“It’s Strauss, Mr. Whitehead. It’s Marty Strauss. I know you’re in there. Answer me.” He listened. When there was no reply, he beat on the door a third time, this time with fist instead of knuckles. And suddenly the reply came, shockingly close. The old man was standing just the other side of the door; had been all along probably.
“Go to Hell,” the voice said. It was a little slurred, but unmistakably that of Whitehead.
“I have to speak to you,” Marty replied. “Let me in.”
“How the fuck did you find me?” Whitehead demanded. “You bastard.”
“I made some inquiries, that’s all. If I can find you, anybody can.”
“Not if you keep your wretched mouth shut. You want money, is that it? Come here for money, have you?”
“No.”
“You can have it. I’ll get it to you, however much you want.”
“I don’t want money.”
“Then you’re a damn fool,” Whitehead said, and he laughed to himself; a witless, ragged titter. The man was drunk.
“Mamoulian’s on to you,” Marty said. “He knows you’re alive.”
The laughing stopped.
“How?”
“Carys.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yes. She’s safe.”
“Well . . . I underestimated you.” He paused; there was a soft sound, as if he was leaning against the door. After a while he spoke again. He sounded exhausted.
“What did you come for, if not for money? She’s got some expensive habits, you know.”
“No thanks to you.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it as convenient as I did, given time. She’ll bend over backward for a fix.”
“You’re filth, you know that?”
“But you came to warn me anyway.” The old man leaped on the paradox with lightning speed, quick as ever to open a hole in a man’s flank. “Poor Marty . . .” the slurred voice trailed away, smothered by mock pity. Then, razor-sharp: “How did you find me?”
“The strawberries.”
What sounded like muffled choking came from within the suite, but it was Whitehead laughing again, this time at himself. It took several moments for him to regain his composure. “Strawberries . . .” he murmured. “My! You must be persuasive. Did you break his arms?”
“No. He volunteered the information. He didn’t want to see you curl up and die.”
“I’m not going to die!” the old man -snapped. “Mamoulian’s the one who’ll die. You’ll see. He’s running out of time. All I have to do is wait. Here’s as good a place as any. I’m very comfortable. Except for Carys. I miss her. Why don’t you send her to me, Marty? Now that would be most welcome.”
“You’ll never see her again.”
Whitehead sighed. “Oh, yes,” he said, “she’ll be back when she’s tired of you. When she needs someone who really appreciates her stony heart. You’ll see. Well . . . thank you for calling. Goodnight, Marty.”
“Wait.”
“I said goodnight.”
“. . . I’ve got questions . . .” Marty began.
“Questions, questions . . .” the voice was already receding. Marty pressed closer to the door to offer his final sliver of bait. “We found out who the European is; what he is!” But there was no reply. He’d lost Whitehead’s attention. It was fruitless anyway, he knew. There was no wisdom to be got here; just a drunken old man replaying his old power games. Somewhere deep inside the penthouse suite a door closed. All contact between the two men was summarily severed.
Marty descended the two flights of stairs back to the open fire door, and left the building by the route he’d entered. After the smell of dead fire inside, even the highway-tainted air smelled light and new.
He stood for several minutes on the escape and watched the traffic passing along the highway, his attention pleasantly diverted by the spectacle of lane-hopping commuters. Below, two dogs fought among the refuse, bored with rape. None of them cared, drivers or dogs, about the fall of potentates: why should he? Whitehead, like the hotel, was a lost cause. He’d done his best to salvage the old man and failed. Now he and Carys would slip away into a new life, and let Whitehead make whatever arrangements for cessation he chose. Let him slit his wrists in a stupor of remorse, or choke on vomit in his sleep: Marty was past caring.