Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

What would Lou Markowitz do if he could come back from the dead and see his daughter now? Would he laugh or cry?

As if she were reading his mind, Mallory smiled – just like the old man, a Markowitz smile.

Jack Coffey closed his eyes and continued to sit in the dark after Mallory had abandoned the interview room. He listened to her footsteps in the hall. She stopped at the door and tried the knob. Now he heard her working the lock. He was bracing for the confrontation. He would be caught in the act of a voyeur watching a lone woman in the interview room.

The door opened by only an inch. Mallory never looked inside.

What for? She already knew he was there.

Her footsteps continued down the hall. Was she laughing? Or was that Markowitz?

A newspaper lay on the floor, headlines screaming about the hanging of Emile St. John. Franny Futura lay back on the pillows. He had not left his bed since the maid brought him the morning paper. The woman had accepted a cheap ring as payment, for he had no money to bribe her.

He had not changed his clothes since his arrival. The suitcases were in the closet, unopened – a neat stack of symbols for his entire existence, always packed and ready to run.

Franny watched the shadows crawl from one side of the room to the other, slowly edging across the walls, and some crawled along the ceiling. Now that darkness had fallen, the headlights of cars in the parking lot created more diverting dark shapes and jerky flashes, dashing across the walls to take him by surprise. Every pair of lights announced another visitor to the motel.

Any moment now.

He had lived his entire life rehearsing for a knock on the door. In dreams, it always happened at night. As often as he had imagined the moment, he could never see beyond the point when the door began to open. On the other side, something awaited him.

Another pair of lights splashed one wall, veered sharply onto the next one, then died off to leave him in the dark. His fear was a hulking thing, crafty and cruel. It sat on his chest with real weight, haunches tensing, crouching, set to spring. Franny listened to the opening and closing of a car door. He followed the sound of steps in the parking lot. They passed him by, and he thought to breathe again.

Locks and bars had been unnecessary adjuncts to his jail. He could never leave this motel room. He would miss the curtain for his Broadway show, and he must reconcile himself to that loss.

He sat up on the bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror over the dresser, looking there for the younger Franny from Faustine’s Magic Theater, hiding in the brilliant spotlight of the stage, the only place where he felt truly safe. Even today, if not for his sporadic stage career, he would never leave his rented rooms. But he could not explain this to his agent, who had urged him to retire many years ago.

There was someone behind the door. He was sure of it.

Franny lay back on the pillows, eyes wide with anticipation. He had waited for more than half the century, a million minutes ticking by, building to this moment.

Nick Prado didn’t knock. He let himself in with the key.

The young man bent over a newspaper, intending to close his eyes for a nap while passing for a serious reader. This time slot was a death sentence of sleep deprivation. But the hotel manager could not see beyond mere appearance, and so the desk clerk was doomed to the graveyard shift until his skin cleared up.

He smelled her perfume first. A gardenia, the flower of high school prom corsages and a sad reminder of the stag line.

When he turned around to face the desk, he was staring at a tall blonde with full, ruby lips and a tuxedo. A long leather coat was draped over one arm, and her entire body sparkled with black sequins. He thought the silk top hat was marvelous. It marked her as an escapee from a vintage black-and-white movie. In a further audacity, she wore sunglasses at midnight.

„I’m Louisa Malakhai, room 408. I need the key card.“

„Madam, I thought you were dead.“

The blonde inclined her head, apparently not getting the joke. „I beg your pardon?“

„I’m sorry, Mrs. Malakhai.“ One hand fluttered up to cover his gaunt face, where brand-new pimples were surely blooming before her eyes. „It must’ve been a misprint.“ He dropped his copy of the Times on the floor.

„My husband filled out our registration card.“

„Of course.“ He turned to the computer keyboard and typed in the room number. Louisa Malakhai was indeed a registered guest. He sorted through the box of cards, then pulled one out. Yes, the gentleman had signed for a second occupant, his wife. But according to the newspaper, she had died more than half a century ago.

Pretty damn dead.

He looked up at her face, evidently staring at her too long. Her red fingernails were drumming on the mahogany.

Well, it was an uncommon burglar who showed up in sequins and a top hat. But still – dead was dead. A simple call to the gentleman’s room would – „My husband is asleep. I’d rather you didn’t wake him.“ She laid one soft hand over his to prevent him from picking up the phone. The clerk froze in the attitude of a soldier standing at attention; his insides were flapping like a duck.

„My bag isn’t heavy. I can carry it.“ She held out her hand, palm up and fingers curling to show him the dangerous tips of long red nails. „Give me the key card.“

„I’ll need to see some identification.“

Her mouth dipped on one side, the most subtle indication that she was outraged. This reaction spoke well for both burglar and legal guest, for there was no such thing as hotel security in New York City. It was a lame criminal who could not finesse a victim’s key from any desk clerk in town, striking in the busy daylight hours when the clerks were under pressure and easily conned. But it had never been known to happen in the dead hours of a night shift. He bit down on his lower lip and called himself an overzealous ass.

Apparently, she had anticipated just such an ass. She held up an open Czech passport. The photograph was recent, agreeing with what he could see of her face. But didn’t the page look a bit yellowed, somewhat older than the picture? Her fingers covered the dates of issue and expiration. Was that deliberate?

„The key card.“ Her voice had an edge to it.

They were done with pleasantries. This was an order she was issuing, and nothing in his lifetime of erupting pimples and dateless Saturday nights had prepared him to challenge a tall blonde.

He gave her his most ingratiating smile as he handed her the electronic card. „Your English is flawless, Mrs. Malakhai.“

The narrow beam of her penlight played over his face as Malakhai lay sleeping, all the effects of gravity undone. The light moved on, traveling from wall to bedroom wall. Everything was exactly as the maid had described it this morning. The desk clerk’s skepticism had taken her by surprise. The rest of the hotel staff was under the impression that a woman occupied this suite.

Mallory entered the bathroom, but she did not find the anticipated red hairs in the brush or the comb. And contrary to the maid’s experience, tonight there was no lipstick-stained tissue in the wastebasket. Louisa was fading away.

She whirled around at the sudden brightness of another light.

Malakhai stood behind her in the glow of the bedside lamp, wearing a long black robe. His back was turned to her with utter disregard for any threat that she might pose. Her suitcase lay on the bed, and her gun was inside, stored there because the fitted tuxedo jacket would not close on the bulge of her shoulder holster.

The lock clicked, then he held up a copy of Faustine’s rod of key plugs. „It’s the original, if you’re still curious about that. I never go anywhere without it.“ Malakhai’s hand grazed the contents of the small valise. „Not the typical young lady’s overnight case.“