Read Online Green Ice by Gerald A Browne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gerald A Browne
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they passed people. Several said hello because he appeared to be someone they should know, or wanted to. Two Mrs. Gimble types gave him just enough of an eye, and a little farther on, so did a man and a woman together.
No sign of Lillian.
Wiley thought perhaps she’d been ejected. If so, what was he doing there? His concern was canceled by recalling how efficient she’d been.
The cart turned left, climbed up a narrower street, then right for a short distance. It stopped at the foot of a flight of wide white stairs that led to a landing. A heavy white door was discreetly numbered 114 . The porter used his passkey. He placed the luggage inside, said “Muchas gracias” twice and departed.
It was a large square room, about twenty by twenty, with a high, domed ceiling. White splashed sparingly with yellow, green, blue. The floor was white marble, strategically softened with thick curly-wool rugs, also white. Two facing sofas and a matching chair were covered in a natural muslin-like linen that incorporated an almost indiscernible blue stripe. On a table of inch-thick milk glass was a silver salver of fruit, next to the latest issues of Vogue and Réalités , next to a cut-crystal container of Dunhill cigarettes, next to a humidor containing a dozen Havanas.
Off to one side was a small, wet bar, already well stocked, including two bottles of Tattinger ’62.
Three oil paintings and two pen sketches on the walls. Well done, certainly of value. Wiley went up close to one, a small boldly stroked landscape. It was just ordinarily hung with wire. He remembered his hotel in Acapulco had horrible lithographs screwed to the walls. Didn’t rich people steal? Or perhaps when they did, it was never mentioned, merely added to the bill. Smart way to sell paintings, Wiley thought.
It occurred to him there was no bed. Were the sofas convertible? That didn’t seem in keeping.
Two doors on the interior wall. One was a closet. The other would surely be the bath. However, Wiley discovered it opened into another room, the bedroom, nearly as large a room as the first and just as tastefully appointed. The bed was king-size. Fresh-cut flowers were on the side table by a window. And there was the bath, all marble and chrome, with a tub large enough for two or even three, depending.
Sweet Jesus, he’d appropriated a suite. He would have settled for a reasonably comfortable room. According to law, the price tag had to be somewhere. Wiley found it, practically hidden on the inside frame of a closet door.
Three thousand seven hundred fifty pesos per day.
Three hundred dollars a day.
His next thought was to run, get out.
But he didn’t want to, really. Besides, 114 had been the porter’s choice. The porter had to know something. Yes, he definitely should trust the porter.
He unpacked, undressed, took a shower to wash away the sand and seawater film left from that swim with Lillian. Washing her away, he thought, and when he was rubbing dry with a huge yellow-striped towel, his mind was free of her. Next moment, however, she jumped back in full force. Time would help. By tomorrow, maybe even by later that night, she’d be vague, in proper perspective.
As for now, he was hungry. That half of a half of a papaya hadn’t been much to go on. Should he push his luck as far as room service?
He called and asked what they had to offer. It was only six o’clock. Did he want an early dinner or only something to tide him over? They would send him a menu. No, he’d tell them what he wanted, and they could tell him what they didn’t have. He’d start with some smoked Scottish salmon. Make that a double order. Then some soup, say, cream of avocado. Steamed mussels with butter sauce. Roast rack of lamb, charred outside, pink in the middle; cottage-fried potatoes, and arugola and endive salad. He’d do his own oil-and-vinegar dressing. Chocolate mousse for dessert and, as an afterthought, an assortment of cheeses, especially Brie. Coffee, of
No sign of Lillian.
Wiley thought perhaps she’d been ejected. If so, what was he doing there? His concern was canceled by recalling how efficient she’d been.
The cart turned left, climbed up a narrower street, then right for a short distance. It stopped at the foot of a flight of wide white stairs that led to a landing. A heavy white door was discreetly numbered 114 . The porter used his passkey. He placed the luggage inside, said “Muchas gracias” twice and departed.
It was a large square room, about twenty by twenty, with a high, domed ceiling. White splashed sparingly with yellow, green, blue. The floor was white marble, strategically softened with thick curly-wool rugs, also white. Two facing sofas and a matching chair were covered in a natural muslin-like linen that incorporated an almost indiscernible blue stripe. On a table of inch-thick milk glass was a silver salver of fruit, next to the latest issues of Vogue and Réalités , next to a cut-crystal container of Dunhill cigarettes, next to a humidor containing a dozen Havanas.
Off to one side was a small, wet bar, already well stocked, including two bottles of Tattinger ’62.
Three oil paintings and two pen sketches on the walls. Well done, certainly of value. Wiley went up close to one, a small boldly stroked landscape. It was just ordinarily hung with wire. He remembered his hotel in Acapulco had horrible lithographs screwed to the walls. Didn’t rich people steal? Or perhaps when they did, it was never mentioned, merely added to the bill. Smart way to sell paintings, Wiley thought.
It occurred to him there was no bed. Were the sofas convertible? That didn’t seem in keeping.
Two doors on the interior wall. One was a closet. The other would surely be the bath. However, Wiley discovered it opened into another room, the bedroom, nearly as large a room as the first and just as tastefully appointed. The bed was king-size. Fresh-cut flowers were on the side table by a window. And there was the bath, all marble and chrome, with a tub large enough for two or even three, depending.
Sweet Jesus, he’d appropriated a suite. He would have settled for a reasonably comfortable room. According to law, the price tag had to be somewhere. Wiley found it, practically hidden on the inside frame of a closet door.
Three thousand seven hundred fifty pesos per day.
Three hundred dollars a day.
His next thought was to run, get out.
But he didn’t want to, really. Besides, 114 had been the porter’s choice. The porter had to know something. Yes, he definitely should trust the porter.
He unpacked, undressed, took a shower to wash away the sand and seawater film left from that swim with Lillian. Washing her away, he thought, and when he was rubbing dry with a huge yellow-striped towel, his mind was free of her. Next moment, however, she jumped back in full force. Time would help. By tomorrow, maybe even by later that night, she’d be vague, in proper perspective.
As for now, he was hungry. That half of a half of a papaya hadn’t been much to go on. Should he push his luck as far as room service?
He called and asked what they had to offer. It was only six o’clock. Did he want an early dinner or only something to tide him over? They would send him a menu. No, he’d tell them what he wanted, and they could tell him what they didn’t have. He’d start with some smoked Scottish salmon. Make that a double order. Then some soup, say, cream of avocado. Steamed mussels with butter sauce. Roast rack of lamb, charred outside, pink in the middle; cottage-fried potatoes, and arugola and endive salad. He’d do his own oil-and-vinegar dressing. Chocolate mousse for dessert and, as an afterthought, an assortment of cheeses, especially Brie. Coffee, of
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