Ex-Purgatory: A Novel Part 13

"I need to know what hotel she's staying at."

Silence stretched out between them. When Nick spoke again, his voice was lower and more m.u.f.fled. "George," he said, "I can't give that sort of thing out."

"I just-"

"I can get fired for giving out that kind of information," stressed Nick.

"It's important," George said. "I swear. It's nothing creepy or stalker-y, it's just ..."

"Just what?"

"Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Yes or no. Do you trust me?"

"Yeah, of course," said Nick. "I'd trust you with my sister. Or money, even."

"Then just believe me," George said. "It's important, okay?"

Another silence lived out its brief life. "No," said Nick. "Sorry, this is one of those lines I can't cross, y'know?"

"Nick, please-"

"No," he interrupted. "The conversation's over, okay? Done. Finished." There was more tapping of keys. "I've got to get back to work. I'll talk to you later."

Nick hung up.

George slumped in the driver's seat. It had been a stupid request. Nick had told him horror stories of people doing similar things. He'd just become one of those people.

Except those people couldn't pick up dumpsters. They didn't get attacked by walking corpses. And if they were, he was pretty sure the monsters' teeth didn't break on their skin.

He had to find Karen Quilt.

He reached for the ignition. His fingers were three inches from the key when the car started. The engine purred. The dash lit up. The radio flared to life. It was between songs. "That," said the deejay, "was totally awesome. Good to see you in action again, man."

He froze. Had he turned the key? It was a muscle-memory thing he did a lot of the time without thinking. There were so many things going on in his mind he might've started the car and then just blanked it out until he went to turn it again. Maybe a wiring issue? He could've turned the ignition earlier and it didn't engage until he moved and made something in the car s.h.i.+ft. It was a lame explanation, but of all the things going on, his car starting without a hitch didn't rate that high. Heck, a wiring problem might even explain why it kept stalling in the mornings.

The deejay launched into a diatribe about divorcees and saints. George shut the radio off. How did it keep getting back to religious stations, anyway? More bad wiring?

He brushed it from his mind. He needed to head home and scour some articles online. Maybe he could find a hint about where Karen Quilt was staying. He'd been a.s.suming it was a hotel, but maybe she had a condo somewhere in Hollywood or Santa Monica or somewhere. Common sense told him there were enough celebrity-stalking websites out there that someone had to have a general sense of where she was.

His phone beeped. Nick had sent him a text.

Four Seasons on Doheny-for f.u.c.k's sake, don't make me regret this George smiled and backed his car out.

The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills stood tall, flanked by a handful of ma.s.sive palm trees. It bristled with balconies but still had the color and faint lines of Spanish architecture. The entrance was discreetly blocked off from the rest of the world with a series of hedges and smaller trees.

George drove past the entrance. Through the gap in the high shrubs he saw several valets and very few parking s.p.a.ces. He went a little farther down and turned onto a side street. It took him another few minutes to find parking, and two more to find a sign that told him how long his car would be safe there.

He walked back to the hotel. He paused to tuck his s.h.i.+rt in and brush himself off before he stepped through the pillars of greenery and onto the grounds. There were a few life-sized iron statues of people scattered around the entrance. He kept glimpsing them in his peripheral vision as he crossed the driveway. Their stillness was a bit unnerving. They flickered in his eyes and for a moment he saw them covered with years of green tarnish.

The men at the valet station didn't give him a second glance. George was sure he wasn't the first person to dodge valet parking. He returned the doorman's tight smile and stepped inside. The lobby looked expensive in an elegant way. It was the kind of expense that didn't feel the need to flaunt it by being oversized.

He saw the counter off to the side and tried to decide if he needed to speak with the regular clerk or the concierge. His experience in fancy hotels was limited to a pair of parties with Nick, neither of them at this hotel. He chose the main desk on the hope lower-ranking staff members would be more helpful than higher ones. A slim man and woman in matching s.h.i.+rts and blazers stood behind the high counter.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the man as he approached. "Welcome to the Four Seasons. How can I help you?"

"Hi," George said. "I'm trying to get in touch with one of your guests."

The man's hands slid to a keyboard. "Of course. What room number?"

"I'm afraid I don't have it."

"Name?"

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Karen. Karen Quilt."

The man looked up from his computer screen. He locked eyes with George for a moment, then his gaze slipped to something just over George's shoulder. There was a large mirror behind the desk, and in it George saw a man by the elevators straighten up. He was a large man, as tall as George but wider in the chest. He wore a black tee with his dark suit.

"Is Miss Quilt expecting you, sir?" asked the clerk.

"I'm not sure," he said. It felt like an honest answer. He looked at the phone by the man's hand. "Could you tell her ... George is here."

"George ...?"

"George Bailey."

The man's face twitched. Not in a good way. His eyes flitted back to the large man wearing the T-s.h.i.+rt with his suit.

George was ready for it. He'd been dealing with it his whole life. "No," he said, "really. That's my name." He slid his driver's license from his wallet and held it out to the clerk.

The man looked at the license, then to George, and then back at the license. He tilted it between his fingers under the light, then handed it back. "You have very cruel parents," he said with a polite smile.

"They were pretty cool past the whole name thing," said George.

"However, Miss Quilt was very clear she did not want to be disturbed this afternoon."

"I know," ad-libbed George, "but this is kind of important, and she's not answering her cell phone." He decided to risk winging it. "Neither is her a.s.sistant."

The clerk sighed. "I will check, sir, but I'm quite sure what the answer will be."

George put up his hands. "If she doesn't want to talk, I'll move along quietly."

"Yes," said the clerk, "you will."

His fingers danced on the keyboard's number pad and he picked up the phone. He turned halfway from George so the handset m.u.f.fled his voice. He spoke for a few moments, listened, spoke again, and then listened again. His eyes flitted from George down to his computer screen.

George turned away and tried to look casual. He gazed around the lobby. His eyes met the large man's for a moment, and George gave the man a polite nod that wasn't returned.

"Sir," said the clerk. "She's waiting for you. Sixteenth floor, the Royal suite." He gestured at the elevators.

George stood for a moment, just as stunned by the news as the clerk was. He was pretty sure the clerk was hiding it better, though. He managed a "thank you" before he walked away.

The elevators were all mirrors and bra.s.s. Like the lobby, they felt expensive. George looked at his reflection in the doors and brushed a few more wrinkles out of his jacket. He saw his boots and wished he'd switched into sneakers or something more casual. He was pretty sure there was a pair of sneakers in his car. He wondered how long it would delay him to run and get them.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a smaller lobby, just as elegant. He checked the signs and headed down the left-hand hallway. It was dotted with small tables and flower arrangements.

A man was waiting for him at the door. He was maybe an inch taller than George, but slim. His dark clothes accented that slimness. The man's steel-colored hair was bristle-short, and a pair of round spectacles balanced across his nose. George couldn't decide if the John Lennon gla.s.ses made the man look more like a hipster a.s.sistant or some sort of undercover n.a.z.i officer.

"Mr. Bailey?" His voice was dry, but not in a weak way. It was the kind of dryness found inside pyramids. A powerful rasp with tons of weight and history behind it.

"Yeah." George nodded and held out his hand.

The man made no move to take it. He didn't even seem to notice it. He gestured George through the open door and closed it behind them.

George followed the man into the hotel suite. It was cream colored and gigantic. He was pretty sure his entire apartment would fit inside the main room. One wall was all windows and French doors leading out to two different balconies. He walked past a sprawling, L-shaped couch and a gla.s.s-topped table to stare at a flat screen the size of his bed. George was pretty sure any one of them cost more than his monthly rent.

"You have ten minutes," said the man. He pointed at a chair with two fingers. The chair looked expensive, too.

"Thank you, Father," someone said.

George turned and saw the woman on the couch. She was slouched just low enough that he hadn't seen her there. She set her book aside and straightened up without using her hands. Her body flexed and pulled her up to a sitting position. She also gestured at the chair.

Living in Los Angeles, George had seen more than a few celebrities. He'd run into Lindsay Lohan once hiking up in Runyon Canyon, and seen Scott Bakula at a pizza place in Larchmont. One time, around Christmas, he'd stood in line at Target with Biff from Back to the Future, and one summer he'd sat across from the redhead from Six Feet Under at a coffee shop for half an hour. It made him aware of how human celebrities were. Without special lighting or an hour of makeup, when you just saw them from any old angle, most of them lost a degree of beauty and appeal. They were still all a lot more attractive than him, but it was clear they were just people like everyone else.

Karen Quilt looked better in person than she did in photographs and on television. She wore a black tank top and form-hugging sweatpants. If she had any makeup on he couldn't tell. Her dark hair draped across her bare shoulders. Her arms were muscular.

Her gaze flitted down to his shoes and back up to his face. She had gorgeous eyes. Sky blue. They had an edge to them that was hard but didn't look cruel. He kept watching them, hoping to see a spark of recognition.

If there was one, she hid it well.

"George Bailey," she said. "The main character in the 1946 motion picture It's a Wonderful Life. I would recall meeting someone with such a distinctive name."

Something sank inside him. "You don't remember me?"

Her dark brows s.h.i.+fted. "Remember you from what?"

"From ... I don't know, remembering me."

She smiled. The smile was even more formal and polite than the desk clerk's downstairs. "I generally do not a.s.sociate with janitors."

His heart lurched back up in his chest. "You know I was a janitor," he said.

Karen pointed at his hand. "There are seven round spots on your right sleeve," she said, "each discolored to a different degree. They are from drops which splashed up when you were soaking a mop, and do not appear on your left arm because it would be held higher from the bucket. The discoloration was caused by a diluted industrial cleaner, meaning you were most likely not mopping at home. The varying degrees of discoloration mean it happened multiple times with different ratios of water to cleaner. Mopping is a regular action you perform when not at home, thus, a janitor."

He smiled. "You're like Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Except I am not fictional," she said with a slight bow of her head. The motion made a few strands of hair slide across her forehead and cheek. "What do you do now?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you were a janitor. What do you do now?"

He rewound his words in his head. "I ... I don't know why I said that," he admitted. "Nervous, I guess."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you nervous?"

He juggled a few possible answers. "Because it's important you know me."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

"You are lying," she said, "and you are not good at it."

His mind raced and he realized just how unprepared for this conversation he was.

Karen slid a bottle of water from an ice bucket on the table. She made no move to open it. There were three left in the bucket, and he thought about taking one to give himself a few moments. He wasn't sure how stepping toward her would go over, though, and it seemed rude to take one if she didn't offer it.

His eyes drifted across the table to her face and stopped at the elaborate hotel phone. The call with Barry flitted across his mind. "Can I ask you a question?"

She ran one finger around the bottle cap and wiped off the excess water. "Very well."

"Do you know who George Romero is?"

"He is an American film director who began his career making commercials and short films in the Pittsburgh area, most notably doing a feature for the children's show Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. He is best known as the creator of the Night of the Living Dead horror series."

"Yes!" said George. "What are those about?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Please," he said, "it's important."

She stared at him for a moment. "An unknown force causes the dead to become animate and attack the living. In most of the films in the series, the plot revolves around a small and isolated group of characters dealing with the dead."

"But what are they called?"

"The characters?"

"The dead."

"Romero has said in several interviews that he and his fellow filmmakers did not give the creatures a name, although he was inspired by the legend of the ghoul."