“You call me, Honeybun? Whatsa matter?” Earle opened the door and kissed the wounded nail polish, permitted his mouth to travel up her forearm. That was way back, Page 39
anyhow, he figured. “O-o-o-h-h-h!” Dawn said. “Don’t! You tickle.”
“Earle loves her,” he said. “What you say to a nice chicken sandwich and a cup coffee? Maybe a glass real Florida orange juice?” He had been reading the Room Service Menu, Chicken Sandwich, $1.25 Coffee, $1.00 per pot. Well, you only lived once. Three dollars and fifty cents right there, not to mention another ten, fifteen cents for the tip: maybe twenty-five. Earle’s falcon was tame with the promise of meat, a tassel gentle on his wrist. “Earle loves her. Kiss Earle,” he said.
The Lobby
Purcell had been awake since six, had stolen painfully down ten flights of fire stairs from Countess Alexandroff’s penthouse to his own little mare’s nest on the seventh. The Countess was a right guy and there was no point in taking the elevator, touching off a lot of baseless gossip among the staff. Not that Maggie wasn’t accustomed to being the center of many a pungent scandal, involving her, so far, with a bullfighter, a female impersonator, a calypso singer, a Turkish wrestler, a notorious film actress, a cabinet member and six or seven more ordinary mortals.
Bathed and shaved, he felt somewhat better and that was about as close to being dead as he ever hoped to be. He got into the elevator, rode all the way down to the Promenade Floor, which was one of J. Arthur’s pretty euphemisms for Basement, had a pot of black coffee and two bottles of beer in the Coffee Shop. The big clock in the lobby was striking seven when he reported for duty.
And the clock was the only thing Purcell was able to recognize. Overnight the lobby had been transformed into a bit of old Dickens, a touch of New England, a hint of Main Street. A kissing ball dangled from the Baccarat chandelier; huge balsam wreaths and artificial frost filled the tall French
windows; a twenty-foot tree, frenetic with gilded nuts, with candy canes, with popcorn and cranberry garlands, with childish paper chains and almost-real candles, loomed high above the Hall Porter’s desk. Musak caroled relentlessly-’God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.” A treated Yule log burned dispiritedly in a temporary brick hearth and a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth rotated on a spit. The Yule log gave out more smoke than cheer, even with the windows open. The barbecue was not savory. It remained, jaws distended, a pale little pig that had died very young. The men from the display company had done their work all too well.
Purcell sagged against a pillar bedecked with evergreen swags and said once again, “What have I done?” Unreality swept over him again and remained. It couldn’t be, but it was.
Cantrill, the new night clerk, had been quite a surprise to Purcell, and from the size of J. Arthur’s black eye, quite a surprise to him too. In spite of Cantrill’s boyish charm, the artful blond streak above his right temple, his widowed mother, Mr. Cantrill had not been obliging; and now Mr. Cantrill, after the briefest possible tenure of office, was no longer with us.
According to the night porter, the showdown had come off in the Men’s can after the Westbury party. From all accounts, it had been quite a brawl, the best floor show in town probably, and now J. Arthur was confined to his gold and white suite with a severe migraine, and the quest for love and a night clerk would begin all over again. Purcell supposed that the Old Man would start bothering the room-service boys, but Pete was really the only one worth worrying about, and he was fast on his feet. He had wised Pete up himself.
In the meantime, a holiday spirit prevailed. All the employees, safe for once from J. Arthur’s unreason, his soaring rage, relaxed, smiled broadly, tipped each other knowing winks.
The Old Man’s black eye had been as good for morale as a forty-hour week, Purcell told himself. Christ, they were even washing egg off the plates. Dukemer grinned wickedly
from her cage; the whole front office looked as if it had just won the daily double,
Purcell’s nerves crawled against his skin. Mary hadn’t come in or called in, and the Baldwins’ line was busy.
The Baldwins’ line seemed always to be busy, and the Old Man was unapproachable, wearing his mouse in awful majesty, not speaking. The line to the Baldwins’ was now no longer busy; it didn’t answer, and Mary hadn’t come in
yet.
Cotton Candy Mather had been so tense and nervous that he had swallowed two dozen aspirin and part of a bottle of Coca-Cola. He’d been pumped out and was all right, barring a bad case of tattletale gray, but it had taken everything Pur-cell had to keep Dukemer from finding out about it. Her feelers were pretty sensitive where Old Mather was concerned.
La Belle Tewksberry had been a close second, passing out with her head in a pay toilet in the Powder Room and damned near drowning to boot. The Baldwins still didn’t answer, and the Law had sprung a surprise inspection on the kitchen, not that everything wasn’t pretty kosher.
The Law had fussed a lot about a soot smudge behind one of the ranges; they had thrown out fifteen cracked cups and found seven wads of chewing gum under the bannister of the Room Service stairway, but they ignored a pile of fish heads on the floor and a lot of open garbage cans. As far as the Law was concerned, the fish heads and the garbage cans were Chanel Number 5, but they chipped the chewing gum off the bannister with a putty knife and issued a grave warning about the soot smudge. The Baldwins’ number was busy again.
The manager at The Spray called to check Ernie’s references, and Purcell lied himself black in the face, giving Ernie the bland persuasiveness of a house dick, the iron diplomacy of a maitre d’. There was a short circuit in one of the dishwashing machines, and the Scandinavian Explorer had outsmarted Fearless Fosdick and skipped leaving a bill of $584.76—mostly bar—and an old steamer trunk full of New York telephone books. The Baldwins didn’t answer.
Even Mr. Browne-Smythe couldn’t ruffle Dukemer today. She had decided to say Yes to Mr. Mather and was in a blissful haze that People, the Browne-Smythes of the world, might not penetrate.
“Merry Christmas!” she said, smiled professionally, and counted out five hundred dollars expertly in new fives.
“Don’t muss them, miss,” Mr. Browne-Smythe said.
“There you are,” she finished, and smiled again. Ordinarily, Dukemer would have figured that anyone so particular about clean money must have come by his in a mighty dirty way, but today she just felt sort of sorry for him.
“Yes, sir! Any recent phone calls? $95.07. Thank
you.”
“Twenty-five new ones? Yes, indeed!” None of it was on paper yet, but Dukemer was writing Mr. Mather a letter.
Darling,
no,
Dearest,
her heart sang. “Sorry, sir. No new coins but pennies.”
“424-5? Yes, I have a breakfast charge and three locals. Stamps are at the cigar stand. $611.49. Merry Christmas. Thank you.”
Dearest: We both know that the whole thing is crazy, but the only possible answer is Yes.
“Fifty ones, thirty quarters, six nickels, five dimes, one pennies. Merry Christmas.”
Thank you for loving me. No one ever did before. We both know that the whole thing is crazy
. . . “The porters’ desk is directly across the lobby.”
A lovely day. “I’ll be delighted to exchange any that you think are soiled, Mr. Browne-Smythe. Oh, thank you. I’ve always wanted a buffalo nickel.”
Thank you for loving me. . . .
“If you’ll check the serial numbers, I think you’ll find them in order. Yes, a
lovely
day.”
Dreams do come true. I’ve always wanted a buffalo nickel.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Yes, I know I’m beautiful. But I have an engagement for this evening. I always have an engagement. Thanks anyhow. Merry Christmas. Yes, a lovely day.”
The only possible answer is Yes. What do we do now? All Yours, soon I hope, Millie.
“Twenty-five more ones? No, no hundreds. I have two clean fifties, but I’m afraid they’re not quite new. Sorry, sir. Sorry.”
Dearest:
she wrote rapidly but there was a big blot over the
T.
Dearest:
she began again.
We both know that the whole thing is crazy, but. . .
and was aware of an insistent tapping on the marble counter. “Yes,” she said absently. “You wanted something?”
“Change, ah-please,” the older of the two mink coats said.
“If you’re not too ah-busy with your correspondence, missy.”
“I. . .” Dukemer opened her mouth and looked up to the
oldest light mink she’d ever seen. The McCoy, and dolman
sleeves. It was so far out of style it was back again.
The new mink, the young one with the orchids, was blonde and quite pretty. “Really, Mother,” she said. “Must you?”
“May I help you?” Dukemer asked crisply. There was something not quite forgotten about both of them; she’d seen them before.
Thank you for loving me. . . .
We both know that the whole thing is crazy. . . .
“Surely,” she said. “Four ones and a dollar’s worth of silver.”
The older mink clutched her bills, counted the change nearsightedly with her nose, and a familiar, dreamlike sensation swept over Dukemer. She wanted to run. “Really, Mother! Poor Da,” the younger mink said. Dukemer’s strength sagged out of her.
“I smell mice,” the old mink said on her way to the Desk. “Mrs. William Prentice ah-Mather,” she announced at random to the clerk. “I don’t
believe
Mr. Mather is expecting us. I had planned to ah-surprise him. For ah-Christmas.”
Daniels at the Desk was the perfect picture of confused diplomacy. “But, Mrs. Mather. We have no vacancies—nothing. The hotel is sold out.”
“No room at the inn,” Dukemer said numbly to the grille of the cage.
“We shall not ah-require accommodations here,” Violet Mather neighed. “I have booked rooms at the Colony in Palm Beach, where I am ah-known. Simply direct me to Mr. ah-Mather’s room and have his bill prepared.”
“It’s 818, Mrs. Mather,” Daniels said, stunned. “The house phones are—”
“Telephoning will not be necessary,” Violet said. “This is to be a ah-surprise. Come, Violetta!” With a crackle of ancient mink, Violet Peabody Mather strode to the elevators.
Dukemer clapped her hands peremptorily, gave the porter a dollar.
We both know that the whole thing was crazy. The
only possible answer is No . . .
She gestured with her head
and eyes. “Get this up to 818 before Mrs. Bitchleigh calls the Exterminators.”
“Okay, Beautiful. Okay. Okay. Okay!”
The dreamlike compulsion to run attacked Dukemer again swiftly. She tugged at the record clerk’s sleeve, indicated the cash drawer. “Take over,” she said. “I’m sick.” The poor guy, Dukemer thought, the poor little guy. There wasn’t a prayer for them now. There . . .
With a deafening roar, the carolers appeared—greatcoats and beaver hats, mufflers and mittens, guitar and concertina, an electric lantern bobbing from a pole—
”Deck the halls with boughs of hol-lee”
they bawled,
“fa la la la
la,
la la la
lah!”
495 Palm, Frond Avenue
Mary blew her nose noisily and reread the letter she had just finished writing. She looked upon its composition as the last act she would ever perform in the state of Florida.
Dear Mrs. Dukemer:
This note is to say goodbye. I am going home for
Xmas. and for good. It was very nice knowing you and I
shall always value your friendship. In fact, knowing you
is the only experience I have had down here that has been at all pleasurable.
I know you are busy but I would also like to ask a very great favor of you. In my right-hand lower drawer I have left a yellow cardigan, my manicure kit and a book of poems. Would you be good enough to go up and get them and have the Mail Desk forward them to
me? I am enclosing $1.00 for postage. These things are
worthless to anybody else but of great sentimental value
to me. I would get them myself, but I do not want to go to the hotel and risk running into a certain party
whose initials are D.P.! You were certainly right about
him.
Thanks again for being so kind. Please kiss your nice Mr. Mather goodbye for yours very truly,
Mary Ellen Street
P.S. I forgot to give you my address. I guess I am just
naturally a dope. It is: 2413 Pleasant Heights Place,
Centralia, Ill. Let’s keep in touch.
She folded the letter, addressed an envelope to Mrs. Mildred Dukemer, sealed it and tried very hard not to cry.
“Taxicab’s here, Mary,” Mr. Baldwin called up the stairwell.
“C-coming, Mr. Baldwin.”
Mary got up, surveyed once more the yawning closet, the empty dresser drawers. Something lurched inside her. Panic-stricken, she wondered if she were feeling life. No, of course not. Not so soon. Not possibly. It was simply that she hadn’t eaten anything in more than twenty-four hours.
“Got your plane ticket, Mary?” Mr. Baldwin called.
“Y-yes. It’s right in my purse.”
“Better let me help you with your valises. Least you’ll be home for Christmas. Be nice to be back up North for Christmas again.”
“Y-yes. Lovely. Just lovely,” Mary said.
There was a tearful farewell at the door of the cab, a shoe-box lunch, an awkwardly thrust Christmas package, hastily wrapped in holly paper that was not quite new.
“G-goodbye. And thanks for everything.” Mary kissed Mrs. Baldwin on the cheek. “And have a nice Christmas with your friends in Miami. Goodbye, Mr. Baldwin. I’ll write. Gee, I’m sorry. But you won’t have any trouble renting the room, with the season coming on. A lovely big front room like that.”
Little Street waved gallantly at the Baldwins as the cab turned into the boulevard. Her eyes sought out her left wrist from habit, but the watch Dad had given her for graduation was at the Provident Square Deal Loan Company. “David, David, darling. And I thought you loved me.”