He checked into the hotel early in the afternoon and paid with cash. The name he used was Richard Sanderson. The identification he presented stated he was fifty-eight years old and was from Cleveland, though neither was true. Nothing about him was.
After taking the room, he discussed with the desk clerk certain other requirements he would have. The clerk, a balding Puerto Rican in late middle age, listened closely, his eyes flitting hungrily between Sanderson's hard narrow face and the bills he placed one by one on the counter as he related what he wanted. The clerk was accustomed to these sorts of requests, yet rarely had he been paid so well to fulfill them. Later, when he was questioned by the police, he never mentioned anything about this off-the-books transaction. When asked about Sanderson's demeanor, the clerk recalled that he had a serious air about him. Not the sort of person you made small talk with.
Anything else? inquired the detective.
He had animal eyes, replied the clerk who often took his grandchildren to the zoo so he understood the comparison.
The detective made a face. What did that mean?
The clerk plucked thoughtfully at the sleeve of his cardigan and said, He looked at you as a wolf would like he could see your heart beating inside your chest.
Sanderson's room had been booked for him by his contact in the city. It was shabby and smelled of commercial cleaning products that barely masked the stale, desperate odor of the countless people who had stayed there, leaving behind microscopic bits of themselves as well as the ethereal qualities of their dreams and desires. He carried two pieces of luggage. One was a small leather overnight bag. This, he placed at the foot of one of the two double beds. The other was a briefcase, which he sat carefully on the small desk whose surface was chipped and marred by water stains and cigarette burns. His eyes swept the room. How many nights had he spent in dreary hotels situated in equally dreary cities like this one? He had no permanent home. Putting down roots would be impractical. Besides, it struck him as a kind of bondage. When he wasn't working, he stayed in places rented for the short-term, usually in some warm climate with a sea breeze, where he'd pass the time without purpose, drinking too much, thinking too much, and not bothering to learn anymore of the local language than was necessary.
Stepping over to the windows, he looked out on the gray November day. His room was on the top floor of the three-story hotel situated in a rundown section of town not far from the innerbelt. You could hear the traffic. The street below was deserted except for an old woman, walking. She was leaning forward slightly, like a person marching into a strong wind, and was wearing a black coat with its hood pulled over her head. Suddenly, she stopped and turned and peered up at him, as if she'd felt his eyes on her. The force of her gaze unsettled him, and he eased back from the window. Across the street was a parking deck whose highest level was about the same height as his room. There were three cars squatted on the structure's open top. The wind was blowing scraps of old newspapers across it. About half a mile away, he could see the smokestacks and hulking outlines of a steel mill. He detected a trace of the sulfurous smell of the sprawling plant. He took off his thin leather gloves and his overcoat. From his suit jacket, he removed his burner and dialed.
"I'm here," he said, nodding as he listened. "Okay. I'll wait."
After hanging up, he stared at the phone for a moment and stroked his stubbled chin. He glanced at his watch, reckoning he had about five hours before he received the second call. Typically, this would be for the final go-ahead or last-minute instructions. He had always found the waiting tedious. At least he had his routine. He reclined on the bed with his hands resting atop his chest, fingers interlaced, like a corpse laid out in its coffin. The wail of a far-off siren reached him. Closing his eyes, he drifted into a half-sleep populated by weird imaginings that weren't quite dreams, yet neither were they lucid thoughts. Footsteps in the corridor awoke him. Then came a light knock at the door. It was the clerk with a paper bag and a bucket of ice. The clerk began to take the items to the desk where Sanderson had placed his briefcase. He stopped him and had him put the delivery on the credenza. He tipped the man again, though this was unnecessary, considering he'd already done so, but he had learned long ago the value of generosity. The clerk assured him that the rest of his instructions were being followed to the letter.
When he left, Sanderson turned on the television and stood at the foot of the bed about three feet from the screen. He used the remote to surf through the channels with the sound muted. Observing the parade of images, he appreciated how they changed the light in the room; he was particular about light. Finally, he stopped on a channel showing a nature program and, leaving the TV on, went into the bathroom where he took a long shower, finishing as he usually did with a blast of cold water. He was standing in front of the fogged mirror, a towel around his waist, his face lathered with shaving cream when he heard music coming from the adjoining room. He stood closer to the wall and listened with his ear about an inch from the plaster. A woman was singing. He was unable to make out the tune although it sounded like a love song, a sad one. Her voice touched him and he tried to picture her and what had moved her to sing in such a way. Was she alone? He preferred to think she was. He wondered if she knew she could be heard through the wall, and, if o, whether she cared. If he had to guess, he would say she didn't. What mattered most to her, he speculated, was that she give voice to what she was feeling. For a few moments, he allowed himself to imagine what would happen if he knocked on the door of her room.
About half an hour later arrived the two women he had instructed the clerk to arrange. One was in her forties. The other was very young; she was chewing gum and giggling. At his invitation, they made drinks for themselves. The older one offered to make him one. When he declined, she regarded him warily. He nodded and smiled, attempting to put her at ease. It would be no good if she was frightened. She rattled on nervously while the younger one, whose name was Luna, continued giggling and was preoccupied with her phone. The older woman asked why he was in town, and he gave his stock answer, that he was here on business. He let them finish their drinks, then he had them remove the cover, sheets, and pillows from one of the double beds. He instructed them to undress. The older one asked if he was going to take off his clothes too. He said no and, again, she gave him a look. No rough stuff, she said. He had them get onto the bed. Pulling the desk chair up beside it, he sat with his legs crossed and described what he wanted them to do. At first, they were self-conscious and awkward, especially Luna, but the older one guided her and soon they forgot he was there. The blue light from the TV screen reflected faintly on their pale skin and accentuated the contours of their bodies and seemed to give them animal form.
When they were gone he turned off the television and moved the chair over to face the window. The room still smelled pleasantly of the women. Fixing himself a drink, he pulled the curtain and shears aside and sat down with his feet propped on the metal radiator below the window. After a moment, as if remembering something, he rose and engaged the security chain on the door. He went back and sat down and thought once again about retiring. He wouldn't admit to having slowed down, yet he had to acknowledge an erosion of his skills and this was unacceptable. Lately, he had found himself distracted, given to ruminating on details from the past, like the woman who had offered him everything and when he refused, checked her hair in the mirror and informed him, with a tragic smile, that she was ready. The loss and infirmity of old age frightened him, but not death. He understood death and had the courage to face it; he was uncertain if he had the courage to be a very old man. Perhaps he'd travel. The untamed regions of the planet fascinated him, the sorts of places he saw on the nature programs. Occasionally, he came across news stories of people who'd been attacked and killed by bears or mountain lions in these wild places. It pleased him that there still existed upon the earth a primal order that lay beyond the stain of human intrigue. He wished to become immersed in such a landscape, one so vast and dispassionate his ideas about himself could be absorbed to the point of dissolution and he would be free of them.
He could drive to Alaska and, along the way, stop at the small town where he'd grown up. He had left there when he was a very young man and had never returned. Over the years he'd pondered going back; there could be something that would explain it all. Yet he'd always put it off. Why did there have to be a reason?
Was it not enough to simply concede what this path had cost him? There was no need for explanations. One had to live beyond justification.
The gloomy November afternoon stretched on. He avoided glancing at his watch or being impatient for the burner to ring. He went to his overnight bag for the paperback he'd been reading and returned with it to the chair in front of the window. At one point he looked up from the book. Across the street, about a dozen blackbirds roosted on the utility lines. The way the birds had arranged themselves reminded him of musical notation. The drone of the traffic on the innerbelt heightened and died down again. The cheerless sky darkened. The birds flew off. The streetlights came on. He rose from the chair, feeling the familiar stiffness in his back as he did. He turned on the lamp and went into the bathroom, listening to see if he could hear the woman singing but it was quiet and he felt a pang of longing for her, or rather the possibility that she represented and that was enough. He started to pour himself another drink and decided against it. He reflected on how little control we have over events. He had come to view himself as largely insignificant, an agent tasked with giving the great cosmic wheel an occasional nudge. As to the ultimate difference it made, who could say?
When it was fully dark outside the burner rang. He answered. With the phone to his ear, he walked to the window as the caller had directed and looked out. Up the street, positioned along the curb, was a stationary car that hadn't been there before. Inside the car, a match was struck. He waited for the caller to say something else, yet there was nothing aside from the faintest sound of breathing. In the window, he saw his reflection and observed the line of sight from the parking deck across the street. For a moment he could have saved himself.
THE END
Mick Leigh's work has appeared in New Reader Magazine.
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