I slid out from my booth and approached theirs. I wound up standing where the waiter had been.
I said, “Sorry for the interruption but I have a problem. I need your help.”
The woman in the sundress put her glass down. Her hands rested lightly on the table in front of her. The Yankees fan switched her glass to her left hand. Her right started hovering over her purse. I waited a beat. I needed to see if it disappeared inside. It didn’t, so I sat down. I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m looking for a friend. His name is Michael. Michael Curtis.”
Neither woman’s expression changed. The Yankees fan’s eyes didn’t stop scanning the room.
I said, “He’s in trouble. I need to find him. Fast.”
“What’s his name again?” the woman in the sundress asked.
“Michael Curtis.”
The woman shook her head. “Sorry. We don’t know him.”
“I’m not with the police,” I said. “Or the FBI. I know why Michael’s here. I know what he’s doing. I’m not looking to cause him any trouble. I’ve come to save his life.”
The woman shrugged. “I’m sorry. We can’t help you with that.”
“Just give me an address. One place to look.”
“Have you got a hearing problem?” The Yankees fan’s eyes were finally still. They locked on to mine and didn’t move. “We don’t know this Michael guy. We can’t help you find him. Now go back to your table and stop bothering us.”
“One location. Please. No one will ever know it came from you.”
The Yankees fan reached into her purse. She rummaged around for a moment. Then her hand reappeared. She was holding something. Not a gun. A phone. She glanced down and it came to life. She tapped it. Tapped it again three times. Then held it up for me to see. The digits 911 were glowing on its screen. “Do I make the call? Or do you leave us alone?”
I held up my hands. “Sorry to have bothered you. Enjoy the rest of your wine.”
I slid back into my booth and pretended to read some more of the paper. The Yankees fan put her phone away and drained the rest of her drink. She picked up the bottle and topped off her friend’s glass. Then she poured the rest for herself. The receptionist from the medical center and her companion got up and left. The four guys ordered another round of beer. No one else new arrived. The waiter approached the women’s table. They waved him away. The Yankees fan finished her wine. She slid out of their booth and followed the sign to the restrooms. The woman in the sundress stood up, too. She made her way in the opposite direction. Toward me. She stopped in front of my booth. She put her palms down on the table and leaned forward until her head was as close to mine as she could get without sitting. “The Border Inn.” Her voice was so quiet I could barely hear the words. “Do you know it?”
“I could find it.”
“OK. Room 212. Twenty minutes. Come alone. It’s about Michael.” She straightened up and made it halfway to her seat. Then she doubled back and leaned toward me again. “When my friend comes back don’t say a word. This is just between you and me.”
Chapter 24
The Border Inn was on the southeast edge of the town. It was a wide building. Two stories high with a flat roof tucked away behind a balustrade. Its name was sketched out in faded neon letters. At first the fa?ade looked very plain. Then I realized I was approaching from what was originally its rear. The entrance was on the far side, facing the border. That wall was covered with all kinds of fancy carvings and symbols. The outline of a row of letters and numbers was still visible near the top. They spelled out Grand Central Hotel 1890. That must have been the place’s original name. Whoever designed it must have expected the town to spread south. Not north. Now it seemed like it had been built the wrong way around.
The entrance opened into a wide rectangular lobby. There were dark wood panels on the walls. Most had cracks and peeling varnish. There were terra-cotta tiles on the floor. Some were plain. Some had intricate patterns in shades of orange and brown. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. It looked like real crystal. It was cut into elaborate shapes but the pieces were dull and cloudy with age. And dust. More than half the bulbs were out. Maybe they were broken. Or maybe that was some kind of economy measure.
The reception desk was directly opposite the main door. It was five yards wide and also made of dark polished wood. A guy was behind it. He had his boots up on the counter. They were long, pointy things made of snakeskin. There were holes in the soles. The guy had faded jeans. A blue paisley-pattern shirt. A black leather vest. It was unfastened. His arms were folded across his chest. A wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his face. He looked like he was fast asleep. I didn’t disturb him. I didn’t need to. I knew where I was going so I crossed to the corridor that led to the stairs.