Джон Макдональд: A Key to the Suite

“You’ll see more than you can handle, pops,” Honey said.

“That’s all set,” Tommy said.

“And don’t you kids be standing around like you are right now, looking like you hated the whole deal.”

“When we’re on, we’ll be on, friend,” Bunny said. “You’ll have no complaint.”

Bobby Fayhouser came up behind Frick and said, “Fred, can I see you a minute?”

“You girls be back here at two o’clock sharp, ready to go,” Frick said. They nodded and walked away, side by side, in perfect unison. Frick watched the synchronous clench and roll and swing of the plaid fannies and shook his head wonderingly and said, “Like seeing double, huh? Tommy, maybe there’s our little celebration when this damn thing is over.”

“I doubt the hell out of that,” Carmer said. “That Honey one has a two-year-old kid and is married to a musician, and the other one has a county cop for a boyfriend. That’ll be okay on this job, Freddy, but the reason they’re a little sour, it’s on account of they’ve been singing and dancing since they were three years old, and now they’re twenty-three, and I guess they think they should have made it a little better than being in a convention display.”

“It might be important, what I want to tell you, Fred,” Fayhouser said.

Frick moved off to one side with the younger man. “A delay on the suite?” he asked.

“You were worried about a man named Hubbard coming? Floyd Hubbard? And you asked me to tell you right away if...”

“Is he coming?”

“He’s already here. He’s in 847. He checked in before seven o’clock this morning.”

Frick looked beyond Fayhouser, looked toward the huge shadowy cave of the convention hall beyond the display ramp, and exposed his unlikely teeth in a mirthless grin. “Well, well, well! So he made it.”

“What’s the bit on him anyhow, Fred? I know you put him on the AGM list, but you seemed nervous about him. Is there anything I should know?”

Frick stared at Fayhouser with an odd indignant contempt. “You? What should you know about him? He’s home-office brass, isn’t he? So you treat him like home-office brass. What does a kid like you have to worry about? They test all of you these days, don’t they? Your marks are on file in some goddam computer, aren’t they? You got papers like a pedigree dog.”

“But...”

“Don’t stand too close to this Hubbard, or you’ll hear all the little relays clicking and it might make you nervous.”

“Why get sore at me?”

“I’m not sore at you, Bobby. When do we get the suite?”

“Noon at the latest.”

“So go do something useful.”

Bobby Fayhouser walked away. He glanced back once and then quickened his pace. Frick walked slowly toward the main lobby, glancing at the exhibits. He phoned 847 from the lobby and was told there was no answer — which could mean that Hubbard was out or was blocking all incoming calls.

It was eleven o’clock, too late to get in touch with Jesse Mulaney and tip him off about Hubbard. Maybe Jesse knew it anyway. But, as the local representative, the man on the scene, it was his job to keep Mulaney advised. A rich territory, but he wished to God this convention was somewhere else this time, not in his back yard. Poor Jesse, too old-time for the new hot shots.

He walked out a side door and down an outside staircase to the pool area. The sun blazed down on the ranked battalions of sun cots, more than half of them occupied. By the cabanas the people who paid the fee for more privacy were sunning themselves. He walked to the thatched bar, sat on a shady stool, ordered a Screwdriver and felt his morale improve as he watched the bartender slice the fresh oranges. After his first deep swallow of the drink, he looked through an opening of the bamboo framework around the bar and watched a hard-faced blonde with a lithe youthful body oil herself with most tender care, then stretch out and become another anonymous sun-stricken corpse amid the acres of browning, gleaming flesh.

Jesse, he decided, would have some operational plan. He wouldn’t tattoo a dotted line on his throat and then kneel down to make it handier for this Hubbard. Where it puts me, he thought, is right the hell in the middle. I ride with Mulaney, and I go out when he does, which could be a soon thing. If I should back off from it and Mulaney wins, then he would delight in throwing me out, because he would notice that kind of thing sooner than any man I’ve ever known. Mulaney will at least get pensioned. What the hell will I get?

Suddenly he thought of one safe move he could make, one that might look good to Mulaney, and wouldn’t be known to anyone else. Hell, he thought, Jesse might go for it and it might work, even. He finished his drink in a hurry and went into the hotel, to the pay booths on the lower level. He looked up an unlisted number in the back of his pocket notebook.

After the sixth ring, just as he was beginning to wonder if she was out of town, a woman answered, her voice sulky and blurred with sleep, asking an angry question which came out sounding like, “Wharrawah?”

“Alma? Alma, honey? This is Freddy. Freddy Frick.”

“Oh dear Jesus! ’S dawn, Freddy! Cold, gray dawn.”

“Alma, the reason I called...”

“Hol’ the phone a minute.”

He held the phone a long long time. “Now what?” she asked, and her voice was clear and almost precise.

“Jesse is coming down. To a convention. He’ll get here today.”

“This is a reason to wake me up, for God’s sake? He’s a dear man, and we’ve had our laughs, Freddy, but sleep is important.”

“Alma, I always had the feeling you liked Jesse Mulaney.”

“I guess I do.”

“More than just... on a business basis.”

“What the hell are you getting at?”

“Alma, maybe he’s in trouble. He didn’t ask me to get in touch with you. It’s my idea entirely. I was just thinking... maybe you could help.”

“Keep talking.”

“There’s a lot of changes going on, in the company. There’s a man going to be at the convention, and he will maybe be making the final report that’ll tie the can to Jesse. I was just thinking that... if this man had a hell of a good time down here, and if it got to be... well, say a little bit obvious toward the end, he wouldn’t be so anxious to take the wrong kind of word back.”

“It isn’t exactly a new problem, Freddy dear. I suppose this man would have his guard up. I mean to say that if he’s bright, which I suppose he would have to be, he might be expecting this sort of thing, and so it wouldn’t work.”

“There’s that chance, Alma. So it would depend on the talent, I guess.”

“It would indeed. It would indeed.”

“On the other hand, maybe Jesse has a better plan worked out, and wouldn’t want to try anything like this. But I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to check it out before he gets here, so it could be lined up in case.”

“This man you want should have a fine time — young?”

“Early thirties.”

“That makes it a little rougher, you know. Married?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a small help, usually. There would have to be some good reason for having the girl there, you know. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes, as we’ve been talking I’ve thought of it, but it would have to be a cover story that would fit the girl, Alma.”

“You know, you’re always just a little sharper than I expect you to be, Freddy.”

“Should I say thanks?”

“While we’ve been talking, dear, I’ve been weeding out. I have a very lovely little friend who might work out just right. But it would depend on how she takes to it. She’s kind of complicated. She’s certainly not what you’d call obvious. Sometimes she’s more trouble than she’s worth. Now don’t get nervous, dear. I don’t mean she gets taken drunk or neurotic. I mean she’s too damn selective sometimes. And stubborn as can be. But let me put it this way, Freddy. For any truly high-level guy wanting to meet a nice little friend, I’d have every confidence in Cory. Her name, dear, is Corinna. But then, how many high-level guys are ever in need?”