Friday drove into and out of the shadow of the Arch. Two blocks up on the right, she parked across from the white Victorian with peeling paint and ancient green-gray asphalt shingles.
She crossed the dark street, across the dead grass lawn and onto the Victorian’s porch. A loose board popped under her. She rang the bell. Rang again.
Inside the house, a flickering black-and-white desk monitor showed a high-angle shot of Friday, looking at her feet. The receptionist, a white blond named Duffy, held a telephone handset to her chest, tapped a finger with a long curved black-lacquered nail on an intercom button, and into the intercom said, “Who?”
On the porch, Friday said, “Skip the small talk, Duffy, and buzz me in.”
“Geez, Linda,” Duffy said over the intercom, “I haven’t seen Harry since you guys helped us out when Cee-Cee couldn’t get an order of protection against her old man. You know he don’t play here.”
“I’m looking for Rossiter,” Friday said.
The door buzzed.
Friday pushed it open and entered the Victorian.
“The Big Guy’s in back,” Duffy said, telephone handset still pressed to her chest. “We had a problem.”
“You always have a problem,” Friday said.
“It’s the line of work,” Duffy said. “Like being in the mouse shift at a cheese factory.”
The room was stuffy with sandalwood incense. The compact fluorescent bulbs in the lamps, spiraled like soft-serve ice cream, gave a flat white light, which made Duffy look even paler, not quite as if she were in clown makeup but a little skull-like. She held up a finger and talked into her telephone handset.
“I need the name you checked in under at the hotel,” Duffy said.
Behind Duffy, on a high shelf over the parlor door, a TV was tuned to Chris Matthews, who leaned forward into the camera, brows furrowed.
The sound was off.
A brown corduroy-covered sofa and two easy chairs, one upholstered in cream-and-red flowers, the other broad blue-and-wine-colored stripes, surrounded a coffee table.
Two hookers, naked except for G-strings—Marty, a skinny brunet with a cat’s face, and Tif, short-haired, hennaed, with too many piercings—played cribbage.
“Seven,” Tif said.
“Eleven,” Marty said.
Marty sat on the couch, leaning forward, left elbow on left knee, breasts swaying.
Tif slouched in a chair, legs over an overstuffed arm, twisting to play her card. “Fifteen,” Tif said. “Two points. Peg it for me, will you, hon.”
“Hey, Linda,” Marty said. “Long time…”
“No, we call you back at the hotel,” Duffy said into the telephone, “for security.”
“Rossiter?” Friday asked.
“Do animals have a sense of humor?” Tif asked no one in particular.
“Our security,” Duffy said. “Not yours.”
“Twenty-five,” Marty said.
“Go,” Tif said.
“His nibs,” said Rossiter, coming in from the back and pointing at the top card on the stack.
“I’m only letting you kibbitz because you got a gun,” Marty said.
“What the hell you doing here?” Rossiter asked Friday.
The dim hallway led back to half-a-dozen small rooms. Only two of the doors were closed.
“You mean: What’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?” Friday deadpanned.
Tif barked a single laugh.
“They’re having a slow night,” Rossiter told Friday.
“I need to talk to you,” Friday said.
“We’re a leading economic indicator,” Marty said.
“My date in Room Three,” Marty asked. “Still alive?”
“Bozo passsed out,” Tif told Friday. “Finished the better part of a bottle of Ketel One. Which,” she said, with a doubtful glance at Rossiter, “he brought himself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rossiter said. “You don’t serve liquor. You don’t sell dope.”
“It’s about Harry,” Friday said.
“Now,” Rossiter said, “why did I know that?”
“Rossiter’s okay,” Tif told Friday. “Just he don’t come by so often.”
“Sleeping Beauty will survive,” Rossiter told Marty.
“Room Seven’s free if you want to bunk, Big Guy,” Duffy called from her desk.
Rossiter sat on the couch next to Marty. The springs sagged under his weight.
“I mean it, Rossiter,” Friday said. “This time it’s serious.”
“With Harry,” Rossiter said, “it’s always serious.”
“How come we don’t see you more?” Tif asked.
“I’ve got no sale’s resistance,” Rossiter said.
“I think Harry’s right about Pillette,” Friday said. “Cotton, too.”
“Do I got to go back and entertain my public?” Marty asked Rossiter, who shook his head no and said: “He’s sleeping like a baby.”
“Long as I don’t have to change his diaper,” Marty said.
“Sure, he’s right,” Rossiter told Friday, “just like he was right last time about the fifteen-year-old who was kidnapped who turned out to be thirty-two on a bender with some Ashley Madison man. And the time before that when—”
Tif shuffled the cards and leered at Rossiter. “Next time, we’ll play Hearts, and I’ll let you shoot the moon.”
“I hate this tour,” Rossiter said, heaving himself up and starting toward a room where he could nap.
Friday followed.
“I’m not crazy,” she said.
“And neither is Harry,” Rossiter said. “The world is full of mysteries, right?”
Friday stopped.
“You won’t help?” Friday asked.
“Friday,” Rossiter said, “Harry’s safe, where he’ll get some help. In two minutes, when I sack out in back, I’ll be safe, too. If I’m lucky, I’ll even sleep off this migraine.”
Friday stood, legs apart, fists on her hips.
“Harry’s right,” she said. “The world is full of mysteries.”
“You think I’m going to suddenly get sentimental?” Rossiter asked. “Like Harry?”
“Harry’s not sentimental,” Friday said.
“What is he?” Rossiter asked.
“A good man,” Friday said. “And I thought you were, too.”
“You know, Friday,” Rossiter said, “you’re a real hard-ass.”
“You’re wrong, Rossiter,” Friday said. “My ass is nice and soft.”
She turned and headed out.