But the thing which made the biggest impression was also the hardest thing to define: the city
just seemed bigger. It thundered and hummed all around her. It vibrated. Every breath of air was perfumed with its signature smell. The women waiting for taxis outside the hotel (with or
without their bra-straps showing) could only be New York women; the doormen (not one but two) flagging cabs could only be New York doormen; the cabbies (she was amazed by how
many of them were dark-skinned, and she saw one who was wearing a turban) could only be New York cabbies, but they were all . . . different. The world had moved on. It was as if her New York, that of 1964, had been a triple-A ball-club. This was the major leagues.
She paused for a moment just inside the lobby, pulling the scrimshaw turtle out of her pocket
and getting her bearings. To her left was a parlor area. Two women were sitting there, chatting, and Susannah stared at them for a moment, hardly able to credit how much leg they were
showing under the hems of their skirts (what skirts, ha-ha?). And they weren’t teenagers or kollege kuties, either; these were women in their thirties, at least (although she supposed they might be in their sixties, who knew what scientific advances there might have been over the last thirty-five years).
To the right was a little shop. Somewhere in the shadows behind it a piano was tinkling out
something blessedly familiar — “Night and Day” — and Susannah knew if she went toward the sound, she’d find a lot of leather seats, a lot of sparkling bottles, and a gentleman in a white coat who’d be happy to serve her even if it was only the middle of the afternoon. All this was a decided relief.
Directly ahead of her was the reception desk, and behind it was the most exotic woman
Susannah had ever seen in her life. She appeared to be white, black, and Chinese, all whipped
together. In 1964, such a woman would undoubtedly have been called a mongrel, no matter how
beautiful she might have been. Here she had been popped into an extremely handsome ladies’
suit and put behind the reception desk of a large first-class hotel. The Dark Tower might be
increasingly shaky, Susannah thought, and the world might be moving on, but she thought the
lovely desk clerk was proof (if any were needed) that not everything was falling down or going in the wrong direction. She was talking to a customer who was complaining about his in-room
movie bill, whatever that might be.
Never mind, it’s the future, Susannah told herself once again. It’s science fiction, like the City of Lud. Best leave it at that.
I don’t care what it is or when, Mia said. I want to be near a telephone. I want to see to my chap.
Susannah walked past a sign on a tripod, then turned back and gave it a closer look.
AS OF JULY 1ST, 1999, THE NEW YORK PLAZA-PARK HYATT
WILL BECOME THE REGAL U.N. PLAZA HOTEL
ANOTHER GREAT SOMBRA/NORTH CENTRAL PROJECT!!
Susannah thought, Sombra as in Turtle Bay Luxury Condominiums . . . which never got built,
from the look of that black-glass needle back on the corner. And North Central as in North Central Positronics. Interesting.
She felt a sudden twinge of pain go through her head. Twinge? Hell, a bolt. It made her eyes
water. And she knew who had sent it. Mia, who had no interest in the Sombra Corporation,
North Central Positronics, or the Dark Tower itself, was becoming impatient. Susannah knew
she’d have to change that, or at least try. Mia was focused blindly on her chap, but if she wanted to keep the chap, she might have to widen her field of vision a little bit.
She fight you ever’ damn step of the way, Detta said. Her voice was shrewd and tough and cheerful. You know dat too, don’t you?
She did.
Susannah waited until the man with the problem finished explaining how he had ordered some
movie called X-Rated by accident, and he didn’t mind paying as long as it wasn’t on his bill, and then she stepped up to the desk herself. Her heart was pounding.
“I believe that my friend, Mathiessen van Wyck, has rented a room for me,” she said. She saw the reception clerk looking at her stained shirt with well-bred disapproval, and laughed
nervously. “I really can’t wait to take a shower and change my clothes. I had a small accident. At lunch.”
“Yes, madam. Just let me check.” The woman went to what looked like a small TV screen with a typewriter attached. She tapped a few keys, looked at the screen, and then said: “Susannah Mia Dean, is that correct?”
You say true, I say thank ya rose to her lips and she squelched it. ‘Yes, that’s right.”
“May I see some identification, please?”
For a moment Susannah was flummoxed. Then she reached into the rush bag and took out an
Oriza, being careful to hold it by the blunt curve. She found herself remembering something
Roland had said to Wayne Overholser, the Calla’s big rancher: We deal in lead. The ‘Rizas weren’t bullets, but surely they were the equivalent. She held the plate up in one hand and the small carved turtle in the other.
“Will this do?” she asked pleasantly.
“What — ” the beautiful desk clerk began, then fell silent as her eyes shifted from the plate to the turtle. They grew wide and slightly glassy. Her lips, coated with an interesting pink gloss (it looked more like candy than lipstick to Susannah), parted. A soft sound came from between
them: ohhhh . . .
“It’s my driver’s license,” Susannah said. “Do you see?” Luckily there was no one else around, not even a bellman. The late-day checkouts were on the sidewalk, fighting for hacks; in here, the lobby was a-doze. From the bar beyond the gift shop, “Night and Day” gave way to a lazy and introspective version of “Stardust.”
“Driver’s license,” the desk clerk agreed in that same sighing, wondering voice.
“Good. Are you supposed to write anything down?”
“No . . . Mr. Van Wyck rented the room . . . all I need is to . . . to check your . . . may I hold the turtle, ma’am?”
“No,” Susannah said, and the desk clerk began to weep. Susannah observed this phenomenon with bemusement. She didn’t believe she had made so many people cry since her disastrous
violin recital (both first and last) at the age of twelve.
“No, I may not hold it,” the desk clerk said, weeping freely. “No, no, I may not, may not hold it, ah, Discordia, I may not — ”
“Hush up your snivel,” Susannah said, and the desk clerk hushed at once. “Give me the room-key, please.”
But instead of a key, the Eurasian woman handed her a plastic card in a folder. Written on the
inside of the folder —so would-be thieves couldn’t easily see it, presumably — was the number
1919. Which didn’t surprise Susannah at all. Mia, of course, could not have cared less.
She stumbled on her feet a little. Reeled a little. Had to wave one hand (the one holding her
“driver’s license”) for balance. There was a moment when she thought she might tumble to the floor, and then she was okay again.
“Ma’am?” the desk clerk inquired. Looking remotely — very remotely — concerned. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” Susannah said. “Only . . . lost my balance there for a second or two.”
Wondering, What in the blue hell just happened? Oh, but she knew the answer. Mia was the one with the legs, Mia. Susannah had been driving the bus ever since encountering old Mr. May I Not Take The Skölpadda, and this body was starting to revert to its legless-below-the-knee state.
Crazy but true. Her body was going Susannah on her.
Mia, get up here. Take charge.
I can’t. Not yet. As soon as we’re alone I will.
And dear Christ, Susannah recognized that tone of voice, recognized it very well. The bitch
was shy.
To the desk clerk, Susannah said, “What’s this thing? Is it a key?”
“Why — yes, sai. You use it in the elevator as well as to open your room. Just push it into the slot in the direction the arrows point. Remove it briskly. When the light on the door turns green, you may enter. I have slightly over eight thousand dollars in my cash drawer. I’ll give it all to you for your pretty thing, your turtle, your skölpadda, your tortuga, your kavvit, your — ”
“No,” Susannah said, and staggered again. She clutched the edge of the desk. Her equilibrium was shot. “I’m going upstairs now.” She’d meant to visit the gift shop first and spend some of Mats’s dough on a clean shirt, if they carried such things, but that would have to wait. Everything would have to wait.