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Lit by a full moon, Ann Chambers came in and out of Dick Canidy’s view as he chased her up the narrow, winding grassy drive that was lined with mature magnolia trees in full bloom. She was wearing the silk pajamas that he had bought for her at the boutique on Broadway, the pj top half unbuttoned, and every now and then Dick could hear her playful laugh float back on the cool, humid night air.
This was the Plantation, a vast tract of timberland that the Chambers family owned in southern Alabama, and the natural drive wound from a paved macadam country road past the dirt airstrip—where the Beech Staggerwing biplane was tied down—and ended a mile later, opening onto a large hilltop clearing that highlighted the property’s main building, a Gone with the Wind antebellum mansion that had been named the Lodge.
Dick saw Ann finally dart out of the shadows of themagnolias, glance at him over her shoulder—her long blonde hair catching the moonlight—and laugh as she went to a side entrance of the Lodge.
As Dick approached, he could see that she was pulling on the wood-frame screen door but that it would not open. The flimsy door was being held shut from the inside by a small hook-and-eye latch, and every time she pulled, the hook gave only a half inch or so—and the door then slammed back into its frame.
Dick came closer, and the bam, bam, bam became louder with Ann repeatedly pulling at the door—and laughing hysterically. The top of her silk pj’s slid off her right shoulder.
Dick grinned mischievously, his heart beating rapidly as he closed in on her.
Ann laughed, and the door slammed bam, bam, bam….
And a man’s muffled voice called, “Mr. Canidy?”
Canidy shook his head, trying to shake off the fog that clouded his thought.
Bam, bam, bam.
“Room service, Mr. Canidy.”
Canidy cracked open an eye and saw that he wasn’t at the Plantation in Alabama but still at the Gramercy in New York.
The clock on the bedside table showed three minutes past eight.
Bam, bam, bam.
“Mr. Canidy?”
I didn’t call for room service.
He slipped his right hand under his pillow, found his .45, then got out of bed and in only his boxers and T-shirt went to the door.
“I didn’t request room service,” he said, staying to the side of the doorframe, away from the door itself.
Using his right thumb, he pulled back the hammer on the pistol.
“It’s complimentary, sir.”
Canidy rubbed his eyes. He shook his head.
Complimentary?
Wait…that’s right. Instead of a wake-up phone call, they send up coffee and tea and the morning paper at the requested time.
He took his left index finger and thumb, grasped the hammer, squeezed the trigger, and carefully uncocked the pistol.
“Just leave it at the foot of the door, please.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“That’ll be fine. Your gratuity will be on the tray when you come back for it.”
“Very well, sir,” the voice said, and then there was the clanking of cups and saucers as the tray was placed on the floor.
Canidy walked to the bathroom, put the pistol on the top of the toilet tank, and took a long leak.
He flushed, glanced at himself in the mirror over the sink—Smooth move, Casanova. The minute you fall for one girl, you can’t even get laid in your dreams—and washed his hands and face.
