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“I thought you might be,” she said. “Even though you don’t look like a reader.”
“I’ve been reading Orwell.”
“That man had no romance in his books.”
Calvino thought about it; she was right. Orwell was a lot of things, but a writer of romance novels wasn’t one of them.
“But he had a lot to say about the toll-gate keepers.”
Her tired, old eyes wrinkled as she smiled.
“Rangoon is packed with crooks,” she said. “What you have in those bags smells good.”
Calvino wasn’t certain what she was hinting at—a free meal or hot money, or if she was just bored, having read the newspaper three times, and was hungry for conversation.
“Anyone come around asking for me?”
“Are you expecting more guests in your room? We have a house rule about guests bringing in other guests. I’ll have to charge you.”
“If anyone comes around asking for me, tell ’em I checked out. ”
He winked at her.
“Like the missing toll-gate keeper,” she said. “What would you like me to tell these Bow Street Runners who are after you?”
“Tell them I was headed to the airport.”
“Are you?”
“I’m going upstairs to eat.”
“And then you’re going to check out?”
Calvino set the bags down and took out his wallet.
“Let me start over.”
“No need. I understand,” she said, as Calvino slipped her a twenty-dollar note.
The receptionist had a sly moxie that complemented her silver hair and satin-slippered shuffle. She sat behind her desk clutching the novel with gnarled hands that were speckled with liver spots the size of dimes and nickels. She put The Toll-Gate down, slipped her reading glasses back on, and examined the twenty. She turned it over, put it to her nose and smelled it. The old lady could have passed as one of the blue-haired ladies who played the slots at Atlantic City and who constantly craned their necks, keeping a cocked eye on those around her. Who was winning, who was losing was all the information she was interested in. She hadn’t quite made her mind up about Calvino.
Calvino switched on the light as he entered the room and closed the door. Rob was stretched out on one of the twin beds with one arm folded behind his head, smoking a joint, wearin
g a set of earphones, his head moving to the beat of the music. He wore an old, thin bath towel. Bloodied jeans and shirts were heaped in a pile beside the bed. Women’s underpants and a bra lay in the mix of clothes. And the second bath towel was draped over a chair. Either Rob was a secret cross-dresser, or he’d recovered enough strength to ride the Black Cat. Rob looked up from the bed as Calvino set the plastic bags on a table. The bathroom door was closed. Light seeped from under the door.
“Is Mya in the bathroom?”
With the earphones on, Rob heard only music. Calvino opened the bathroom door, had a look around and switched off the light. Empty. He closed the door. It was easier than removing the earphones and repeating the question.
He opened the plastic bag and took out the packaged pasta and salad. The smell from the hot pasta drifted and caught Rob’s attention. He removed his earphones, swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded across to the table to look at the food.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
The kid unwrapped the plastic knife and fork from the package.
