Read Online Michelangelo's Notebook by Paul Christopher - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Christopher
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pounding and lungs aching she put out her last bit of strength, pushing as hard as she could on the pedals. Reaching the intersection just as the light went to red, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, said a quick prayer and sailed across the opening. Eyes still closed, she heard the screaming of brakes and blaring horns followed by the satisfying crush of metal against metal. Without the time or the inclination to look back and see what kind of havoc she had wreaked, she kept on going across Kimlau Square and onto Division Street, then turned onto Market, following it down toward the East River in the shadow of the bridge, finally turning directly under the giant structure and in front of the grimy front entrance of the Coolidge Hotel. Panting hard, she dropped down off the bike, pushing it through the creaking wooden double doors and finally came to a stop.
Eugene, skinny, dark and dressed in a poorly fitting shiny black suit and a white collarless shirt stepped out from behind the birdcagelike enclosure at the bottom of the stairs.
“You are in trouble, Feen?”
“Get rid of the bike for me. If a guy comes in here dressed in Spandex bicycle shorts and one of those dinosaur helmets, you never saw me.”
“Dinosaur helmets?”
“Stick with the Spandex.” She yanked her bag out of the carrier basket, still breathing hard. “Get me a key and I’ll love you forever, Yevgeny.” She held the fat-tired bike while the young man ran back to his cage, grabbed a key from the half-empty rack on the wall and trotted back to her, holding it out like one of the Magi bearing a gift. He was very definitely staring at the sweat stain between her boobs.
“Fourth floor, in the back, very private.”
“Thanks, Eugene.” She leaned over the bike, kissed him on the cheek, then left him holding the bike as she ran for the stairs. The young man followed her with his eyes, a small, happy smile lingering on his lips. After a few moments he sighed and wheeled the bicycle around in the tiny lobby of the hotel and pushed it through a doorway leading to the office behind his perch in the birdcage.
“Feen,” he whispered quietly to himself, lost in some dreamy, damp-eyed adolescent fantasy. “Feen.”
11
Room 409 at the Coolidge was slightly larger than a prison cell and only a little better decorated. The room was roughly twelve by twelve with a single, small grimy window looking out into the tangle of steel supports for the bridge and a minuscule, cluttered view of the East River beyond. There was a faded square of blue carpeting on a wood floor, a brown metal bed and a beige three-drawer dresser with a crazed mirror.
Through the wall she could hear somebody else’s bed squeaking and a headboard rhythmically striking the adjoining wall between them as a male voice repeated the words “Oh Mama, oh Mama” over and over again. There was a small bathroom done in shades of orange, with a used condom and the fizzled butt of a cigarette floating in the toilet bowl and two cockroaches standing motionless in the bottom of the tub. There were two separate faucets on the old porcelain sink and both of them dripped.
Finn dropped her bag on the narrow bed, went back to the door and made sure it was firmly locked. Then she went into the bathroom, ignored the toilet and splashed her face with lukewarm water from the taps. She looked at herself briefly in the cracked and chipped mirror on the front of the medicine chest then looked away again.
Her boyfriend’s getting his throat slit and then her being chased halfway down the city in the middle of the night didn’t do much for her appearance. Tense and exhausted didn’t begin to describe it. She could probably pack a lunch in the bags under her eyes and imitate a raccoon while she was doing it. She used her sleeve to dry off her face rather than one of the gray Coolidge towels on the plastic bar beside the sink. Finn went back into the bedroom, flicked off all forty
Eugene, skinny, dark and dressed in a poorly fitting shiny black suit and a white collarless shirt stepped out from behind the birdcagelike enclosure at the bottom of the stairs.
“You are in trouble, Feen?”
“Get rid of the bike for me. If a guy comes in here dressed in Spandex bicycle shorts and one of those dinosaur helmets, you never saw me.”
“Dinosaur helmets?”
“Stick with the Spandex.” She yanked her bag out of the carrier basket, still breathing hard. “Get me a key and I’ll love you forever, Yevgeny.” She held the fat-tired bike while the young man ran back to his cage, grabbed a key from the half-empty rack on the wall and trotted back to her, holding it out like one of the Magi bearing a gift. He was very definitely staring at the sweat stain between her boobs.
“Fourth floor, in the back, very private.”
“Thanks, Eugene.” She leaned over the bike, kissed him on the cheek, then left him holding the bike as she ran for the stairs. The young man followed her with his eyes, a small, happy smile lingering on his lips. After a few moments he sighed and wheeled the bicycle around in the tiny lobby of the hotel and pushed it through a doorway leading to the office behind his perch in the birdcage.
“Feen,” he whispered quietly to himself, lost in some dreamy, damp-eyed adolescent fantasy. “Feen.”
11
Room 409 at the Coolidge was slightly larger than a prison cell and only a little better decorated. The room was roughly twelve by twelve with a single, small grimy window looking out into the tangle of steel supports for the bridge and a minuscule, cluttered view of the East River beyond. There was a faded square of blue carpeting on a wood floor, a brown metal bed and a beige three-drawer dresser with a crazed mirror.
Through the wall she could hear somebody else’s bed squeaking and a headboard rhythmically striking the adjoining wall between them as a male voice repeated the words “Oh Mama, oh Mama” over and over again. There was a small bathroom done in shades of orange, with a used condom and the fizzled butt of a cigarette floating in the toilet bowl and two cockroaches standing motionless in the bottom of the tub. There were two separate faucets on the old porcelain sink and both of them dripped.
Finn dropped her bag on the narrow bed, went back to the door and made sure it was firmly locked. Then she went into the bathroom, ignored the toilet and splashed her face with lukewarm water from the taps. She looked at herself briefly in the cracked and chipped mirror on the front of the medicine chest then looked away again.
Her boyfriend’s getting his throat slit and then her being chased halfway down the city in the middle of the night didn’t do much for her appearance. Tense and exhausted didn’t begin to describe it. She could probably pack a lunch in the bags under her eyes and imitate a raccoon while she was doing it. She used her sleeve to dry off her face rather than one of the gray Coolidge towels on the plastic bar beside the sink. Finn went back into the bedroom, flicked off all forty
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