anyway . . . he’s my escort, so tell me where we should meet, and he can take me there. Sounds good, brother. See you shortly.” He closed the cell phone and said, “You know George’s?”
I nodded. Of course I knew George’s.
Tate picked up his canvas messenger bag and slipped it over his shoulder. “Vince is meeting us there,” Tate said. “I hope you don’t mind hanging out with us tonight. It’ll probably be just a drink or two, and then you can take me back to the hotel. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” I said. “But I need to make a call first.”
I walked behind the abandoned information desk, picked up the phone as though I worked there, and called my neighbor, M. Cat.
“Yo,” M. Cat said, picking up before the phone could even ring on my end.
“M. Cat? It’s Jack.”
“Jack who?”
“Your neighbor.”
“Dude,” he said. “ Dude! That lady—the one from New York—she’s been calling here every fifteen minutes looking for you. Apparently, that
chick you’re in charge of checked out of her hotel, and now this crazy chick—the one from New York—is fucking pissed , dude. She is pissed .”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Easy. I know she checked out.”
“Do you have any idea just how pissed this insane New York chick is?” M. Cat asked. “She wants to string you up by your cojones . And for a chick, she swears a lot. You need to call her cell. You got a pen? You got some paper?”
“Listen. I’m not calling her,” I said. “But I need your help. There’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”
“Two hundred?” I heard M. Cat take a long hit on his bong. In a high-pitched voice still full of smoke, M. Cat said, “Do tell.”
What I told him was that I needed him to find Vanessa Roberts. I needed him to call all the hotels and motels, and once he found her, he would have to drive out there to make sure that she was okay. If need be, he should spend the night in the lobby to make sure she didn’t go anywhere she shouldn’t be going.
“Now here’s the thing,” I said. “According to Lauren”—I cleared my throat—“you know, the crazy New York chick Vanessa, may be experiencing postpartum psychosis. Do you want to hear the symptoms?”
M. Cat said, “Hey, man, I almost went to medical school. I know what postpartum psychosis is.”
“So you know how serious it is?” I asked.
M. Cat snorted. “Dude, I’m on it.” Before I could ask him to keep me updated via my answering machine, he hung up.
I turned to Tate, who was holding a recently reissued Stanislaw Lem novel that he’d written the introduction for. “Ready?” I asked.
Tate glanced down at the book, as though expecting me to acknowledge his contribution, but when I didn’t, he sighed and returned the book to the shelf.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
12
T HE SNOW WAS coming down so hard now I put on a ski mask. Tate regarded me at first with suspicion until the onslaught of snow forced him to duck his head in order to see where he was going. “Just follow me,” I yelled into the wind as it ripped down Washington Avenue.
By the time we reached my car, Tate was shivering and knocking free the snow that had clung to his thick hair. His glasses had steamed over, but he couldn’t seem to clear the fog no matter how many times he rubbed at them with his shirttail.
Inside the car, Tate leaned back and sighed. “My God,” he said. “Is the weather always this bad?”
“Only in the winter,” I said. “And in the summers when the tornadoes come through,” I added. “Otherwise, it’s pretty nice here.”
Tate started sniffing. “What’s that smell?” he asked.
“What smell?” I said, though I knew perfectly well what smell he meant. I smelled it, too. It was sex.
“It’s . . . familiar ,” he said. “But I can’t place it.”
I shook my head and shrugged. “Huh!” I said. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Maybe you would if you took off that ski mask,” he
I nodded. Of course I knew George’s.
Tate picked up his canvas messenger bag and slipped it over his shoulder. “Vince is meeting us there,” Tate said. “I hope you don’t mind hanging out with us tonight. It’ll probably be just a drink or two, and then you can take me back to the hotel. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” I said. “But I need to make a call first.”
I walked behind the abandoned information desk, picked up the phone as though I worked there, and called my neighbor, M. Cat.
“Yo,” M. Cat said, picking up before the phone could even ring on my end.
“M. Cat? It’s Jack.”
“Jack who?”
“Your neighbor.”
“Dude,” he said. “ Dude! That lady—the one from New York—she’s been calling here every fifteen minutes looking for you. Apparently, that
chick you’re in charge of checked out of her hotel, and now this crazy chick—the one from New York—is fucking pissed , dude. She is pissed .”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Easy. I know she checked out.”
“Do you have any idea just how pissed this insane New York chick is?” M. Cat asked. “She wants to string you up by your cojones . And for a chick, she swears a lot. You need to call her cell. You got a pen? You got some paper?”
“Listen. I’m not calling her,” I said. “But I need your help. There’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”
“Two hundred?” I heard M. Cat take a long hit on his bong. In a high-pitched voice still full of smoke, M. Cat said, “Do tell.”
What I told him was that I needed him to find Vanessa Roberts. I needed him to call all the hotels and motels, and once he found her, he would have to drive out there to make sure that she was okay. If need be, he should spend the night in the lobby to make sure she didn’t go anywhere she shouldn’t be going.
“Now here’s the thing,” I said. “According to Lauren”—I cleared my throat—“you know, the crazy New York chick Vanessa, may be experiencing postpartum psychosis. Do you want to hear the symptoms?”
M. Cat said, “Hey, man, I almost went to medical school. I know what postpartum psychosis is.”
“So you know how serious it is?” I asked.
M. Cat snorted. “Dude, I’m on it.” Before I could ask him to keep me updated via my answering machine, he hung up.
I turned to Tate, who was holding a recently reissued Stanislaw Lem novel that he’d written the introduction for. “Ready?” I asked.
Tate glanced down at the book, as though expecting me to acknowledge his contribution, but when I didn’t, he sighed and returned the book to the shelf.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
12
T HE SNOW WAS coming down so hard now I put on a ski mask. Tate regarded me at first with suspicion until the onslaught of snow forced him to duck his head in order to see where he was going. “Just follow me,” I yelled into the wind as it ripped down Washington Avenue.
By the time we reached my car, Tate was shivering and knocking free the snow that had clung to his thick hair. His glasses had steamed over, but he couldn’t seem to clear the fog no matter how many times he rubbed at them with his shirttail.
Inside the car, Tate leaned back and sighed. “My God,” he said. “Is the weather always this bad?”
“Only in the winter,” I said. “And in the summers when the tornadoes come through,” I added. “Otherwise, it’s pretty nice here.”
Tate started sniffing. “What’s that smell?” he asked.
“What smell?” I said, though I knew perfectly well what smell he meant. I smelled it, too. It was sex.
“It’s . . . familiar ,” he said. “But I can’t place it.”
I shook my head and shrugged. “Huh!” I said. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Maybe you would if you took off that ski mask,” he
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