Read Online Green Ice by Gerald A Browne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gerald A Browne
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course. And a carton of Camels.
“Sí, señor.”
Maybe the guy hadn’t understood a word, Wiley thought. Anyway, he’d already clicked off.
Wearing only a towel, Wiley poured a vodka on the rocks and lighted a cigarette. He took it out onto the walled terrace that went with the suite. He looked down on the tops of other bungalows and out to sea. The water was calming. The sun was becoming yellower, headed toward sinking. Jasmine contributed to the air.
A fragment of laughter, a heart-shaped sound, came from somewhere nearby.
Wiley pulled hard on his drink, felt it hit inside and spread, like an injection. He went back to the living room, sat on the couch. He was paging through Réaltiés —detesting the fact that a pair of Jacob chairs that no one would ever sit on had sold for eighteen thousand dollars at the Hôtel Drouot auction on October 3, 1976—when he heard someone at the front door.
Room service?
Couldn’t be. Too soon.
Keys in the lock.
A porter, a different one, entered carrying luggage. Followed in by a man of about forty. A lean man in a gray business suit, white shirt, gray silk tie. Evidently from somewhere north because he had a topcoat over his arm, a gray homburg and a black Hermès attaché case in hand.
Wiley, literally caught with his pants down, peered over the back of the sofa. He’d better take the offensive, could always retreat. “What’s this?” he asked, acting rankled.
“I’m terribly sorry. I thought this was my suite,” the man in gray said. He was as reticent and his voice as colorless as his appearance. He introduced himself: Arnold Prentiss, an American.
“There must be some mistake,” Wiley told him.
“My mistake,” Prentiss said. “I’ve never seen such organized confusion.”
The porter examined the key that was stamped 114 .
Wiley told the porter, “Find Mr. Prentiss another suite.”
“Sí señor.”
“That’s the best solution, don’t you think?”
Prentiss agreed. He apologized for the disturbance.
When they were gone, Wiley went in the bathroom, sprayed on some underarm antiperspirant, gazed into the mirror.
Look at me looking at me, he thought solemnly, living on the edge, getting by on pure nerve. It certainly was no ballroom dance. He grinned a sardonic sorry-for-himself sort of grin. It changed, grew into an I-don’t-give-a-shit smile. Looking on the brighter side, he was having a hell of a lot of fun.
One thing, though, he wished he’d thought to get the 114 key from the porter. He didn’t want to risk asking for one at the front desk.
Dinner arrived. He had it served on the terrace. He’d forgotten to order wine, sent the waiter back for a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild ’67. In the dimming light he ate slowly, enjoying every mouthful, treating himself. He noticed the orange and red bougainvillea against the white wall, then saw it lose color. The waiter had lighted candles. It was almost pleasant to eat alone.
The phone rang. Like an alarm.
He let it ring, and finally it stopped.
It rang again.
On impulse he went in and answered it. No response. Someone was on the other end; he could hear breathing. Then whoever it was clicked off.
Wrong number, Wiley decided. It gave him an idea, a long shot. He got the hotel operator on the phone. Was there a Miss Holbrook registered, Miss Lillian Holbrook? Without hesitation, the operator said Miss Holbrook was in bungalow 11.
He’d certainly been right about her being able to take care of herself. Should he give her a call? Better yet, he’d make it face to face.
He dressed, put on a pair of straight-legged jeans, French-made, and a cream-colored pure-silk shirt. The jeans fit so snugly that their pockets were practically useless. Nowhere for him to carry his money. One hundred and twenty brand-new hundred-dollar bills. He’d have to hide it somewhere in the suite. He recalled those American Express commercials against carrying cash. Every hiding place seemed obvious, because
“Sí, señor.”
Maybe the guy hadn’t understood a word, Wiley thought. Anyway, he’d already clicked off.
Wearing only a towel, Wiley poured a vodka on the rocks and lighted a cigarette. He took it out onto the walled terrace that went with the suite. He looked down on the tops of other bungalows and out to sea. The water was calming. The sun was becoming yellower, headed toward sinking. Jasmine contributed to the air.
A fragment of laughter, a heart-shaped sound, came from somewhere nearby.
Wiley pulled hard on his drink, felt it hit inside and spread, like an injection. He went back to the living room, sat on the couch. He was paging through Réaltiés —detesting the fact that a pair of Jacob chairs that no one would ever sit on had sold for eighteen thousand dollars at the Hôtel Drouot auction on October 3, 1976—when he heard someone at the front door.
Room service?
Couldn’t be. Too soon.
Keys in the lock.
A porter, a different one, entered carrying luggage. Followed in by a man of about forty. A lean man in a gray business suit, white shirt, gray silk tie. Evidently from somewhere north because he had a topcoat over his arm, a gray homburg and a black Hermès attaché case in hand.
Wiley, literally caught with his pants down, peered over the back of the sofa. He’d better take the offensive, could always retreat. “What’s this?” he asked, acting rankled.
“I’m terribly sorry. I thought this was my suite,” the man in gray said. He was as reticent and his voice as colorless as his appearance. He introduced himself: Arnold Prentiss, an American.
“There must be some mistake,” Wiley told him.
“My mistake,” Prentiss said. “I’ve never seen such organized confusion.”
The porter examined the key that was stamped 114 .
Wiley told the porter, “Find Mr. Prentiss another suite.”
“Sí señor.”
“That’s the best solution, don’t you think?”
Prentiss agreed. He apologized for the disturbance.
When they were gone, Wiley went in the bathroom, sprayed on some underarm antiperspirant, gazed into the mirror.
Look at me looking at me, he thought solemnly, living on the edge, getting by on pure nerve. It certainly was no ballroom dance. He grinned a sardonic sorry-for-himself sort of grin. It changed, grew into an I-don’t-give-a-shit smile. Looking on the brighter side, he was having a hell of a lot of fun.
One thing, though, he wished he’d thought to get the 114 key from the porter. He didn’t want to risk asking for one at the front desk.
Dinner arrived. He had it served on the terrace. He’d forgotten to order wine, sent the waiter back for a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild ’67. In the dimming light he ate slowly, enjoying every mouthful, treating himself. He noticed the orange and red bougainvillea against the white wall, then saw it lose color. The waiter had lighted candles. It was almost pleasant to eat alone.
The phone rang. Like an alarm.
He let it ring, and finally it stopped.
It rang again.
On impulse he went in and answered it. No response. Someone was on the other end; he could hear breathing. Then whoever it was clicked off.
Wrong number, Wiley decided. It gave him an idea, a long shot. He got the hotel operator on the phone. Was there a Miss Holbrook registered, Miss Lillian Holbrook? Without hesitation, the operator said Miss Holbrook was in bungalow 11.
He’d certainly been right about her being able to take care of herself. Should he give her a call? Better yet, he’d make it face to face.
He dressed, put on a pair of straight-legged jeans, French-made, and a cream-colored pure-silk shirt. The jeans fit so snugly that their pockets were practically useless. Nowhere for him to carry his money. One hundred and twenty brand-new hundred-dollar bills. He’d have to hide it somewhere in the suite. He recalled those American Express commercials against carrying cash. Every hiding place seemed obvious, because
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