How he hated that expression and how many times he had heard it … especially from the fellows at school when they thought he couldn’t hear. “Boy, is Grant’s mother a piece of ass. What I wouldn’t do to get into that!” What was he supposed to do? Donate her to the charity auction they held every year? It was his mother they were talking about, for Christ’s sake, his mother. Didn’t anybody understand?
It never occurred to him he might be jealous.
“Are you still on that couch, Grant?” She stepped out of the bathroom, an oversized terry cloth towel wrapped around her body and a smaller one around her head.
“What else is there to do?”
“Oh, God, don’t start that the moment we arrive. Put on your bathing suit and go down to the pool. Maybe you’ll meet some kids your own age. There’s got to be lots of teenage girls up here this weekend.”
“I don’t feel like swimming.”
“Look Grant,” now she was getting serious, “all I’m asking you to do is to give it a chance. Get involved in something. You don’t have to fall in love with the place, but there has to be something, someone you’d like. And you’ll never find out if you just mope around the room.” Besides, she thought to herself, I’ll never have any privacy if you’re always hanging around.
He got up and walked to the window. They were very high up so the view was encompassing. He could see the main highways in the distance, heavy with traffic now. The cars moved like insects. He wished he had the power to step on them and squash them into the macadam. And the people walking around the grounds below, they looked more like mechanical wind-up robots than human beings to him.
As he stood gazing down, he was struck by the sheer immensity, of the place. To think that he, Grant Kaplan, would be able to do anything significant to damage it was ridiculous. He was outnumbered, outsized and outclassed. It depressed him to have his fantasy deflated.
Melinda was still chattering away, repeating her now too familiar speech about his not being a loner, mixing with others, developing relationships, etc. He imagined a small long-playing record in her head. She just pressed the button and on it went. She could do lots of other things at the same time because the record ran itself. He was sure, for instance, that even now while she was talking to him, her mind was on other things. He was afraid to think about what.
When he turned from the window, he looked into her bedroom where she was standing in front of a vanity mirror, clad only in the bikini panties she had newly purchased last week. They had a hole where the crotch would normally be. As she brushed out her hair, her firm breasts vibrated. He found it embarrassing to admit, but his mother’s body really appealed to him and he could understand why strangers enjoyed looking at her the way they did. As for her, in some strange, peculiar way, she enjoyed showing off to him too.
What if he had an erection, he thought, staring at her with fascination. No, that would be sick. After all, she was his …
Most of his friends got erections constantly, at least they said they did, but Grant had always had difficulty. He was as turned on, at least in his head, by pictures of foldouts from
Playboy
as they were and even one night at a dance he had gotten his hands on a girl’s tits but … nothing. Of course, Melinda never knew.
“All I can tell you,” (she started another record in her head), “is to be very careful when you’re with a girl up here. I trust you know enough not to get a girl pregnant.” Wonderful, he thought, just picturing himself going to the canteen and asking for a box of rubbers. Not that it would ever come to that, but …
“I don’t make mistakes with girls,” he said.
“Well, there’s always a first time and I’m just trying to give you some motherly advice.”
“Did you ever make a sexual mistake?” he asked, suddenly very curious.
“Grant, for God’s sake. That’s something I don’t plan to discuss with my fifteen-year-old son. Now, are you going downstairs and make some friends or not?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll wait and go down with you.”
That was obviously the last thing she wanted. “For God’s sake, you’re not a baby. Can’t you do anything on your own?” She gave up in frustration and slammed the bedroom door in his face.
“I’ll shoot over to the hospital now,” Sid said after they had left Jonathan’s office. The bellhop had taken Bruce’s bags and was waiting to show him to his room. “I’ve got to make rounds and then get back to my office. Why don’t you get started with what you have to do and I’ll check with you later in the afternoon.”
“Sounds good.” They started down the corridor as the bellhop led the way. “I’ve got to tell you I have the distinct impression the general manager is not exactly thrilled to have me around.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. The toughness is just Jonathan’s manner. He doesn’t like having people he can’t control hanging around his turf. But he keeps his promises. If he says he’ll cooperate, he will.”
They stopped by the side door that led to the parking lot. “Good luck.” His cousin waved.
Bruce followed the bellhop to his room. When the door was opened, he hesitated. What a disappointment! Some free ride—it never occurred to him that a hotel of this size could have such tiny rooms. The bellhop seemed to sense his letdown because he dropped the suitcase as quickly as he could and turned to leave. Bruce put a dollar in his palm and contemplated the scene—an ordinary single bed with a thick plywood headboard, two rather worn dressers, one with deep scratches on the drawers, and a small closet to his right with only a few hangers in it. The rug was worn through to the seams and what once had probably been a bright yellow color had now faded into a piss lemon hue. The pale white cotton curtain on the small window on the fire escape looked so thin it was practically transparent.
He shook his head and walked into the bathroom, half expecting to find the trappings of a cheap motel—drinking glasses in cellophane paper and a ribbon of crepe with the hotel’s name draped tightly across the toilet seat.
There was no pretense … this was the cheapest room in the hotel, probably used for latecomers desperate to get anything they could, or guests the management wanted to make sure never came back. Thanks, Jonathan, he thought. I know you went out of your way to make me feel at home.
Without bothering to unpack, he quickly changed his shirt and got down to the business of tracking Tony Wong’s activities over the last few days.
Jonathan had given him a diagram of the hotel so he could get around without difficulty. The first man to see was that personnel director, Bob Halloran. He checked the map, noting where the man’s office was located in the basement, and took the elevator down. When the door opened, he stepped out into a relatively dark corridor. Dim bulbs spaced out along the way threw heavy shadows over the concrete floor and walls. Sounds from above traveled down through the pipes in a symphony of vibrations and knocks. A nasal hum emanated from the electric generators halfway down the corridor. At its end was the hotel laundry, where Bruce could hear the subdued voices of custodial personnel sorting linens and putting them in the huge washing and drying machines. The dampness made him shiver and reminded him of the pathology lab where he trained.
Halloran’s office was just to the right. When he got there, he found it empty but the door was open so he walked in.
It was a small windowless office, overcrowded with one desk and chair, certainly not a pleasant place to work. A folding chair was placed against the right wall, giving the impression there were never more than two people in the office at one time. On the wall immediately behind the desk were series of charts depicting employees schedules, shifts, rotations, etc. He was about to leave when he heard footsteps.
“Can I help you?” Bob Halloran asked as he walked into his office.
“I’m Bruce Solomon and—”
“Yes. Mr. Lawrence told me you’d be around. Something about insurance. Last inspection we had a couple of weeks ago, everything checked out okay. What’s the problem now?”
“I’m involved with health, not property insurance,” Bruce said quickly. “I understand you had a worker here get sick, Tony Wong?”
“Yeah, Tony the Chinaman. He’s in the hospital. What about him?”
“I just need a few facts, actually.” He eyed the folding chair and when Halloran took his seat, Bruce sat down too. “Do you know if he was off the grounds at any time immediately before he took sick?”
“I doubt it. He just came over from Hong Kong and I don’t think he really knows anyone away from the hotel. He’s only been here a week. But if anyone would know it would be his roommates.”
“Roommates?”
“Yeah. Two of them. In fact, I just left them. They’ve been shacking up down the road because Tony was sick and when they came back and saw the condition of the room, the way Tony left it full of shit and everything, they wouldn’t move back until I got it cleaned up. Had a helluva time getting a chambermaid to do it, too.”
“Someone cleaned it? When?” He was starting to pick up a clue that pleased him not at all.
“She started when I was leaving … might even be finished by now.”
“Who is she?”
“Who’s who?”
“The chambermaid. I’ve got to see her right away.”
“Margret Thomas? I don’t see what …”
Bruce stood up. “Is she still in Tony’s room?”
“Hold on. I’ll call over and see.” He lifted the phone and dialed an extension. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with insurance. “Hey,” he said into the receiver. “This is Mr. Halloran. Is Margret Thomas still there? She’s cleaning Tony the Chinaman’s room.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “You wouldn’t believe some of the weirdos we wind up hiring over the summer.” Okay, thanks,” he said. He turned to Bruce. “Nope, she already left. And to think I’m paying her a whole day’s overtime. She must have done some job.”
“Where do you think she would be now?”
“Maybe back in her room, that is if she’s not already out celebrating her extra pay.”
“Can you call there? Please,” he added, sitting back down on the chair.
“Sure.” Jonathan had instructed him to cooperate, but this wasn’t making any sense. What could Margret have to do with—“It’s ringing. How is Tony, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Bruce lied. “Those roommates of Tony. What do they do?”
“Dishwashers.” He held up his hand. “Hello, who’s this? Graciela, this is Mr. Halloran. Would you do me a favor, please, and see if Margret Thomas is in her room?” He waited for an answer, then hung up. “No go. She’s not there either.”
“If she was the last person to touch any of Tony’s things, it’s imperative I find her immediately.”
Halloran tried to get a grasp on the situation. He was smart enough to know that something was going on that had nothing whatever to do with health insurance, but just exactly what it was—
Bruce plunged ahead. “And Tony’s roommates. Are they in the kitchen now?”
“They aren’t due for a couple of hours.”
“Let me use the phone,” he said, not waiting for a reply. He dialed the switchboard and asked for the general manager. Jonathan’s secretary picked up immediately. “Hello, Suzy, this is Mr. Solomon. I have to speak to him right away.”
There was a slight pause, then Jonathan’s cool hello.
“I need three of your people rounded up right away and a private place to interrogate them.”
“You’re not panicking already, are you?”
“No, Mr. Lawrence, just doing my job. Bob Halloran will give you their names.” He handed Halloran the phone. He listened for a moment, then gave Jonathan the requested information.
“You can meet with them in a storeroom down the hall.”
“How long will it take to round them up?”
“Security should find the Puerto Ricans within a matter of minutes. There’s not many places they hang out around the hotel. With Margret, it might prove more difficult. She tends to get involved with lots of people,” he said with a wink.
Each minute seemed like an hour. For Christ’s sake, Bruce thought, I hope they hurry up. We could be playing with fire and it might already be too late.
“Thar she blows,” Charlotte Fein said, pointing to the Congress hotel a few miles away. The slim brunette stood up from her seat near the front of the bus and raised both hands toward the ceiling. Then she bent forward in a “Praise be to Allah” fashion and there was a roar of laughter from the crowd on the Shortline’s Catskill Express. Her girlfriend, Fern Rosen, tugged on her skirt.
“Sit down, you idiot.”
“Idiot? Have you no respect for the temple of love? If Mohammed could have his mountain, there’s no reason we can’t have ours too!”
Fern shook her head incredulously and looked out the window, still not believing she had let her mother talk her into this
mishigas
in the first place. Less confident and shyer than most girls who came to the Congress, it was not an experience she particularly looked forward to.
“Why not just relax and enjoy yourself,” Charlotte said. “Don’t be so nervous all the time. Remember our mission,” she whispered, loud enough so that everyone within twelve rows could hear, “We’re under orders. We’re to find two nice Jewish boys, fall in love and get engaged before the end of the weekend.”
“Or else they won’t let us back across the George Washington Bridge,” Fern added, surprised at her own contribution to this inane conversation.
“Ah,” Charlotte said, “you had the same lecture before you left, too, I see.”
“What do you think? Here I am, twenty-three years old, a book-keeper at Mutual Life and date an average of once a month. In my mother’s and her neighbor’s eyes, that makes me a social retard.”
“It’s the same with me,” Charlotte volunteered. “The whole time at dinner, every night, I sit and listen to what my mother was doing by the time she was my age. There she was, twenty-five years old, raising three kids, slaving like a
shvartsa
to keep a clean house, and sacrificing her life so her husband could get ahead with his. Why is it, do you think, that according to Jewish wives, no Jewish husbands ever made it on their own?”
“At the rate I’m going,” Fern said, “I doubt I’ll ever find out.”