Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) by Bill Pronzini Page B

toward her, saying, “Wait,” but she turned and hurried away into the section where the Asian dancer was simulating sex with the brass pole on her platform. In the next second the bouncer was between us and not quite in my face, like a wall.
    “You don’t want to bother the girls,” he said, low-key.
    “I wasn’t bothering her. Just a friendly conversation.”
    “Didn’t look so friendly to me. Suppose you have a seat, buy yourself another beer, enjoy the show.”
    “I’ve had enough warm beer.”
    He said, with iron in his voice this time, “Then why don’t you go someplace else, pops.”
    “Yeah, sonny, why don’t I.” I stayed put, locking gazes with him, just long enough to let him know he wasn’t intimidating me, and then took my time walking out of there.

11
     
    T he Hotel La Farge, just off Union Square, was one of the city’s more venerable hostelries, built in the twenties and renovated at least twice since. Sedate, expensive, respectable. That last, respectable, had a somewhat different meaning these days. Hotels no longer police the morals of their guests, unless something happens that forces the issue. If a guest wants to entertain a member of the opposite sex in his room at any hour, day or night, and the visitor is reasonably presentable, hotel staffs are trained to look the other way. None of their business, and that’s as it should be. The worst thing any institution, public or private, can do is to try to dictate morality on any level.
    La Farge had an underground garage, valet parking only at a confiscatory fee; I turned my car over to the attendant—another item for the Krochek expense account—and went into the ornate, wood-and-marble lobby. I used one of the lobby phones to call Suite 1408. No answer. At the desk, I asked one of a brace of well-dressed clerks if heknew when Mr. Jorge Quilmes in Suite 1408 would return.
    He said, correcting me without making an issue of it, “I believe Señor Quilmes and his party are still in the Blue Room Lounge.”
    “His party?”
    “Two other gentlemen who came to see him a short time ago.”
    The Blue Room Lounge was a fancy name for a small, not too dark lobby bar. Two couples sat apart from each other at the bar, and three men in business suits were grouped in leather chairs around one of the tables near a gas-log fireplace. It wasn’t yet four o’clock, but cocktail hour starts early in the city. I didn’t much care for the idea of bracing Jorge Quilmes in company; it looked liked a conference rather than a social situation and people don’t take kindly to being interrupted when financial matters are under discussion. But I had a business to run, too, and you do what you need to do when the opportunity presents itself.
    The three of them were speaking a mixture of Spanish and English in low tones when I came up. I took the eldest to be Quilmes: mid-fifties, olive-skinned, black hair frosted with gray, mustache and Vandyke beard likewise frosted, dressed expensively and meticulously. The other two were younger, deferential, one of Latino ancestry, the other a blond American with a desultory command of Spanish.
    “Excuse me for intruding,” I said, “but it’s important that I have a few words with Señor Quilmes.”
    The distinguished type said, “Yes? I am Señor Quilmes,” in English with only a trace of accent.
    The blond American said, “We’re having a business meeting here.”
    The other Latino said, “Who are you? What is it you want?”
    “It’s a private matter.”
    “Can’t it wait?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Such an impolite country, America,” Quilmes said, but without rancor; almost affectionately, in fact. He even smiled a little, in a tolerant way. “Everything is important, everything must be attended to immediately. What is it you wish to see me about?”
    “An appointment you had last Saturday night.”
    “Appointment?”
    “Here at your hotel. At nine o’clock.”
    Nothing changed in his