A Cool Breeze on the Underground

16

The piccadilly hotel was as simple as its name. Not plain or unattractive, but simple in the sense that it knew what it was: a good solid place from which to do business, tour the city, go the theater, and take in the sights of London. It offered large rooms, big beds, decent food, and room service. You could ring up for anything you wanted at the Piccadilly Hotel. The Piccadilly Hotel knew that people went to hotels to do things they didn’t do at home.

The lobby was large, built in the days when people met socially in hotel lobbies. It featured a lounge with old wing-back chairs big enough to seat Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet, and a decently dark, mahogany bar that was somehow always cool in hot weather and warm in cold weather. It was the kind of bar where the men always kept their ties knotted but felt relaxed, anyway; the kind of a lounge where the barkeep would never disturb you to ask whether you wanted another but was always there with your drink at the slightest glance.

The lobby ended at the registration desk. The Piccadilly Hotel had too much sense to make a new guest search for the bloody thing, and it was always staffed by at least half a dozen red-jacketed clerks who knew their business: See that the room was paid for, and get the guest to it. If you made a reservation at the Piccadilly Hotel, you always got a room. They didn’t believe in overbooking; in fact, they always kept a couple of rooms saved for emergencies. You could stay for a night or a year at the Piccadilly Hotel. The rules were the same. You paid your bill, and kept your jacket on.

Neal shucked his off the moment he stepped into his room, a nice large one on the sixth floor, with a small window air conditioner that struggled bravely against the heat. He kicked his shoes off on the ubiquitous red carpet and surveyed the room with a consumer’s eye. The blue wallpaper was the color of the sea after a storm, and was decorated with prints of heavily muscled, bare-chested, bare-knuckled boxers toeing the line. A manly room.

The bed had been built in an era when gentlemen kept their riding boots on for afternoon expressions of affection. Like the hotel, it was large and sturdy, and proclaimed itself the focal point of the room. A small bathroom led off from the right. It had a deep old tub, an adequate sink, and newly refurbished countertops and mirrors. One small window broke up the wall, and a double-jointed gymnast might have made out the view of Piccadilly Circus.

Neal gave the bellhop a grotesquely large tip and dismissed him with a “What’s your name, in case I need anything?”

Then he carefully hung up his jackets-the all-purpose no-wrinkle blue polyester blazer and the striped seersucker-and his summer-weight trousers. He laid his folded shirts out in a bureau drawer, placed his cheap travel alarm clock on the bedside table, and put some paperback books on the lower shelf. He carefully laid out his toilet kit on the bathroom counter and took some manila folders out of his briefcase and laid them around the room, then placed the British editions of that month’s Playboy and Penthouse on the floor in the bathroom.

After ringing room service for a bottle of scotch and a bucket of ice, Neal changed into a fresh blue shirt and red regimental tie. He knotted the tie, then undid the top button of his shirt and yanked the knot down. Next, he lit a cigar, puffed on it until it started to smoke, and left it burning in an ashtray to stink up the room.

He overtipped the room-service waiter, poured three fingers of the scotch down the bathroom drain, and made a weak one for himself. Then he sat down with his copy of the classified ads that had lured Scott Mackensen into the world of big-time sin, and started to dial numbers.

Team Number One showed up a half hour later. They were each rather pretty. The senior member sported flaming red hair, freckles, and wore a green dress and impossibly cliched black mesh stockings. Her colleague was a pleasantly plump blond lady. Neither of them were the ones who had dated Scott and friend. Both of them tensed up when they saw only one man in the room.

“Relax,” said Neal. “I just want to talk.”

“Don’t you like us, love?” asked the green dress, just about fed up with freaks.

Neal gave them their standard fee in cash, with his apologies and reassurance.

Team Number Two was made up of two black-haired, blue-eyed, black-dressed, severe types, who accepted Neal’s apology and cash with a dry sneer of contempt.

Team Number Three consisted of two Irish girls, who were delighted with the money. Team Number Four was a pair of positively gorgeous black women, and Neal secretly felt abashed that his dismissal stuck in his throat for a long moment. Team Number Five claimed to be a mother and daughter team, and might have been for all Neal knew. It made him wonder what kind of man would go for a threesome with the older woman and a woman who was at least twenty-five dressed up as Alice in fucking Wonderland. Team Number Six arrived about one, and were smashing-looking, with a smashing fee, but still not the right ladies. Neal felt he was getting close, though, and showed them the Polaroid. “Hard up, are you, darling?” “You could say that.”

“Sorry. Never seen them. If that’s it, then, we’ll just be tripping along. Are you a frustration freak, is that it?” You don’t know the half, lady.

Number Six offered to perform for him, if that’s what he wanted. Number Seven were transvestites. Number Eight was a cop.

An enormous cop. His wide shoulders sloped from years of stooping under small ceilings and through small doors. His large head was matched by a large nose. He had sad, cop eyes. Eyes that had seen it all and wished they hadn’t. He was wearing a three-piece gabardine suit and refused to sweat. Neal put him in his late forties. “May I come in?” he asked, entering. “Sure.”

Good cops take possession of a space, and this one was a good cop. Most rent-a-cops shove their ID at you, but this guy didn’t bother. He sat down and invited Neal to do the same.

“My name is Hatcher,” he said. “I’m from Vine Street Station. Do you know where that is?”

Neal sat down on the edge of his bed. “No.”

“It’s across Man-In-The-Moon Passage. Do you know where that is?”

“I don’t know where anything is.”

Hatcher nodded. “It’s just outside the kitchen and the laundry. Do you know why I’m telling you this?”

Yeah, I do, Neal thought. You could tell me what you want to tell me straight out, but you’re establishing a pattern of question and answer. “Not really.”

“This hotel does not require a house detective, because I can be here on a moment’s notice. I am not the house detective. I am a London police inspector.”

“Would you like a drink? I have scotch, scotch and water, and scotch on the rocks.”

“Scotch, thank you.”

Neal poured three fingers into a glass and handed it to Hatcher. Then he sat down again on the bed and waited.

“The hotel staff cannot have helped but notice considerable traffic in and out of your room.”

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“Apparently.”

“A particular girl.”

“Rather particular indeed, Mr. Carey.”

Neal shrugged and tried to look stupid. It wasn’t tough. He hadn’t figured on a cop stepping into this.

“And you have yet to find her?” Hatcher asked.

“Not yet.”

Hatcher sipped at his drink. “But you intend to continue this search for… the Holy Grail.”

“Yup.”

Hatcher’s sad eyes grew a little sadder. Then he stared at the floor before staring back at Neal. It was an old cop move and it didn’t surprise Neal much. It did surprise him that it shook him up a little.

“Not in this hotel, lad.”

Neal stood up and freshened his own drink. He held the bottle up in an invitation that Hatcher accepted.

“Why not?” Neal asked.

“We don’t mind a little of the old in-and-out, man. But you have them trooping up here at a pace that would do credit to an Australian rabbit.”

Neal took a chance on getting his ribs bashed in. “So? It’s not illegal.”

“It’s unseemly.”

“So you don’t mind guests running whores up here, you just don’t want to get a reputation for it.”

Hatcher shook his head. “I don’t mind guests ‘running whores up here,’ I just want to receive a piece of it.”

Neal smiled.

“Understand, Mr. Carey,” Hatcher said. “This telephone business tends to cut the lads out-the bellboys, the concierge, the local constabulary who are coming up on retirement and who aren’t likely to get that promotion before the pension is set… The referral fees are missed.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Neal could see the cop was annoyed at having to spell it out.

“I am suggesting that you try to exercise a bit of control over your libido, and that when the need does arise, so to speak, you ring the bellboy.”

And if I was looking to get laid, Neal thought, I wouldn’t mind at all. But my only shot at Allie is over the phone. He stepped to the door and opened it. “Sorry.”

Hatcher ignored the door. “You don’t mind if I have a look-see?”

“It’s your town.”

“What brings you to London?” Hatcher asked from the bathroom.

“Business.”

“You have been busy.”

Neal knew what was coming.

“Oh dear,” Hatcher said.

And here it comes.

Hatcher came back from the bathroom holding a plastic film canister.

“It’s not mine,” Neal said.

Hatcher reached into his jacket and took out a set of handcuffs. “Nevertheless.”

Neal held his hands out in front of him to show his spirit of cooperation and said, “Why don’t I tell you what I’m really doing here?”

Hatcher was back in half an hour with the hotel’s telephone records.

“Your Mackensen lad made only three calls from the room.”

They checked the phone numbers against the classified sex ads. Number eleven matched. Neal reached for the phone.

“No longer in service, lad. I checked already.”

“But the next number should be the dealer’s.”

“True, but it isn’t much help. It’s a phone box in Leicester Square.”

They were there in ten minutes. Hatcher pointed to the phone box. It was unoccupied.

“Your dealer is a cute one,” he said. “The girls knew to reach him there. Maybe he keeps regular hours. Different phone booths at different times.

“You haven’t asked me for my advice, lad, but I’m giving it to you, nevertheless. Give it up. Go back to the States and tell your aunt and uncle to forget about their daughter. It’s a fine thing you’re trying to do, but… Even if you were to find her, you’re more likely to get a knife in your innards than get your cousin back. You’ve no business being on the Main Drag.”

“I have to try.” He gave it a nice touch of nobility.

“Suit yourself.”

“Thanks for your help.”

Hatcher smiled. “Forget about it. Literally.”

Neal straightened up the room. he picked up the magazines and newspapers and tossed them in the trash bin. He opened up a window to let the cigar stench out. He rinsed the glasses out in the bathroom sink and then fixed himself a fresh drink while he drew a bath.

It isn’t so bad, he thought as he lay in the hot water. He didn’t have an address but he did have this phone booth, or box, in the vernacular. And the location fits Mackensen’s story. And tomorrow I’ll check it out. And find the dealer. Who’ll lead me to Allie.

Right.