tuxedo. “Little too expensive to just toss.” As afterthought he asks Bemus if housekeeping serviced the rooms whilst he was out.
“Out where? Oh, you’re talkin’ about the rooms in L.A. Jeez, man, how long you gonna be hung up on that? Yeah, as a matter of fact housekeeping did come in to replace towels and a guy came in to inventory the minibars while I was waitin’ to pick you up from the Icon gig.”
That’s it. Colin clears off a space for himself on the couch. That has to be it. He sinks down in the cushy space. And not the first time his personal effects have been dipped into or stolen from. He resigns himself to seeing current photographs of his boys splashed across the pages of whichever rag paid most to the hotel employee that nicked them.
But wait a minute. The boys’ names weren’t on the photographs, and the only name on the case was the name of the manufacturer. The cuttings that included his own name—carried in the wallet as bitter reminders—are long gone. Disposed of on the flight to L.A. Flushed, they were.
So what’s the big deal? Why is he getting his knickers in a knot when it can’t be dead-proven those are his sons in the photographs? And what of the tampered-with headache remedy? Didn’t Anthony, his older boy, once secretly confiscate everything in his sponge bag, the thought being to hasten Colin’s return from an overnight to Manchester? The diminished supply of Polks has Anthony’s name written all over it, although it may take some doing to figure out when and how the lad carried out the scheme.
Bemus interrupts the partial relief taken from these reasonings by signaling that he’s got Nate on the line.
“Oh no you don’t,” Colin says when the bodyguard-assistant attempts to hand over the cordless receiver. “No need for me to talk. Just tell him where I am and to send someone with my gear.”
Bemus relays the request even though Nate could have heard it direct from the source without straining much.
“He’s bringin’ it himself. This afternoon,” Bemus says after a slight pause.
“Is he havin’ a meltdown over the change in plans?”
“Not that I could tell.”
Bemus makes no secret of his own meltdown when relieved of duty a short time later and told to make himself scarce for the next twenty-four.
“But you can’t be left . . . You’re not supposed to be . . . But you can’t . . .” the brawny bloke whines and carries on as though he’d been ordered to leave a fast-crawling infant in the middle of a dual carriageway—enough reason to give him a furlough even if he hadn’t earned it.
“Oh but I can , my good man.” Colin springs to his feet and maneuvers Bemus to the door. “Just watch me . . . No, don’t watch me!” Colin gives him a shove into the hallway and quick bolts the door.
That leaves Colin unattended for the first time in recent memory. It’s not as though he hasn’t been alone in a room for hours at a time, but for the last two and a half years there has always been someone in the very next room, ever-watchful and always expecting him to take a misstep. If Nate was an executive nanny in the days before the accident, what is he now? A warden? A warden with a seemingly endless supply of prison guards?
He takes another look at the accommodations, ignoring the perks and peculiars the worshipful staff—guards?—pointed out earlier. He takes the whole tour, eyeing potential for this to become a prison with wainscoted and damask-covered walls, marble and parquetry floors, chandeliered ceilings, and sumptuously curtained windows. The reassessment notes the softening effect of sculpted carpet, the civilized colorations of numerous upholstered pieces, the luster of polished pieces, the gleam of gilt, the sparkle of crystal—none of these features brand new or in absolute first-rate condition, a discovery he finds pleasing without knowing why.
A quick look out the windows says why. Seen from this height, Manhattan’s Central Park
“Out where? Oh, you’re talkin’ about the rooms in L.A. Jeez, man, how long you gonna be hung up on that? Yeah, as a matter of fact housekeeping did come in to replace towels and a guy came in to inventory the minibars while I was waitin’ to pick you up from the Icon gig.”
That’s it. Colin clears off a space for himself on the couch. That has to be it. He sinks down in the cushy space. And not the first time his personal effects have been dipped into or stolen from. He resigns himself to seeing current photographs of his boys splashed across the pages of whichever rag paid most to the hotel employee that nicked them.
But wait a minute. The boys’ names weren’t on the photographs, and the only name on the case was the name of the manufacturer. The cuttings that included his own name—carried in the wallet as bitter reminders—are long gone. Disposed of on the flight to L.A. Flushed, they were.
So what’s the big deal? Why is he getting his knickers in a knot when it can’t be dead-proven those are his sons in the photographs? And what of the tampered-with headache remedy? Didn’t Anthony, his older boy, once secretly confiscate everything in his sponge bag, the thought being to hasten Colin’s return from an overnight to Manchester? The diminished supply of Polks has Anthony’s name written all over it, although it may take some doing to figure out when and how the lad carried out the scheme.
Bemus interrupts the partial relief taken from these reasonings by signaling that he’s got Nate on the line.
“Oh no you don’t,” Colin says when the bodyguard-assistant attempts to hand over the cordless receiver. “No need for me to talk. Just tell him where I am and to send someone with my gear.”
Bemus relays the request even though Nate could have heard it direct from the source without straining much.
“He’s bringin’ it himself. This afternoon,” Bemus says after a slight pause.
“Is he havin’ a meltdown over the change in plans?”
“Not that I could tell.”
Bemus makes no secret of his own meltdown when relieved of duty a short time later and told to make himself scarce for the next twenty-four.
“But you can’t be left . . . You’re not supposed to be . . . But you can’t . . .” the brawny bloke whines and carries on as though he’d been ordered to leave a fast-crawling infant in the middle of a dual carriageway—enough reason to give him a furlough even if he hadn’t earned it.
“Oh but I can , my good man.” Colin springs to his feet and maneuvers Bemus to the door. “Just watch me . . . No, don’t watch me!” Colin gives him a shove into the hallway and quick bolts the door.
That leaves Colin unattended for the first time in recent memory. It’s not as though he hasn’t been alone in a room for hours at a time, but for the last two and a half years there has always been someone in the very next room, ever-watchful and always expecting him to take a misstep. If Nate was an executive nanny in the days before the accident, what is he now? A warden? A warden with a seemingly endless supply of prison guards?
He takes another look at the accommodations, ignoring the perks and peculiars the worshipful staff—guards?—pointed out earlier. He takes the whole tour, eyeing potential for this to become a prison with wainscoted and damask-covered walls, marble and parquetry floors, chandeliered ceilings, and sumptuously curtained windows. The reassessment notes the softening effect of sculpted carpet, the civilized colorations of numerous upholstered pieces, the luster of polished pieces, the gleam of gilt, the sparkle of crystal—none of these features brand new or in absolute first-rate condition, a discovery he finds pleasing without knowing why.
A quick look out the windows says why. Seen from this height, Manhattan’s Central Park
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