biggest wad and pull it out, uncurl the currency. “We have not.”
“May I have your reservation number?”
I start counting bills. “We don’t have a reservation.”
So here’s how the process works: I am a grungy guy boasting a thick five o’clock shadow, standing next to his strung-out-looking girlfriend, walking in with no reservation. Prepare for the blow-off.
“Well, sir, there’s a convention in the hotel. I’m afraid there’re no—”
I chuck several hundred dollars on the counter. “We’d like two rooms, adjoining, facing the harbor. Two nights.” I keep counting bills because a second wad will be required right…
“Uh, sure. Let me see.” She types for a moment. “Do you have a major credit card?”
Now. I drop a slightly larger wad on the counter. Of course I have a credit card. Am I going to use it so the feds can easily find out where we are? I’m thinking no. When I’m in New York, my name does all the work; everywhere else cash acts as the grease. I determined years ago that some hotel clerks are like hosts at restaurants: A wad of cash brings the best room or table. Name and money, the first and second rules of thumb growing up Bovaro.
She prints off the agreement, some paper covered in small print, asks me to sign it. I go to the bottom and scribble gibberish in the spot for my name. I shove the door cards in my pocket, slip a bag-filled fist behind Melody in an effort to guide her, and walk us to the elevators.
I press the up button and a car immediately opens. We walk into what feels like a large coffin with an interior composed of mirrors. Melody catches a glimpse of herself and turns down and away. I put all the shopping bags in one hand, reach over and smile and pull her to me, bring her to my chest. She rests herself against me. I kiss the top of her head, say nothing.
We exit one floor from the top of the hotel and find our rooms. I open the door to the suite on the right and allow Melody to walk in first. I put her bags down near the dresser, say, “These are all for you. Hope I wasn’t being too presumptuous.”
Melody sits on the bed, bounces lightly on it a few times giving it a little test drive, looks around the room with the slow steady movement of a surveillance camera. For a woman who’s spent so much time in hotels and motels, she looks uncertain of her surroundings.
I walk over to the window, open the blinds, and stare out over the harbor. And just as I’m about to call her over and show her what I wanted her to see, I am awash in disappointment: The view is nearly identical to the one from my room at the hotel in Norfolk. Truly, both views display brick-lined harbors, milling pedestrians, an array of skyscrapers, pavilions with shops and restaurants. This could be Columbus, Louisville, Pittsburgh, Des Moines. Another cookie-cutter, master-planned design that she does not need in her life. How often had she been relocated where some guy waved his hand across the land and said, “Look! Isn’t this great?” I have become as useless and ineffective as the feds. I turn away, start biting my thumbnail.
“Why did you book two nights?” she asks.
I don’t have an answer to offer—at least, not one she should hear. The truth: I want all of the hits to be completed, for Melody and I to be the last to arrive, to return home after all is well—not amidst the chaos and concern. Or: If things collapse, I want us to be nowhere near New York, out of striking distance if the feds’ plan is more complete and successful than ours. But more to the immediate point, I need time for everyone to return to New York so I can avoid being asked to meet up with our crew somewhere on the way—and having someone else finish Melody off before I can get her to New York safely. I walk to the bed and sit down next to her, keep a distance between us.
I finally answer, “Thought you might like a day in the spa here in the hotel. Figured, you know, you might enjoy getting pampered for a change.”
She looks down and laughs a little; it appears to have been the last thing she expected as a response. “I don’t know what to say.” She plays