narrow brown tomb, the walls painted the color of shit. I hate to generalize, but if I was looking to kill myself in a cheap coldwater garret where none of my neighbors are gonna say boo, this is the place. The receptionist is a guy watching TV behind a chickenwire cage. The house rates are scrawled on a blackboard behind his head, which is shaved smooth as my ass and covered in fine, intricate tattoos. I step up to the cage and the guy growls at me, jerks his fascinating skull at the blackboard. I glance at the board just long enough to register the notion that a bed in this shithole may be rented by the hour for the kingly ransom of ten dollars.
I’m not interested in a room, I say.
You a cop?
I’m looking for a buddy of mine, Sugar Finch.
The skull gives me a long look, and apparently decides I am just unsavory enough to indeed be pals with a piece of shit like this Sugar Finch.
He’s in room 39, third floor.
You know if he’s in?
Think I saw him, yeah.
Don’t buzz him, okay. I want to surprise him.
Buzz him? Shit man, you think we got phones in the rooms?
I take the gummy wet stairs up to the third floor, my steps echoing soft. The fire door opens onto a long windowless hallway with rancid gray carpet and gray walls streaked with water damage. The air is funky in the Alamo. I cruise silent down the hall and find the door marked 39, keep going. Communal toilet at the opposite end, which accounts for some of the funk. I retrace my steps to the fire door. On the wall to my left is a fuse box. I flip it open and take out my knife; what I aim to do deserves the cover of darkness.
I shove my knife into the control panel and twist. The hall lights blink once, and go black. It’s just like being inside my head. Dark, with lingering echoes and the faint stink of mildew. I touch one hand to the wall and stealth-walk along to 39. Trouble is I’m not much of a killer. The fact is, I’ve never killed anybody, not on purpose. I’ve wanted to, plenty of times, but always stopped short. It’s just not part of my wiring. Now I’m in a dark hallway, maybe twenty-five feet from one of the men who raped Jude, and I don’t quite know what I’m going to do. I may suffer mind-ripping headaches all the time, and with them apocalyptic visions, but I can’t discern the future.
The best I can imagine is disappearing into the shadows along the wall. In a minute, Sugar Finch will come out of the room nervous and freaked by the power failure. It would be the easiest thing in the world to sweep his legs out from under him, to fall like a cat onto his chest, to slash open his throat before he even cries out. Easy as cake to imagine, damn near impossible to see myself doing it. Now the door to 39 opens cool as a whisper and I fade against the wall.
four.
T HE K ING J AMES H OTEL IS STRICTLY OLD WORLD . I limp into the lobby, still shaken. A silent valet in an elegant green uniform comes forward to take my bag, a shapeless leather pouch that holds my toothbrush and what remains of my wardrobe. I shake my head and mutter that I’m not feeble. The valet tips his cap, flashes me a ghostly smile. I give him five dollars, because I believe in big tips and because I don’t necessarily want him to notice that I’ve just had my ass kicked good and proper.
The valet is young and thin with dark circles under blue eyes.
What’s your name? I say.
Jeremy, sir. I’m here until midnight.
I have a bad hangover, Jeremy. What do you recommend?
He shrugs. Vanilla milkshake with a shot of espresso and splash of brandy.
That sounds perfect.
Your room number, sir?
I glance at the scrap of paper on which I’ve written Jude’s room number.
My name is Poe. I’m in room 1221.
The kid blushes at the mention of this number and I gather he’s met Jude. This makes me smile. Jude was always very sweet to grocery clerks and postmen. I give the kid another five and he says the milkshake is already on its way.
The elevator rises slow and
I’m not interested in a room, I say.
You a cop?
I’m looking for a buddy of mine, Sugar Finch.
The skull gives me a long look, and apparently decides I am just unsavory enough to indeed be pals with a piece of shit like this Sugar Finch.
He’s in room 39, third floor.
You know if he’s in?
Think I saw him, yeah.
Don’t buzz him, okay. I want to surprise him.
Buzz him? Shit man, you think we got phones in the rooms?
I take the gummy wet stairs up to the third floor, my steps echoing soft. The fire door opens onto a long windowless hallway with rancid gray carpet and gray walls streaked with water damage. The air is funky in the Alamo. I cruise silent down the hall and find the door marked 39, keep going. Communal toilet at the opposite end, which accounts for some of the funk. I retrace my steps to the fire door. On the wall to my left is a fuse box. I flip it open and take out my knife; what I aim to do deserves the cover of darkness.
I shove my knife into the control panel and twist. The hall lights blink once, and go black. It’s just like being inside my head. Dark, with lingering echoes and the faint stink of mildew. I touch one hand to the wall and stealth-walk along to 39. Trouble is I’m not much of a killer. The fact is, I’ve never killed anybody, not on purpose. I’ve wanted to, plenty of times, but always stopped short. It’s just not part of my wiring. Now I’m in a dark hallway, maybe twenty-five feet from one of the men who raped Jude, and I don’t quite know what I’m going to do. I may suffer mind-ripping headaches all the time, and with them apocalyptic visions, but I can’t discern the future.
The best I can imagine is disappearing into the shadows along the wall. In a minute, Sugar Finch will come out of the room nervous and freaked by the power failure. It would be the easiest thing in the world to sweep his legs out from under him, to fall like a cat onto his chest, to slash open his throat before he even cries out. Easy as cake to imagine, damn near impossible to see myself doing it. Now the door to 39 opens cool as a whisper and I fade against the wall.
four.
T HE K ING J AMES H OTEL IS STRICTLY OLD WORLD . I limp into the lobby, still shaken. A silent valet in an elegant green uniform comes forward to take my bag, a shapeless leather pouch that holds my toothbrush and what remains of my wardrobe. I shake my head and mutter that I’m not feeble. The valet tips his cap, flashes me a ghostly smile. I give him five dollars, because I believe in big tips and because I don’t necessarily want him to notice that I’ve just had my ass kicked good and proper.
The valet is young and thin with dark circles under blue eyes.
What’s your name? I say.
Jeremy, sir. I’m here until midnight.
I have a bad hangover, Jeremy. What do you recommend?
He shrugs. Vanilla milkshake with a shot of espresso and splash of brandy.
That sounds perfect.
Your room number, sir?
I glance at the scrap of paper on which I’ve written Jude’s room number.
My name is Poe. I’m in room 1221.
The kid blushes at the mention of this number and I gather he’s met Jude. This makes me smile. Jude was always very sweet to grocery clerks and postmen. I give the kid another five and he says the milkshake is already on its way.
The elevator rises slow and
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