SS Glasgow Castle 26 Chapter Twenty Six

I was fully aware that I was conducting a ritual for the sake of the fallacy that clean is good. But the soaping and rinsing also provided me with an opportunity for a minute examination of my d.i.c.k, and this was rea.s.suring. It looked fine and felt fine. There was a good reason for that. In the preceding hours it had gotten more attention than over the previous couple of years.

I hadn't intended things to turn out that way. I did watch Monique caress herself for a while, and then tried to have a conversation. She almost instantly asked me if I was in the movie business and naturally I had to have a drink when I heard that. Things went on from there.

I used the fluffy white hotel towel and stepped into a pair of camouflage beige, pure cotton world-cla.s.s underpants. The bedroom smelled of Monique. She'd told me the name of her perfume - 'I'm returning', literally; it had sounded much better in French.

What the h.e.l.l is it with s.e.x and travel? The fact that if you screw up really badly, you need never show your face there again? The blooming of the natural self upon its release from the straitjacket of the work-home routine? The insidious influence of travel advertising that focuses on the sly exploitation of a traveler's hopes and dreams? Whatever. You step off the plane, and next thing you know you're having a session with the hotel soap.

There was a soft knock on my door. I froze, then hastily strapped on my wrist.w.a.tch - it said eight thirty - and started looking for my pants. There was a harder knock on the door. I finally noticed a trouser leg coyly peeking out from under the bed. I bent down, but before I could put them on I heard door lock snap open, and Kross rushed in.

He moved fast, he closed and locked the door and crossed the room before I could tell him to go back to his basket. This was outrageous - and he'd taken my key! Then things got really outrageous. He hit me in the stomach.

I couldn't breathe. All of a sudden I found myself curled up on the floor and wheezing like a leaky bicycle pump. It was clear that Kross was very good at hitting people in the stomach. I wasn't in a hurry to get up and let him do it again.

"Get up," said Kross, as if on cue. "You f.u.c.king useless c.u.n.t." He sounded as if he might apply a boot, so I got up. I felt so supremely ridiculous and defenseless in my beige jockeys that I proceeded to pull my pants from under the bed and onto myself, hopping awkwardly on one leg at one point. I hoped Kross wouldn't hit a guy who was busy putting on a pair of pants.

He didn't. Instead, he said:

"You c.u.n.t. Who is that p.r.i.c.k asking about Avery and the 'Swallow' on the Internet?"

I swallowed. Then I said very quickly:
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"He's a really good friend of mine. I didn't tell anyone else. You've got nothing to worry about. He doesn't know why I asked him to find out something for me. And he's very discreet."

"Discreet?! Are you out of your f.u.c.king mind? He's broadcasting to the entire world!"

He looked as if he might hit me again. I raised my palms in surrender and said:

"He's only asking about the s.h.i.+p. Avery is supposed to have been a s.h.i.+pmate of one of my great-great-grandfathers. You must have noticed there's a Hansen mentioned too. That's all he knows. Nothing about the treasure."

Kross shut his eyes and shook his head, looked at me, shook his head again, and lit a cigarette.

"I can't believe it," he said. "You work in advertising. You're an intelligent man. If you had a body hidden in your closet, would you invite people to hang up their coats inside? I can't f.u.c.king believe it." He stiffened again. "Who else did you tell?"

"No one. No one, I swear. And I didn't tell Tad anything either. I gave him the story about a naval ancestor. It clicked because he knows my old man is a retired naval officer."

This made him fall silent for a little while. Eventually he said:

"You people. You intelligent, beautiful, educated people. All you're good at is walking gracefully with your head stuck up your own a.s.s. You never see anything. And you don't listen. You're just too f.u.c.king busy admiring your insides."

"What the f.u.c.k - "

"Shut up. Shut up and listen for a change. There are many people out there who actually use their eyes and ears. Of course you would never suspect people like that exist. You don't even notice them because they don't walk as nicely as you do. But it takes all kinds to make a world - ever heard that one? When those people, the people who watch and listen see s.h.i.+t stirring, they want to know why. You f.u.c.king wally. I thought you claimed you weren't a snot-faced kid."

I didn't know what to say. I just stood there, feeling vaguely guilty.

"I wasn't sure," I said finally. "I didn't see Greenbottle's book -"

"Oh, shut up. You weren't sure, what the f.u.c.k are you doing here?" After a while, I shrugged and said:

"I wanted to be here."

"Yes. You wanted. And now you're here, and I wonder, really wonder, just what the f.u.c.k I should do with you."

I felt icy dread. He'd said it the way you'd ask someone to strip before entering the gas chamber.

"Do you mind if I put on a s.h.i.+rt?" I asked.

"I don't give a f.u.c.k. You can put on a dress if you want." He smoked in silence while I dressed. Then he said:

"All right. I'm not going to kill you - not yet anyway. But the original plan is blown. I don't trust you to go off by yourself. I don't trust you enough to tell you where the stuff is hidden. We'll have to do things the hard way. f.u.c.k! You G.o.dd.a.m.ned idiot." He stared at me for a while. It was a very unpleasant stare. He said:

"I've got a very busy day. You can stay here, you can go out, you can do whatever you want. But if you open your mouth again about our business, I'll break your neck – that's a solemn promise. And whatever you do, make sure you're in shape for a long drive tomorrow."

"A long drive tomorrow? But you said -"

"Don't ask. I'm not going to tell you anything any more until you need to know."

I nodded and smiled. I was prepared to agree with everything he proposed. I said:

"If I'm allowed to go out, can I have my key back?"

"I don't have your G.o.dd.a.m.n key. Maybe Monique took it." He walked to the door and opened it. He gave me one last angry glare and said:

"I still have my old master key. Make sure you're back here by eight." He left shutting the door very softly, the way one shuts doors in hospitals.

f.u.c.king Tad! I could have killed him there and then. Any remaining remorse I had for getting him fired was instantly erased. I had practically kissed his a.s.s in the phone message I'd left him, asking to erase all the Internet queries. I'd spent at least thirty seconds thanking him for his expert help, time, trouble - a.s.shole! I banged my fist on the mini-bar and hurt myself.

But what hurt most was the fact I should have known better. He was a f.u.c.king writer, and all writers are goons. They spend their lives walking with their heads up their a.s.ses, admiring their insides. Kross had a point there.

I went to take a shower - a shower often improves one's outlook on life. I thought things over under the running water and came to an unexpected, happy conclusion. It all had to be true! Avery and the treasure really existed! Kross wouldn't have gotten so worked up if it was all a lie. And I had to say this: I was newly impressed by his professional skills. Drunk, stoned, with a s.e.xy wh.o.r.e working on his d.i.c.k, he still had found the time to hit the hotel's internet cafe and scan the cybers.p.a.ce for leaks, rumors, electronic whispers - security breaches.

I tidied up my room, and found my room key hidden under carelessly discarded socks. So Kross had a master key, eh? Well, so he would if he'd really been in charge of setting up the hotel security. I felt suddenly hungry, and realized I had the entire afternoon to myself, along with a wad of Central African francs and a wallet of traveler's checks.

Monique hadn't wanted any money from me. She'd said, somewhat reluctantly, that everything had been taken care of. She did have a few drinks, and smoked a small flat joint that she'd pulled from the pocket of her hot pants. She was surprised I didn't want any, so surprised that I had some. This in turn led to activities which had me worried about getting infected with AIDS. It's true: drugs are bad for you. So is sitting alone in a room when you're feeling guilty. I looked at the hotel alarm clock by my bed and it said it was noon.

I got up, and left.