Randy White - Hunter's moon

Tomlinson said, “This won’t take long. Go for a stroll on the beach, if you want.”

Wilson said, “No, thanks. I’m afraid you’ll pull your vanishing act again.”

The Gnome was walking around the front of the car, but we could hear him say, “Are you afraid the feds might recognize you, Sammy? Screw ’em. This is hotel property. Fuckers can’t touch you in the Conch Republic, man.”

Wilson shook his head irritably. I empathized. It was tempting-crash a party and serve drinks to a bunch of broadcasters, including Walt Danson. Wilson had enjoyed telling the story about Andrew Jackson killing the man who had insulted his wife.

The circumstances were so unlikely, it was unlikely anyone would have recognized him. The former president looked so different now. With his head shaved, the burn scar, and beatnik beard, Wilson looked like just another casualty of the service industry.

It would’ve been interesting to find out.

The night became interesting.

Still wearing their white jackets, and each with a jacket draped over an arm, Tomlinson and the Gnome were waiting for the elevator doors to open when the Gnome turned toward the car. “Hey, guys? I forgot about the pants. They’re in a box in the trunk. You mind?”

I leaned over the seat to pop the trunk as Wilson got out. The trunk was a Curiosity Shoppe of broken violins and guitars, but he found the box of pants, which he gave to me, plus two jackets. We were handing the uniforms to Tomlinson when the doors of the service elevator flashed open.

The interior was illuminated with a bright, industrial light. Inside were two men and a woman, well-dressed, obviously not hotel employees, judging from their confused expressions.

“Sorry,” the woman said. “I’m very sorry. I must’ve hit the wrong button.” She hesitated. “Do you men work here?”

Trying to sounded sober, the Gnome said, “Oh, yes. This is our workplace.”

“ Good. We could use some help.”

That was obvious.

All three looked like they’d had a lot to drink, but one of the men was drunk. He sat on the elevator floor, legs crossed, his expression blurred and surly. The woman and her companion had been struggling to lift him to his feet when the doors opened.

I recognized the woman as a broadcaster with a cable news network. Suzie… Cindi… Shana. A name that was similar. She had a cheerleader face, the body of a trophy bride, and the arrogance of a man who would marry one.

I recognized the drunk, too.

It was television icon Walt Danson.

“Mr. Danson is ill,” the second man told us. He was tall, with bland features and feral eyes. “Food poisoning, we think-the kind of publicity your hotel doesn’t need. Can you help us get him to his room?”

Danson opened his eyes for a moment, took a moment to find the man; glared. “Fuck you, Harry. You wish I was poisoned. That’d make dumping me a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”

“Now, Walt,” the tall man said for our benefit, “is it smart to use that kind of language, old friend?”

Danson waved his hand, dismissing him. “You don’t have any old friends- Mister Program Director.” The anchorman leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

Harry turned to us with a stage gesture. “See what I mean? He’s feverish. We’re counting on your professionalism.”

The Gnome straightened vaguely, as if at attention, as Tomlinson said, “We are professionals, sir.”

The program director exchanged looks with the woman, his expression saying Simpletons. Then his eyes moved from me to Wilson, who’d turned his back to the elevator and was returning to the car. “Excuse me-sir? Don’t leave. I’m talking to you. Hey- old man!”

Wilson froze. Thought about it for a moment before turning to face the elevator. He wore the expression of a convict who expected to be identified.

I watched the TV people closely. No flinch of interest or recognition. Just impatience. They’d been drinking, they were tired, and they were now dealing with interchangeable objects-hotel staff.

They didn’t notice Wilson stiffen when the program director asked, “Are you deaf? Or don’t you understand English?”

“I understand English just fine, sir,” Wilson answered, sounding passive with his Southern accent, under control.

“Then listen to me. We need all four of you men. We’ll pay you-but only if you can keep your mouth shut. Agreed?”

Without waiting for an answer, the man stabbed a finger at me. “Same goes for you.” He paused. “You wait tables here?” His tone saying I didn’t look like a waiter.

“Mostly maintenance.” I had a white jacket over my arm. “I only wear the monkey suit when there’s a convention. Either way, we don’t need you to lecture us about hotel etiquette.”

Piss him off, maybe he’d tell us to go away.

Instead he said, “Smart-ass, huh? Okay. You’re in charge. Make sure the two stoners and the old man don’t do anything stupid.”

Tomlinson and Tim were already on the elevator, bracing Danson so he wouldn’t fall over. Wilson came up behind me, touched his hand to my back, and gave me a little push. He wanted to do it. When I didn’t move, he pushed again.

I said, “After you… Sam,” and followed the president to the corner of the elevator, then stood in front of him.

Harry’s cell phone began to ring as he said, “Shana, why don’t you go back to the bar? I can handle it from here.”

The program director was checking caller ID as the woman stepped into the elevator. “Get real, Harry. Leave Walt when he needs me? The man’s been like a father.”

Danson opened his eyes long enough to roll them. “A father, huh? I’m the only network suit you haven’t fucked, so that explains it.” Funny. He was still laughing as his head clunked against the wall.

“Dear old Walt Danson,” the woman said fondly, touching the back of her fingers to man’s head. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think,” showing she could take it-there was something odd, though, about the way her hand lingered by Danson’s face.

She was palming a digital camera, I realized… no, a tape recorder.

Danson mumbled, “Women correspondents? Chorus girls, is more like it. Kick your legs high enough and the network hacks think you got something between your ears…”

Ugly. Impossible to ignore, but not for Harry, who was on the cell phone as he pushed the button for the top floor, talking loudly.

His words blurred as the old anchorman rambled… until I heard Harry say, “Repeat that. Who disappeared? WHO disappeared?” There was a long pause. “You’re shitting me!”

I stiffened. Tomlinson started to turn toward the president but caught himself. The doors had closed. It felt as if the oxygen had been sucked from the elevator.

The program director’s voice became strident. “Are you sure? Did he disappear or was he kidnapped? Yes… I know… I know. Jesus Christ, find out!”

A cable clanked. The elevator began its ascent. We listened to Harry say, “Are you still there? Hello… Can you hear me?”

Kept repeating it until he gave up. He’d lost reception.

The Flagler’s penthouse floor was restricted access so there was no one in the hall as Tomlinson, the Gnome, the president, and I guided Danson to his door, then waited while the woman tried to get the plastic key to work.

On the elevator, she’d asked Harry, “Who disappeared?”

Harry tried redialing a couple of times before he answered, saying, “Nothing’s confirmed yet,” looking from me to Tomlinson, meaning he couldn’t talk.

Or maybe he didn’t want her to know…

The program director was first off the elevator, walking fast toward the stairs, phone to his ear, saying, “Workman? Jesus Christ, I was just talking to Bentley. Go get him!”