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“Sounds good.”
The doorman whistled for a taxi, and Kaira asked the driver if he knew the way to the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Never heard of it,” the driver said, then winked at Armpit.
Armpit got in the backseat, and Kaira snuggled up next to him. “You take your own cab,” she told Fred.
She felt soft and cuddly, like one of Ginny’s stuffed animals.
As they pulled away from the hotel, Kaira asked Armpit for a fifty-dollar bill.
Apparently she was used to being around people who carried that kind of money. For once in his life Armpit actually had several fifties in his wallet.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she told the driver, handing him Armpit’s fifty. “The guy following us is a total doofus. As soon as you can ditch him, let us out, then keep on going to the bridge.”
“I like your style,” the driver told her.
“Me too,” said Armpit.
Kaira sang, “I like your style/and the way you smile/just drives me wild.”
Armpit didn’t know if it was a real song or if she just made it up on the spot.
“You know, you got a really nice voice,” the driver remarked.
The cab suddenly swerved across three lanes of traffic. Kaira laughed as she fell across Armpit’s lap.
The driver told them to get ready. He turned a corner, then eased to a stop in front of a double-parked UPS truck.
“Go!”
Kaira opened the door and jumped out. Armpit only had one foot on the pavement when the driver hit the gas. He swung the door shut and grabbed Kaira’s hand to keep from falling.
They crouched down behind the large brown truck as the taxi with Fred in it drove right on by.
Jerome Paisley slipped the key card into the slot and was pleased to see the green light come on. He checked the hallway one last time, then opened the door to Armpit’s suite and stepped quickly inside.
He wore a pair of latex gloves, the kind worn by surgeons. They fit tight, like an extra layer of skin.
He took a quick look around the sitting area, then went into the bedroom, where Armpit’s clothes were strewn across the floor. He picked up a sweat-soaked sock, considered it a moment, then let it drop.
He entered the bathroom. Armpit’s wet towel lay in a heap on the floor, next to the terry-cloth bathrobe the hotel had provided. The cap was off a tube of toothpaste, and some toothpaste had leaked out. A hairbrush lay next to the mirror.
He picked up the hairbrush and removed a couple of strands of hair that were stuck to the bristles. He placed them in a plain white envelope.
A used Band-Aid, crusted with blood, lay on the floor next to the wastebasket. He picked it up, smiled at his fat face in the mirror, then placed the Band-Aid in the envelope as well.
He returned to the sitting area. Aileen was the one who had provided him with the extra key to Armpit’s room. She also had given him two keys to Kaira’s. He now placed one of them between the cushions on the couch.
Before leaving, he took the knife from the fruit and cheese plate.
They found themselves walking through Chinatown, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. Racks of fruits and vegetables had been set out in front of small grocery stores, further blocking the already crowded sidewalks. Trucks were double-parked up and down the street. Traffic was at a standstill, and people moved in and out between the cars. Yet when Armpit and Kaira stopped and kissed by the pagoda on Grant Avenue, it seemed to each of them like they were the only two people on the street.
They continued walking. Armpit was amazed by all the people and wondered what their lives were like. He felt like he was in a foreign country. Women grumbled in Chinese as they picked through vegetables and melons that he’d never seen before.
“Look at those,” he said, pointing at green beans that were well over a foot long.
“I don’t like veggies,” said Kaira.
