Moondogs - Alexander Yates [51]
Then there’s a loud knock on the door that straight up ruins his mood.
IGNACIO SETS HIS TUMBLER down and turns, looking back into the suite. Littleboy is in the study, facing the front door, frozen. And again the knocking—three hard raps, loud enough that they can hear it over the radio. Is it one of Howard’s friends? Or maybe just housekeeping? A huge problem, either way. Littleboy makes for the door and Ignacio is suddenly, horribly certain that the simpleton is going to answer it. He’s going to swing it wide and expose them. Ignacio knows he should chase after, but his lungs and legs have turned to mud. He briefly contemplates leaping off the balcony.
But instead of answering the door—Ignacio should have more faith in his brother, he’s not that stupid—Littleboy just presses his face to the peephole. He looks through for a long while. Then there’s another knock and he jerks backward, as though someone has struck his face. He turns to Ignacio. Are those tears in his eyes? Is he crying? No—weeping! Silently bawling. He waves Ignacio over, pointing at the peephole. Slowly Ignacio exits the balcony and puts his eye up to the minuscule little window.
There’s a policeman out there.
An officer. Ignacio recognizes the classic light blue shirt and dark blue pants, the badge-blazed beret leaning off the side of his meanly shorn skull. He’s out there, holding up a piece of paper, double and triple checking the number in his notes with the number on the door. “Hello,” he calls. “Mr. Howard Bridgewater?”
Littleboy must be having trouble hearing, because he turns off the radio and leans his ear into the door. The policeman notices this and pauses, as though expecting some answer. Ignacio, now crying silently as well, slaps Littleboy on the forehead. His brother is stupid. It was wrong to have faith in him.
“Can you hear me, sir?” The officer’s expression is put out, but his voice exceedingly polite. “I am here to follow up regarding your emergency call on the morning of the eighth.” Another pause. “Mr. Bridgewater?”
He jiggles the handle.
Ignacio is in a flat panic. He knows that if he answers the door, that’s it. They’re done. And not just in the short term—they’re finished for life. But if he fails to answer it, the officer will get worried. And he’ll return with one of the steely concierges and a master key, which would be even worse. There’s only one way for Ignacio to evade this fate. He closes his eyes and concentrates. He conjures, from memories of his DVD collection, the perfect American accent. Like Mel Gibson, from Ransom. Though, come to think of it, he’s Australian. Maybe Tim Roth? But no … he’s British, isn’t he? Fuckitall. Here goes.
“What do you want?” Ignacio groans, all twang and marmalade.
A silence. Then: “Hello, sir? Mr. Bridgewater?”
“What do you want?” Ignacio repeats. “I was sleeping.”
“I … you made an emergency call, sir? Some days ago?”
“And?”
More silence. “Are you all right? Did you want to file a report?”
“No. I mean, I’m fine. No report.”
The officer takes a breath and briefly holds it. He looks back down at his notes, and then at the door again. Ignacio wonders if his shape is somehow visible through the tiny fish-eye glass. If the officer has some sense of him and his duplicity. “Sir,” he asks, “are you sure there is no prob—”
“Go away,” Ignacio says. “I need to sleep.”
And, after a small pause, the officer does go away. He walks back down the quiet hallway. And distantly they hear the pleasant chime of the arriving elevator. He is gone.
IT’S HARD TO BE TOO ELATED. The foolishness of this visit to the Shangri-La springs up about Ignacio like a brushfire. What the hell was he thinking? He’s seen enough movies to know that the story he’s in—the story he’s willingly hopped aboard—never ends well. Sooner or later the hostage gets away. Sooner or later Gibson or Fuentes or Sutherland gets the better of you. They tap your telephone. They put snipers on the roof. They hide paint bombs in the ransom money. Eventually they find you and hit you in the face, really hard. Eventually, reluctantly,