Meyersons.
Chapter 7
Spaulding,"
she said in a low drawl, "fetch the videotape."
"Aw, come
on. This guy doesn't want to . . ."
He was moving
toward the hall even as he whined. The fact that I'd known the boy for only
about ten minutes had not prevented me from forming an intense desire to kick
his pimply ass. Spaulding Meyerson was maybe nineteen. An oily-faced little
sack of shit, with a voice like fingernails on a blackboard and a thinning head
of black hair that was never going to see forty. He'd inherited the family
teeth from his mother.
She'd opened
the door herself, but she wasn't alone. On her right, leaning back against the
peach-colored drapes, was a guy in a gray silk suit and a narrow black tie.
Then there was the matter of the shadow behind the door being way too wide for
this tiny woman.
She was no more
than five feet tall in heels. Her perfectly arranged hair was the reddish color
of a calico cat. She had a shrewd pair of brown eyes, set in close to a
turned-up nose. The rest of her face was mouth. If she were a foot taller, she
could have been one of those Kennedy women.
The ones who
don't even have to crack a smile to show a full square yard of carefully tended
dental work.
"Ms.
Meyerson, I presume," I said with my best rugged grin.
It's not like I
expected her to get all dewy-eyed or anything, but I don't think it would be
bragging to say that I can still muster a certain amount of boyish charm. She
looked me over like I was the last brassiere on the sale table.
"And you
would be?" Blanche DuBois on Valium.
"Leo
Waterman. I'm with convention security."
I presented my
ID, which she passed to the guy leaning on the drapes without so much as a
glance.
"Yes,"
she said. "Sir Geoffrey Miles himself called."
Drapeman passed
my ID behind the door.
She looked over
at Drapeman, who looked behind the door and nodded. "Won't you come
in," she said with a degree of warmth and enthusiasm' generally reserved
for a yeast infection.
The suites
were, indeed, mirror images of each other. What I had presumed to be an armoire
in Jack's suite was, however, actually an entertainment center, with a
big-screen TV and a videotape player. The Kansas City Chiefs were playing the
San Diego Chargers. A lank-haired kid was stuffing his face with Chee-tos and
watching the game.
Al Michaels was
doing the play-by-play.
". . .
third down seven on the KC thirty-six ..."
The guy behind
the door was pretty much another Drapeman. Both were about forty, well groomed,
and had mastered that stone-faced professional sheen so often seen on Secret
Service agents.
"Spaulding,"
she said, "please turn that off."
"Why do I
gotta?" he whined. "You guys go out in the hall."
". . .
three-step drop, Bono flares a little swing pass . . ." "You can
watch the game in your room," she tried. "Go talk in your room,"
he insisted. ". . . Allen finally steps out at the San Diego
fifteen."
Drapeman
crossed the room to the entertainment center and pushed the power button. The
big screen went blank from the center out. The kid jumped up from the couch and
tried to get at the controls. Working like a cutting horse, Drapeman kept his
body between the kid and the button as the kid jumped wildly about.
Frustrated, Spaulding
Meyerson turned my way.
"Yeah,
Gordo here's a big man when it comes to kids," he said, jerking a thumb
over his shoulder at Drapeman. "A real big man. Ask him about how Rickey
Ray cleaned both their asses up in about five seconds. Ask them about that,
whydoncha? How he sent the stooges here crawling back holdin' their 'nads and
crying like little girls."
"Spaulding,"
she snarled. "That's enough."
This time she
got his attention. Mine, too. He shut up, jammed his hands in his pockets and
started to stalk from the room. Halfway across, however, I could tell he wasn't
going to leave. He wasn't going to give us that satisfaction. Instead, he
ducked in behind the bar, pulled a can of Coke out of the fridge, popped the
top and
Chapter 7
Spaulding,"
she said in a low drawl, "fetch the videotape."
"Aw, come
on. This guy doesn't want to . . ."
He was moving
toward the hall even as he whined. The fact that I'd known the boy for only
about ten minutes had not prevented me from forming an intense desire to kick
his pimply ass. Spaulding Meyerson was maybe nineteen. An oily-faced little
sack of shit, with a voice like fingernails on a blackboard and a thinning head
of black hair that was never going to see forty. He'd inherited the family
teeth from his mother.
She'd opened
the door herself, but she wasn't alone. On her right, leaning back against the
peach-colored drapes, was a guy in a gray silk suit and a narrow black tie.
Then there was the matter of the shadow behind the door being way too wide for
this tiny woman.
She was no more
than five feet tall in heels. Her perfectly arranged hair was the reddish color
of a calico cat. She had a shrewd pair of brown eyes, set in close to a
turned-up nose. The rest of her face was mouth. If she were a foot taller, she
could have been one of those Kennedy women.
The ones who
don't even have to crack a smile to show a full square yard of carefully tended
dental work.
"Ms.
Meyerson, I presume," I said with my best rugged grin.
It's not like I
expected her to get all dewy-eyed or anything, but I don't think it would be
bragging to say that I can still muster a certain amount of boyish charm. She
looked me over like I was the last brassiere on the sale table.
"And you
would be?" Blanche DuBois on Valium.
"Leo
Waterman. I'm with convention security."
I presented my
ID, which she passed to the guy leaning on the drapes without so much as a
glance.
"Yes,"
she said. "Sir Geoffrey Miles himself called."
Drapeman passed
my ID behind the door.
She looked over
at Drapeman, who looked behind the door and nodded. "Won't you come
in," she said with a degree of warmth and enthusiasm' generally reserved
for a yeast infection.
The suites
were, indeed, mirror images of each other. What I had presumed to be an armoire
in Jack's suite was, however, actually an entertainment center, with a
big-screen TV and a videotape player. The Kansas City Chiefs were playing the
San Diego Chargers. A lank-haired kid was stuffing his face with Chee-tos and
watching the game.
Al Michaels was
doing the play-by-play.
". . .
third down seven on the KC thirty-six ..."
The guy behind
the door was pretty much another Drapeman. Both were about forty, well groomed,
and had mastered that stone-faced professional sheen so often seen on Secret
Service agents.
"Spaulding,"
she said, "please turn that off."
"Why do I
gotta?" he whined. "You guys go out in the hall."
". . .
three-step drop, Bono flares a little swing pass . . ." "You can
watch the game in your room," she tried. "Go talk in your room,"
he insisted. ". . . Allen finally steps out at the San Diego
fifteen."
Drapeman
crossed the room to the entertainment center and pushed the power button. The
big screen went blank from the center out. The kid jumped up from the couch and
tried to get at the controls. Working like a cutting horse, Drapeman kept his
body between the kid and the button as the kid jumped wildly about.
Frustrated, Spaulding
Meyerson turned my way.
"Yeah,
Gordo here's a big man when it comes to kids," he said, jerking a thumb
over his shoulder at Drapeman. "A real big man. Ask him about how Rickey
Ray cleaned both their asses up in about five seconds. Ask them about that,
whydoncha? How he sent the stooges here crawling back holdin' their 'nads and
crying like little girls."
"Spaulding,"
she snarled. "That's enough."
This time she
got his attention. Mine, too. He shut up, jammed his hands in his pockets and
started to stalk from the room. Halfway across, however, I could tell he wasn't
going to leave. He wasn't going to give us that satisfaction. Instead, he
ducked in behind the bar, pulled a can of Coke out of the fridge, popped the
top and
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