Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

“On Sunset Boulevard.”

“No, sir,” Arthur said. “Absolutely not a hotel on Sunset Boulevard, I saw that movie.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you take me to the airport where I want to go?”

“Okay, I’ll get out at the next exit and swing around.”

“Are you going to take me to the airport?”

“That’s where you want to go, that’s where I’ll take you.”

“Chicken!” Arthur said.

“What?”

“I said you are chicken.”

“Now, look, mister, drunk or not...”

“Running home to trim your goddam tree!”

“Mister...”

“Aren’t there any hotels except on Sunset Boulevard? You think I came out here to drown face down in a swimming pool?”

“You want the Hilton, mister?” the cabbie said, sighing.

“ What Hilton?”

“The Beverly Hilton.”

“That’s very clever,” Arthur said. “The Beverly Hilton. I’ll bet my bottom dollar it’s in Beverly Hills, am I right?”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“Boy, that’s clever,” Arthur said. “You people out here are certainly clever.”

“That’s because we eat so many hot dogs,” the cabbie said.

“Yes, and witty, too. Well, do you know what I want to do? I want you to turn off this highway, thruway, freeway, whatever you call it out here, and stop at the first hotel you see. The very first hotel you see, that’s where I want to go. Impromptu,” Arthur said. “Im promp tu.”

“Boy, pick up drunks,” the cabbie said.

He felt refreshed and sober when he came out of the shower. There were at least eight mirrors in the bathroom, but he couldn’t see himself in any of them because he had taken off his glasses before climbing into the tub. Besides, the bathroom was all steamed up from the hot water he had used, this was certainly a fine hotel with lots of mirrors and good hot water to sober up a wandering soul on Christmas Eve.

I’d better call Fran, he thought.

He put on his glasses, and picked up his watch. It was still set with New York time, he hadn’t bothered to reset it when he got off the plane. In New York, in White Plains to be exact — which is where he and Fran and Michael and Pam lived, the four little Pitts in a white clapboard house on Robin Hood Lane — it was now eleven p.m., one hour to Christmas, and Fran was probably frantic. Naked, he put on his watch, and walked out of the bathroom. He found a white ivory telephone on the night table near his bed, wondered whether he should call her or not, and then decided of course he had to call her.

He felt chilly all at once. He went to the closet where the bellhop had hung his cashmere overcoat and, lacking a bathrobe or any other boudoir attire, put on the overcoat. The lining was silk. The coat felt luxurious and comforting. He sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his legs and looked at the phone and then became absorbed in reading the dial which listed all the various places you could call in the hotel. There was a little red light on the telephone, too, and he supposed you used that if you wanted a direct line to a red light district, which he might very well want before this night was through. In the meantime, he had to call Fran so that she wouldn’t alert the police or call the hospitals or, God forbid, his mother. That’s all he needed was for Fran to call his mother. What do you mean he’s not home? his mother would shout; his mother always shouted. On Christmas Eve, he’s not home? Yes, Virginia, for that was his mother’s name, your son is not home on Christmas Eve.

That’s right, Mom, he thought, I’m here in Los Angeles.

I’d better call Fran.

He hesitated again, not because he was afraid of Fran — he did in fact feel invulnerable, invincible, courageous, adventurous, a naked wild man in a luxurious cashmere overcoat — but only because he did not want to spoil his party. He had never had a birthday party in his life because dear Virginia his mother had been inconsiderate enough to become pregnant nine months to the day before Christmas. Who wants to attend anyone’s birthday party when the biggest birthday in history is in the midst of celebration? Next Year, Virginia would always say, Next Year, we’ll have some of your friends in later in the day, the afternoon perhaps, or the evening, there’s no reason we can’t celebrate your birthday just because it happens to fall on Christmas. She had said Next Year every year but eventually they ran out of years. By that time he had married Fran, and not having a birthday party had become habit. Besides, you have to have your birthday parties when you’re still a kid wearing eyeglasses. When you’re thirty-five and wearing eyeglasses, and then forty and wearing eyeglasses, it doesn’t matter a hell of a lot anymore. Until you’re about to be forty-two, and still wearing eyeglasses, and a party is about to start and you feel it slipping out of your hands, trickling through your fingers like all the sands of next year, next year, next year — and you want it to be this year, now .

He was not afraid of Fran, but he was afraid she would spoil his party.

He picked up the phone receiver.

Instead of calling Fran, he dialed 7 for the valet and was told the valet had gone home, this is Christmas Eve, sir. He asked if the housekeeper had gone home, too, and was informed that a housekeeper was always on duty and she could be reached by dialing 4. He dialed 4 and a woman with a foreign accent answered the phone. He could not place the accent.

“Do you have an iron?” he asked.

“An iron? To press?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, I have an iron. Why you don’t call the valet? He presses.”

“He’s gone. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. You want to press?”

“Yes. I’d like to press my pants because I’m having a party, you see, and they’re all wrinkled from the plane ride. I don’t like to have a party in wrinkled pants.”

“What room you in? I send.”

“One-oh-eight,” he said.

“You return?”

“Yes, I return,” he said.

“Good. I send.”

“Good, you send. Thank you.”

He hung up. He called the bell captain then and asked if there was a liquor store in the hotel. The captain told him he could order liquor in the pharmacy, which sounded like a peculiar place to be ordering liquor, but he hung up and then dialed the operator and asked for the pharmacy. When he was connected, he told whoever answered the phone that he wanted two bottles of scotch sent to room 108 and charged to his bill.

He did not begin pressing his suit with the borrowed steam iron until after the whiskey was delivered. He poured a stiff double hooker into one of the glasses that were ranged on the counter top facing the entrance door, and then discovered there was an ice-making machine under the counter, this was some hotel all right. From the bathroom, he took a clean towel and spread it out on the counter and then put his trousers on top of the towel and began pressing them while he sipped at the scotch.

The idea was to keep the party going. He did not know what his next move would be after he pressed his pants and his jacket, but he did know that he had two bottles of whiskey and he would not be forty-two for almost an hour, so the idea was to keep the party going. Maybe he would just dial the operator and ask her to ring several rooms in the hotel and when he got them he would say, “Hi, this is Doc Pitt in room 108. I’m having a little birthday party, and I wonder if you’d like to come down and join me. It’s right off the pool, room 108.” Maybe he’d do that, though he doubted it. What he would do was press his pants and his jacket, and maybe his tie as well, and then have a few drinks and then leave this nice hotel room and see what Beverly Hills was all about.