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She smiled at the doorman and walked into the hotel.
Matt drove back into Fairhope and had linguini with Italian sausage and a bottle of Merlot-all of a bottle of Merlot-in La Trattoria, while considering the differences of the mental processes of the opposite sexes.
And then he drove very carefully back to the Grand Hotel, asked for any messages-there were none-and then went into the hotel’s Bird Cage Lounge, where he sat all by himself in an upholstered chair at a table and had the first of five drinks of Famous Grouse on the rocks. The prospect of a scotch-or even an Irish-martini did not have much appeal.
Between drinks three and four, he used the house phone on the bar to call Miss Olivia Lassiter. The hotel operator said she was sorry, but Miss Lassiter had left word that she didn’t wish to take any more calls tonight.
Between drinks four and five, his cellular buzzed.
It was Detective Joe D’Amata.
“The Black Buddha said to call, Matt. Meet Delta 311 at the Mobile airport-”
“Mobile?”
“That’s what he said. Mobile. Arriving at twelve-thirty-five. ”
“They pronounced that ‘Mow-beel,’ not ‘Mow-bile,’ by the way.”
“No shit?”
“Tell him I’ll be at the ‘Mow-Beel’ airport. Who’s Mrs. Solomon sending down? Did she make up her mind?”
“I dunno,” Joe said. “This is the doer, huh?”
“It sure looks like it, Joe.”
“Good for you, Matt. Having a good time?”
“Absolutely, Joe.”
“Yeah, I bet you are,” D’Amata said, chuckled, and hung up.
After drink five, Matt signaled for the waitress and signed the bill.
“I’ve had all the fun I can stand for one night,” he said to her.
He left a call for half past seven and went to bed.
He woke with a hangover and a clammy undershirt.
He wondered about that and sniffed, and when he first encountered a really foul odor, remembered he had had a nightmare.
I always smell like death warmed over when I have one. And this was one of the better ones:
A Ford van driven by Warren K. Fletcher, white male, five feet ten, thirty-one, of Germantown was backing up toward him with the obvious intention of squashing him between the van and the Porsche. First he couldn’t get the. 38 snub-nose out of its holster no matter how hard he tried, and then when he finally got it out he couldn’t make it fire no matter how hard he pulled on the trigger, and then when he finally got it to fire, he fired five times and missed all five times…
He’d seen the movie before, and when he missed with the last shot, and the van was about to squash him, he usually woke up.
But I don’t remember waking up last night.
Probably the booze.
And Fletcher as the star of my nightmare? Usually it’s Susan.
Is there some significance in Fletcher showing up again?
The sweat soaked T-shirt smelled so foul that he didn’t want to pack it with the rest of his clothing. He took it instead into the shower with him and started to wash it.
