The hotel shimmers in the early evening sunlight. The rays reflected back from honey window panes that sit in art deco arches and the sandstone surrounding them. Wasn’t it a brownstone last time I visited? I swear it looks different to me every time I arrive. Once I’ve been in it for a few hours, I adjust and think yes, this is how it is supposed to be, this is how it has always been, but the initial confusion is also always the same. In a way it is part of the consistency of the place.
I shift down, turn on my blinker, execute the turn into the narrow drive that leads to the back lot. Hm, there stands an RV in the back. That is unmistakably new. I park close to the loading deck. Greif jumps from the floorboard up onto the passenger seat. He’s looking forward to getting out. I sigh and stretch. My right knee is not happy with all the driving. Pain and stiffness have become my constant companions. Fuck it, let’s move.
The nasty swimming pool behind the gate greets me. Sometimes I think they paved that abomination over, but no it is still there. So are the big dumpsters by the kitchen entrance. The mix of smells they have going on here is, shall we say eclectic, that is if you want to be benign. Greif adds his own smells to the mix and follows me as I grab my bag and head on around the corner to the street. I am using the front entrance. I always do.
Once we make it through the front doors, it feels like we are encased in a timeless scene. Like mosquitoes held in amber, there is the concierge in his golden cage, the men in suits and the women in dresses on ancient rondelles and the elevator operator who stands like a statue inside his sarcophagus-like work space. It could be 1920 in here, or 1970, or now. It doesn’t matter. The scene doesn’t change. Only I do. I don’t have ink black hair anymore. It is decidedly gray. And most men would shudder now if they saw me in a bikini. But it doesn’t matter. I am still doing my job. And for that I cross the moss green carpeted foyer and stand myself all poise and business right in front of that cage, Greif at my heel.
I am greeted with a thin smile and Arthur’s reflex motion to grab a clipboard. “Greetings Irene, how was your drive?”
“Same as usual. Uneventful,” I reply. Uneventful is good. Uneventful is what we are aiming for. I have made these supply runs for years now and once we figured that nobody wants to really check on religious paraphernalia, we have gotten so many items into the city from our little import/export operation. Large wooden crucifixes filled with magazines and ammunition. Virgin Mary’s filled with white powders of questionable origins. Sacred robes holding poisons in their embroideries, pictures of popes with deadly backgrounds. All of this drenched in the smells of incense and other covering smells in the back of my van and my trusty companion always at call to bark at and confuse his brethren even more, should they come to sniff. We had a few close encounters over the years, but mostly, it was a smooth, if rather long ride.
“Are you staying with us this time?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, I’ll have to. I can’t make it all the way here and back in one go anymore.”
He looks me over. His smile frozen in place. “Ah come on, you’re still a spring chicken.”
I return his gaze. He still looks exactly like the first time I met him. Same beady eyes, same mustache, same lines in exactly the same places. Same too black hair, all in order and not a single one out of place.
“Honestly,” I say, “I’m getting too old for this.”
He hands me one of their weird keys with the big tag attached to it. “You’re in 701. Do you want to freshen up before we unload?”
I nod and he leaves his cage, comes around, walks me to the elevator. “Be careful with our Miss Irene,” he tells Mr. Valentine. “She goes to floor seven.”
Mr. Valentine nods and smiles at me. At least his mouth is. I can’t see his eyes. They are hidden under a silk blindfold. I try not to stare at where his eyes ought to be. I do not want to be rude. I have never really tried to look him in the eyes. By logic, he should not be able to tell, but it feels like he can. I study the pattern on his vest instead.
“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” He says.
“Yes, Mr. Valentine, it has been a beautiful day. The sun is just setting on it.”
“It is morning in my dreams,” He replies. The elevator dings and the door opens. “Your floor Miss Irene,” he announces. I thank him and leave.
Three hours later Arthur and I stand next to the open van as several of his people unload, check, and then carry the merchandise inside. His clipboard and mine have corresponding lists on them. We both checkmark every item that passes inspection and goes inside, adding up the final price. We’re making a right old mess in front of the dumpsters. I can’t help but think Arthur is enjoying the Madonna beheadings immensely. No Madonna is yours for free, I keep thinking. But he seems giddy, which is rare. His men destroy the religious icons with glee. He orders the dope and weapons to be taken to the vault, pockets some bling, and makes check mark after check mark.
The only fly in the ointment for him seems to be Greif. My dear boy who sits so patiently by my side and slowly wags his tail.
“Do you have to bring that dog with you every time?” he asks.
“Yes, I do, no run without him,” I reply.
Pinch gives Greif a look. He hands me another piece of paper of similar length to the checklist. The wish list for the next order. I look it over. It’s outrageous.
“Wow, did you annex a small country, or are you trying to?” I ask. “Who is paying for all this?”
“Does it really matter?,” he replies. “We have our resources. You know we’re good for it.”
I know I will never learn anything concrete about this strange, sinister place, but I fear that their orders have over-reached the capacity of our little outfit. Which would be sad. It has been a successful business relationship for fifty years.
“I’m not sure we can get you these items,” I say, pointing to some larger offenders on the list.
He guides me by the shoulder. “Please try.”
“I will see what we can do.”
He nods and waits patiently as I close and lock the van doors. Arthur’s gaze lingers on my face. His expression a mixture of pity and determination. He guides me back inside, leads me to the almost empty bar.
“Maybe we need to show you just how much we appreciate you,” he says. I’m not sure what to do with that statement. He still needs to pay me for this delivery. So I quote him the exact price. He nods. “I wasn’t talking about the money. Of course you will get your money. We have other delights,” he says. Having him so close to me, smiling and focusing all his attention on me creeps me out. “Let’s just have a little drink.”
“Bishop, the bubbly,” he orders.
“I’ll drink after I get paid,” I say.
He leaves and I watch Bishop deposit a silver cooler with a bottle of champagne (Krug Collection Brut, bottle from 1961) and two coupes in front of me. It’s strange to sit here in my delivery coveralls. They belong in garages with dirty oil cans, loading docks, and gas stations. Not in a fancy bar with polished oak and crystal. I didn’t expect to be asked inside and be treated to this luxury on a whim on a Thursday. But why not?
Pinch returns and hands me a fat envelope. I open it and count. Trust is good, verification is better. It’s all there. I put the envelope into the big pocket of my coveralls. Greif lies down next to my stool. Pinch opens the bottle silently. There is a little white cloud, but not a drop spills. He serves the champagne. It looks expensive and tickles my nose. We clink glasses. “To a lovely long continued partnership,” he says.
After a few sips, I hear music playing. Bishop must have turned on his stereo. “You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you,” I hear. I guess the music goes along with the vintage. Pinch is pouring me another glass. I drink as my cheeks flush immediately and I shudder a little. He puts his hand on mine. “How are we doing Miss Irene?”
The bar fills with people, pretty people, young people. People who smoke and drink with abandon. I feel out of place, I should have eaten something. Pinch snaps his fingers and soon after a dinner plate materializes in front of me and a bowl with food for Greif is set down at my feet. I eat and drink more expensive champagne. Arthur watches me, smiling and keeps up with the glasses of bubbly. He orders a second, even older bottle.
Pinch and I are the oddest couple in a sea of uncaring strangers, but the bubbly is going to my head and I feel great. I guess I have passed the point of caring one way or another. And when Pinch asks me to dance, formally and with precision, I agree. He leads me onto the small raised dance floor and even though his movements are not full of soul, they are the perfect execution of the dance. “Heaven, I’m in heaven,” croons a voice. And while I am dancing, I do feel close to that. I don’t even mind the coveralls anymore, only when I look down on me, I don’t see coveralls. I see a black glittery A-line dress. And when my hair falls forward, I see a black strand bounce against my chin. What is going on?
The young man I am dancing with smiles widely. Says, “Don’t worry, it’s all as it should be.” He looks vaguely like Pinch, but his hair is fuller, his eyebrows bushy and black and his mustache is a great deal wider. He dances with determination and I follow along. We only pause to drink more of the vintage champagne. After the second bottle I tell this man I need to go to sleep, but I’ve enjoyed this immensely. He brings me to my door and gallantly says “Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene.” I finish it together with him. “I see you in my dreams.”
I am woken up from a ray of sunshine piercing my eye. I look around. I am holding on to a pillow. I am in my hotel bed. Greif is resting at my feet, doing doggy snores. I squint my eyes closed, waiting for the massive hangover to pounce on me any second. But nothing comes. No headache, no nausea, no dizziness, no feeling like I licked the bottom of a parrot cage. Nothing. I feel fine. No, I feel better than fine. My stupid knee isn’t even bothering me this morning. What? I have a luxurious stretch and get up. Still no ill effects. Greif wakes up as well and we start the day. My coveralls are neatly folded over a chair and the envelope with the correct amount of money is on the dresser.
After a nice breakfast and shower, I check out. Arthur Pinch stands in his cage as always. He looks like always too, small pencil mustache and all.
“Checking out so soon?” he asks.
“Yes, I have a full schedule,” I reply. “What do I owe you for the night?”
“Oh nothing, it’s on the house,” he says.
“Oh, wow, thank you!”
“No worries. We like you and we need you. And Miss Irene, do come and plan to stay a few more days with us one of these days? I promise you, it will do you a world of good.”