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• Classic-Fiction

“Hey, cookies!” She seemed completely to have regained her equanimity. “Too bad it’s all under cellophane. I’m famished. Look! Let’s see what’s under this one.”

She went on a few more steps, to a big dome-shaped lid, and raised it. “Look at this, sweetie. This looks really good.”

She was leaning over a plump roast turkey. Instead of replacing the lid, she laid it down carefully next to the bird.

“Do you think they’d mind if I pulled off a leg?”

“I think they’d mind a lot, Lindy. But what the hell.”

“It’s a big baby. You want to share a leg with me?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay. Here goes.”

She reached towards the turkey. Then suddenly she straightened and turned to face me.

“So what was that supposed to mean back there?”

“What was what supposed to mean?”

“What you were saying. When you said you weren’t surprised. About my opinion. What was that about?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be offensive. Just thinking aloud, that’s all.”

“Thinking aloud? Well, how about thinking aloud some more? So I suggest some of these guys may have deserved their awards, why is that a ridiculous statement?”

“Look, all I’m saying is that the wrong people end up with the awards. That’s all. But you seem to know better. You think that’s not what happens …”

“Some of those guys, maybe they worked damn hard to get where they have. And maybe they deserve a little recognition. The trouble with people like you, just because God’s given you this special gift, you think that entitles you to everything. That you’re better than the rest of us, that you deserve to go to the front of the line every time. You don’t see there’s a whole lot of other people weren’t as lucky as you who work really hard for their place in the world …”

“So you don’t think I work hard? You think I sit on my ass all day? I sweat and heave and break my balls to come up with something worthwhile, something beautiful, then who is it gets the recognition? Jake Marvell! People like you!”

“How fucking dare you! What do I have to do with this? Am I getting an award today? Has anyone ever given me a goddamn award? Have I ever had anything, even in school, one lousy certificate for singing or dancing or any damn thing else? No! Not a fucking thing! I had to watch all of you, all you creeps, going up there, getting the prizes, and all the parents clapping …”

“No prizes? No prizes? Look at you! Who gets to be famous? Who gets the fancy houses …”

At that moment someone flicked a switch and we were blinking at each other under harsh bright lights. Two men had come in the same way we had, and were now moving towards us. The gangway was just wide enough to let them walk side by side. One was a huge black guy in a hotel security guard’s uniform, and what I first thought was a gun in his hand was a two-way radio. Beside him was a small white man in a light-blue suit with slick black hair. Neither of them looked particularly deferential. They stopped a yard or two away, then the small guy took an ID out of his jacket.

“LAPD,” he said. “Name’s Morgan.”

“Good evening,” I said.

For a moment the cop and the security guard went on looking at us in silence. Then the cop asked:

“Guests of the hotel?”

“Yes, we are,” I said. “We’re guests.”

I felt the soft material of Lindy’s night-gown brush against my back. Then she’d taken my arm and we were standing side by side.

“Good evening, officer,” she said in a sleepy, honeydew voice quite unlike her usual one.

“Good evening, ma’am,” the cop said. “And are you folks up at this time for any special reason?”

We both started to answer at once, then laughed. But neither of the men laughed or smiled.

“We were having trouble sleeping,” Lindy said. “So we were just walking.”

“Just walking.” The cop looked around in the stark white light. “Maybe looking for something to eat.”

“That’s right, officer!” Lindy’s voice was still way over the top. “We got a little hungry, the way I’m sure you do too sometimes in the night.”

“I guess room service isn’t up to much,