The Blonde

2:03 a.m.

Back to the Sheraton

What do you know. Call the newspapers, alert TV and radio: Ol’ Kowalski catches a break. Old City Cab gave him the drop-off point, and it was the Rittenhouse Sheraton, literally around the corner, and up one block on Locust. Too good to be fucking true. That, or Philly was one absurdly small town. As he walked, he got an idea. He dialed his handler.

“I’m about to be extremely impressed.”

“Not yet. Can you cross-reference passengers on all flights to Philadelphia this evening and the occupants of the Sheraton?”

“Hold on.”

“Then eliminate everyone except white men traveling alone who checked in after—”

“Already ahead of you. Hold on.”

Kowalski walked up Locust. Nice block, which ended at the edge of Rittenhouse Square itself. One side of the street was taken up by the Sheraton, but the other side retained some of its nineteenth-century charm. And hey, look. The Curtis Institute of Music. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was where they’d shot Trading Places with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd. As a teenager, it had been one of his favorite comedies. Today, he would explain that he’d been fascinated by the film because of its smart examination of class warfare and the mutability of identity. But as kid, he liked it because you got to see Jamie Lee Curtis’s tits.

His handler returned.

“John Joseph Eisley, goes by ‘Jack.’ He’s in room seven oh two.”

God, what did we do before the Patriot Act? By the time he’d pressed the button to end the call, Kowalski was already through the front doors and making his way to the reception desk.

“Hey, buddy. Hang on to this for me, will ya? I’ve got a guy upstairs who needs to be on the radio over in Bala Cynwyd in … oh, Christ on a cracker, an hour or so. I might need two hands to drag him out of bed.”

The clerk nodded without making much eye contact. He stashed the gym bag behind the front desk.

“Back in five for that. Along with a very sleepy real estate expert. Man, the people they drag on this show at this hour. Who’s up listening, right?”

Kowalski caught a pair of elevator doors closing, stuck his hand in there. But the occupant of the car had already pressed a button; the doors opened.

“Much obliged.”

“No prob.”

A hotel security officer wearing a black rectangular name tag with VINCENT in white letters.

“What floor?”