so Judy and Frank aren't down there all alone for too damn
long?"

"What are
you gonna do?" Ralph complained.

"I'm going
out looking for Bunky."

"Ain't
nothin' for us to do downstairs," Ralph said.

"I want to
know when everybody comes back and how," I lied.

With these
guys, idle hands were truly the devil's workshop. "It'll take all four of
you to do that," I said. "Write it all down."

They gave me
the silent treatment as they finished up.

On the tube,
Clarissa Hedgpeth was dripping sincerity and holding forth on the merits of all
creatures great and small.

"Animal
liberationists do not separate out the human animal, so there is no rational
basis for saying that a human being has special rights. A rat is a pig is a dog
is a boy. They are all mammals."

With the
possible exception of Lola, of course.

Lola looked
concerned but continued to smile and proffer the mike. Clarissa went on.
''During World War Two, six million Jews were killed in concentration camps.
But do you realize that next year, over six billion broiler chickens will be slaughtered
so that Americans can . . ."

I watched as
thirty-five years in the business passed before Lola King's eyes. She could see
it. This was the end. If she wasn't careful here, they'd crucify her for this
one. I'd read in the paper about how management had tried to replace her with
one of the weather girls and that the ensuing age-discxirnination suit had kept
them from turning her out to pasture or, even worse, from sending her back to
the beginning, doing the inclement-weather spots, standing out in Ocean Shores
in her parka, screaming into the mike while an eighty-mile-an-hour gale blew
ice spicules up her ass. No, thanks. She jumped in.

"But
surely, Clarissa, you can't be equating poultry to people. We wouldn't want our
viewers to think that you were saying . . ."

Clarissa did
her best wide-eyed space princess. "Oh, but I am, Lol
a. There's no difference between Bruce
and us . .."

Bruce looked
insulted. Lola stared to the left of the camera and narrowed her eyes to mere
slits as a sudden commercial break cut Clarissa Hedgpeth off in mid-slur. Now
for a word from our sponsor.

George and
Ralph wiped their mouths, hiked up their britches and started across the room.
As they walked, I thought I heard little bells, but I was so involved in
wondering how many angry letters the station was going to get that I pushed the
thought aside.

I went over to
the desk, pulled the phone book out of the - drawer, thumbed through it and
began removing pages. As I started to replace both the phone book and the
room-service menu, I noticed a gold key on a chain, resting on the bottom of
the drawer. The mini-bar key.

That's when it
hit me. The goddamn tinkling. I bent, opened the little door and found what I'd
expected. They'd excavated the sucker, taking about half of it and spreading
the rest out neatly on the shelves to cover their tracks. Excluding the pop, of
course. They'd left all the pop. That stuff'U kill ya.

I went into the
bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face and hands, then changed into a pair
of jeans and an old Huskies T-shirt.

The station
must have run seven or eight minutes' worth of commercials, because when I came
back into the room, the program came back from the break, just in time to sign
off. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Lola said. "We're out of
time today, but tune in tomorrow as we continue our investigative report on
animal rights. Tomorrow's guests will be Steven Drew of the NVS—the National
Vegan Society—and Konrad Kramer, spokesman for the ALF, which is the Animal
Liberation Front. Until then, I'm Lola King and this is Afternoon
Northwest." Fade to black.

I turned off
the tube, stuffed the Yellow Pages into my pocket and pulled the door closed
behind me.

It was five
forty-five when I rolled the Fiat around the circular drive of the Olympic Star
and crawled out. Squatting there among the gleaming luxury sedans, the Fiat
stuck out like a wart. I handed the nearest uniform the keys and two bucks,
then stood on the sidewalk and stretched myself out as he peered dejectedly at
the little car. I was still readjusting my lumbar vertebrae while he raced it
out into the street and disappeared.

Across
University Avenue, the crew was spread out, doing what it does best,
lounging on a set of
concrete stairs in between the Delta Airlines office and the side
entrance to Rainier Square. I counted noses. All eight of them were
there. Five on the stairs. Billy
Bob, Mary and Hot Shot Scott asleep on the upper landing. Forgetting he
was
undercover, Flounder gave me a small, wasted wave as I turned to enter
the
hotel.

George was
picking his teeth with a matchbook cover and rocking on his heels at the top of
the escalator. As I stepped from the moving track, he lurched over and threw a
playful arm around my shoulder.

"You find
the cow?"

His eyes were
bleary; he smelled like a distillery. Having spent the afternoon kicking turds
around stockyards and boarding stables, I was in no mood for further
fertilizer.

"Just the
part that’s stuck to my sneakers," I answered.

If he got the
joke, he didn't let on. "All the pigeons are in the coop," he
reported. I looked around him, toward the tables at the far side of the lobby.

Ralph had
joined Frank and Judy at their table. The cocktail hour was in full swing.
Ralph's movements had that loose-jointed quality he gets when he's out of it.

"I want
you and Frank and Judy to stick around for a bit. Pay everybody and send them
home. Tell them to be back at eight tomorrow morning, looking and smelling
good."

"How long
we gotta stick around?"

"Seven.
Maybe a little after. They're all going to the same shindig this evening. Once
they're all out and about, you guys can go."

He stuck out
his hand. I slapped six hundred dollars down on his palm. "Pay yourself
while you're at it, big fella," I said.

Even at my most
limber and malleable, I don't believe what George suggested I do next would
have been possible.

I moved to the
right, pushed the up button and waited. Three elevators down, the door opened.
I hustled over and stepped in.

The room had
been straightened and the room-service cart removed when I got there. I smiled.
Although it made no sense, I was always vaguely insulted when I left a room a
wreck and then returned to find it still in disarray. Despite the fact that no
one had ever cleaned up after me, I had always been filled with the all-abiding
belief that someone should do it. That it was natural and preordained. That
whatever little piles and wrinkles I might leave in my wake should miraculously
be returned to their previous states, thus eliminating all record of my
passing.

I emptied my
pockets onto the sideboard and was removing my jacket when I noticed the
blinking red light on the phone. I threw the coat on the bed and picked up the
receiver. Following the printed directions, I dialed six-three. An electronic
voice said, "You have one message, left today at two-ten. To listen to
your message, please push one." I followed along. And they said I wasn't a
team player. "This is Mason Reese," the recording said.
"Yesterday, you said if anything interesting developed . . ." He
actually chuckled into the phone. "Maybe you better give me a call."
Click. "End of message," the electronic voice droned. "To listen
to this message again . . ."

Without
thinking, I depressed the button and dialed eight-one-four. I let it ring about
twenty times. When I replaced the receiver, the red light on the phone went out
and the one in my head went on.

Sometimes I
like to tell myself that, if nothing else, middle age has taught me to follow
my instincts. If it feels right, do it. If not, don't. A creed as simple as
that should be easy to follow. And it would be, except for the other guy. My
lifelong companion. The one who pokes his nose in where it doesn't belong. That
guy. The one who just has to get in the last word, no matter what. Every time.
Always. The one who hits my golf shots into the trees when I'm not looking.
Him. He and I took the stairs, figuring we'd be there long before the elevator
arrived.

I stepped onto
the eighth floor in time to see a gray-clad maid backing into a room at the far
end of the hall, leaning way back, dragging her heavily laden cart over the
threshold.

As I strolled
down the carpeted hallway, I tried to figure out what tune she was whistling as
she worked. I was sure I'd heard it before. I hummed the melody to myself,
hoping that would help. That's probably why I'd already knocked on Mason
Reese's door a couple of times before I noticed it was slightly ajar.

Down the hall,
the whistling continued. She'd left the cart in the doorway, propping the door
open as maids are taught to do. A brown arm reached out and grabbed a spray
bottle from the cart and disappeared back inside.

I won't lie. My
submarine dive horn was blasting in my ears. Ahoooga Ahoooga. Dive! Dive! Every
instinct in my body screamed for me to turn around and go quietly back from
whence I had come. Instead, I checked the corridor again and elbowed the door
open.

The light from
the hall traveled only about six feet into the room, but that was far enough.
On the carpet, midway between where I stood and the elegant little two-seater
couch against the rear wall, a slick patch of goo glistened like black obsidian
in the half darkness. I'd seen it before and knew what it was.

I used the back
of my hand to flip the switch on the left side of the door. It was already up.
I flipped it down. Nothing. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my stomach. I
would have walked away, I swear I would have, but . . .

The whistling
stopped. I quickly looked to my right. The cart was moving back into the hall.
I could see both of her arms and one foot. In a single motion, without a single
thought, I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

I leaned back
against the door. The room wasn't totally dark. A muted luminance filtered
under the doors leading to the bedroom. I could see the white plastic DO NOT
DISTURB sign on the floor to my right, and I could still make out the wet patch
on the carpet. Even better, now I could smell its heady, metallic scent. I kept
my stomach in place with a series of deep breaths. I waited.

The whistling
resumed, louder now. It was Abba. "Dancing Queen." The Hispanic maid
was whistling "Dancing Queen." Talk about a global village. A key
scraped in the lock. The door opened an inch before I leaned back hard and
growled, "No. Not now. Come back later."