The Pink Hotel (15 page)

I wonder what would happen, Purcell thought, if I were to get up right now—right here in front of all these people—and ask her to marry me. I wonder . . .

“This rilly enormous Christmas tree simply
covered
with candles and our footmen—these two lovable old darkies-posted on either side with wet sponges on . . .”

“Down home, on
ouah
plantation, we always had a big
ole. . .”

“Fire department give us fits, Mrs. Conyngham, if we use real candles. But we got these kinds beeswax electruck candles. Can’t tell the difference ten feet away.”

“Then I can draw up the contracks for the boys? They start caroling—in costume, of course—at the pool aroun’ say lunchtime on the twenny-fourth an’. . .”

“But what
do
reindeer eat? Ah’ve got enough to do already, plannin’ all those ole Christmas games an’ the big Aig Nog Pout-ty. Ah doan think it’s fai-yuh fo’ the Social Hostiss ta hafta plan meals fo’ eight reindeer . . .”

“Sketches for the costumes right here. All be cleaned and pressed. Now here’s da coachman outfit for da doorman. Fit him fine. An’ ‘en I t’ought da lifeguards—jus’ fer da one week—a paira red trunks an’ a paira green trunks widda sequin holly spray imbroider on da. . .”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Wenton. Francois can
cook
a hog’s head, but who’d
eat
one?”

“Oh, for Chrissake, the boys in the band could do it in a walk. They been singing ‘White Chrissmus’ for God only knows how long. An’ the chime effeck is. . .”

“Ya mean I jus’ stand out there on the Boor in all that fur an’ a hoop skirt an’ sing it straight, Sandy?”

My beautiful Mary, Purcell thought, hoping there was something to mental telepathy. Just look up at me this once.

“Of gourse, Mr. Wenton. They are all ordered. One poin-settia plant for each bedroom and a small decorated tree for each suite. A larcher tree for Miss Templar’s suite. Everything-g is arranged. My son has seen to it. The holly. Of that I am not sure, but we egspect. . .”

“Yes, Mr. Wenton. The maids all undastand. One of them—those—little tarlatan stockings-like hung on every child’s door Christmas morning. There’s just one thing, Mr. Wenton: There aren’t but three children in the whole ho-tel.”

“. . . and then the record that goes
‘Hohoho!
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night’ piped over the P. A. system. An’ then the bells. An’ then . . .”

Anything you say, Mary sweetheart. I may be the crown prince in the snappiest dump in town, but I’d
give
it all up for you. I’d have to, anyhow. I’ll get a job in another hotel, Mary. We’ll scrimp and save until we can get a little place of our own. I don’t care if it’s only a flophouse. With you to help me we can turn it into the goddamnedest best hotel in the whole state of Florida. Do you hear me, darling? I haven’t much to offer but. . .

“Mr.
Purcell! Mr.
Purcell!”

Purcell was jarred back to life by the urgent voice of the bell captain.

“Wh-what. . .”

“See here, young man,” J. Arthur boomed grandly from the head of the table. “This is a
closed
conference. I distinctly said no interruption. I—”

“I know, Mr. Wenton, sir, but—”

“But you choose to come barging into my conference room when—”

“This is important, Mr. Wenton, sir. There’s been something terrible happen. A kidnapping!”

The Imperial Suite

Little Jane Jeremy had been born into an untenable position; a position that a harder head than hers would have found difficult to sustain. As the daughter of an acknowledged genius—her real father was the brilliant Michel
Jeremy although that, of course, was several fathers back-little Jane was expected to be a genius as well. And since her mother, Julie Templar, was considered to be one of the twelve most beautiful women in the world, comparisons in that quarter were unfavorable too. At six, people were already saying that she would never have her mother’s legs.

For all the simple elegance of her clothes and her precocious French, little Jane was not a distinguished child. She was all very well, as little girls go, but through an unfortunate reversal of genes her mother had not made her beautiful and her father had not made her brilliant. Little Jane had inherited her beautiful mother’s practical peasant mind, her famous father’s sharp nose, his full, pouting underlip. About all that could be said for Janie was that she was small for
her age.

To make everything worse, she was losing her teeth. What incisors she had were loose or in a ragged transitional state, and she refused to wear the darling little denture that Julie had had fitted for her except when one of her uncles or a new father was around. It hurt, but she was reasonable enough to want to look her best at such times and to realize that Julie wouldn’t know whether she were wearing it or not except on occasions of state like Getting Married or Divorced or Custody. All of Janie’s fathers adopted her legally; they insisted upon it, and then when everything was over and everyone was just awfully good friends, there were complications.

Janie didn’t really mind because she was enough Julie’s child to enjoy a little excitement, and because her mother was certainly the most beautiful woman in the world except when she got up in the mornings. Janie didn’t think Julie was so bad even then; it was only her face, her body was lovely, soft and warm and sweet in its perfumed transparencies and it stuck in and out at the right places.

A lot of fathers and uncles apparently thought so too, didn’t mind the slight puffiness under Julie’s eyes, the faint lines around her mouth. Julie was
really
beautiful, of course, later in the day; so beautiful that Janie wore her denture
gladly in love, only hesitating a little over a sharp bargain like No Poached Eggs or a Napoleon instead of Junket, but knowing that she was going to give in anyhow, the way her fathers and uncles always did when they saw Julie again in the morning, felt and smelled her as Janie had seen them do.

Janie was a well-adjusted child, civil and reasonable to all of her fathers and uncles because she sensed that they were only temporary and that Julie would always come back to her. Just now though, she was rather bored and lonely and inclined to feel sorry for herself, for Julie had been off to South America with a new uncle for a while.

Janie always knew that Julie would come back when she said, and that when she did, the uncle would have changed into a new father. She would get a lot of presents and be adopted again and have Napoleons and
petits fours
and eclairs for dessert. It would be very satisfactory. She would sleep on curlers and wear her denture every day to please Julie and by now, with the experience she had had, a new father was no obstacle at all; she would curtsy and lisp a little and manage to be charming. With Julie in thin, scented silk, sticking in and out the way she did, with the dark smudges under her eyes that seemed to come with a new father, and her hair tied back with a blue velvet bow the color of the famous Templar eyes, little Jane didn’t think that her new uncle would be inclined to be critical even when he turned into a father.

Still, until Julie came back she was bored, bored with Mam’selle, with poached eggs, with perennially blue skies and Conversational French. She wasn’t even interested in South America, because she figured that even if she and Julie did go there, it wouldn’t be for long.

Little Janie gave Mam’selle quite a bit of trouble when Julie was away because it made things more interesting for both of them, Mam’selle couldn’t really
do
anything, and the only part of Mam’selle that stuck out was her teeth.

The only person that Jane really liked now was Ernie. Ernie was a room-service boy and he seemed to know the way she felt about poached eggs. He supposed, he said, that he
had seen the Browne-Smythes eat about a million of them thinks, and he always slipped her a piece of bubble gum when she had to have them. Bubble gum was proscribed because of Janie’s denture; it was deliciously illicit, and Ernie knew it.

Ernie was older than Janie but he wasn’t old the way Julie and Mam’selle and everyone else were. He seemed to understand the way it was, even when she followed adventure down concrete fire escapes or hid from poached eggs under strange beds.

Ernie knew that she didn’t mean anythink by it, that she oney wanted her mother, didn’t like Mam’selle. “Aw, be a good girl,” Ernie would say from his hands and knees. “Come on out and eat the cruddy thinks.” And later he would bring her a well-thumbed bundle of comic books from his locker. In them, there was no Conversational French.

They were friends, sharing candy bars on the service stairway, and once he had given her a wild, thrilling ride down an empty corridor on his room-service cart. It had been a wonderful ride, and Ernie had picked her up and dusted her off when she had somehow managed to carom off the cart onto her head.

The little kid was as game as anythink, Ernie told himself as he rubbed the bump that was comink up on the little kid’s head. Janie got red in the face; she bit her underlip, her eyes were stricken with effort, but she didn’t cry because she had found out a long time ago that no one paid much attention when she did.

Ernie didn’t know why he liked the little kid so much even if she was game as anythink. She had a lot of sense, he decided, and he had kept on rubbink the bump and sort of pattink her on the arm until the hurt began to go away. It was then that Janie fell in love for the first and, of its kind, the last time in her life. “Ernie,” she said, letting herself slide down against the wall and grabbing him fiercely around the knees.

After that, Janie started wearing her denture for Ernie although he seemed to like her just as well without it, and Ernie felt that he had to look out for the little kid, even if he still didn’t know why he liked her so much. He guessed he was sort of tired of old people, not that they wasn’t nice enough, the most of them, but they was aways havink attacts or somethink, and they sort of give him the creeps, especially that cruddy old pantrywoman that was aways tryink to make him eat somethink.

Ernie was used to looking out for people, what with his mother and his aunts and his Gram, but he didn’t have much time to think, on or off duty, because if his Gram didn’t want somethink, the Room Service Captain did. Ernie was zealous in the administration of all of his duties, he liked to please people, and people, generally, were pleased with him. That was why Ernie wasn’t a bus boy any longer, was practically a waiter.

At sixteen, Ernie was a success story and, at home, a man of parts, the head of the house, slippink his mother a five or a ten ever week, over and above his board money, and his board was clear profit. In the first place, Ernie didn’t have time to eat at home; he wasn’t there long enough except on his day off, and two meals a day was deducted from his wages anyhow. The food wasn’t very good, but it was nourishink, usually some sort of stew or hash and bread and margarine and a puddink with little pieces of fruit in it. Ernie felt that he ought to eat a lot of it because it didn’t cost him nothink.

That way, in addition to the fives and tens to his mother, Ernie could take home special treats on his days off. Ernie’s day off was a big day for all of them, particularly for his Gram. Probly no one would ever know just how much ice cream Ernie’s Gram could eat, if you set there and put it in her mouth. Ernie himself had never gotten beyond a quart on her birthday. He had never seen anythink like it, and later that night she had polished off a pint of raspberry sherbet; he didn’t see how she could do it. Ernie’s Gram’s arthuritis might not let her get around so good but they was certny nothink wrong with her appetite.

Ernie belonged to the V. F. G. S., too. The Youths for for Goodness Sake movement was sponsored by a young
woman not quite so young as she had been, whose name was Miss Feerson. She was thirdy, thirdy-two, had crinkly hahr and nice pink cheeks, real pink, but she had legs like nothink human. Ernie always tried to look at her eyes instead but it was hard to do, the first think he knew, he was back to her legs.

Ernie didn’t like himself for it but he figured he had managed to look at Miss Feerson’s legs even when she had give him that slick wallet with Y. F. G. S. on it in gold letters and
E. P.
for Ernie Prosser, underneath. Ernie loved the meetinks. They had a pitnick. They all sang like anythink and Miss Feerson talked a lot, in a friendly, informal way about
Playink Fair
and
Doink Your Duty,
referrink familiarly to the Deity as The Man Upstairs. Ernie had aways played fair because he had never thought of doink anythink else: he certny tried to do his duty, and he thought of The Man Upstairs as
Someone
who wanted
Everbody
to have a real, nice time. Sort of soft and easy like he was himself.

Mam’selle had turned green at luncheon and retired to the adjoining suite with one of her sick headaches when Janie took out her denture and laid it in the dish of Spinach au Naturel in the middle of the table. Little Jane didn’t like Spinach au Naturel, and she didn’t like to eat with her denture. Little Jane accepted the denture only as full-dress insignia. Mam’selle, on the other hand, felt that everyone should have almost as many teeth at all times as she did.

Mam’selle had insisted on the denture for luncheon, with disastrous results for Mam’selle. The denture still rested in a nest of spinach on the table that Ernie had set up by the terrace and Janie had been chewing bubble gum and reading
Le Chat Qui Rit et Simple Renard,
when the door opened.

“Qui est là?”
she asked without looking up, for Janie knew instinctively, as Julie did, that the best way to entice any man, even Ernie, was by sometimes ignoring him.

She waited for Ernie to say “Hi-ya, babe? Desiray voos unh Tootsie Roll?” but the door closed with an ominous click.

“
Je me suis engagée Allez-vous-en,
”
little Janie murmured,
and looked up to see two unsavory characters. She was only mildly surprised. The big one had a little blue automatic in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“Candy!” he said, extending the paper bag ingratiatingly. He smiled in an unpleasant manner.

“Il me fait du mal au dents,”
little Jane explained, lisping a little without her denture.

“C’mere,” the leader said again, extending the bag. “Nice can-dy,” he said.

“Je me suis fatigué,”
little Jane replied and returned to
Le Chat Qui Rit. “Alors!”
she said.
“Je m’en fiche
. . .” and
waved her hand imperiously.

“Nice can-dy,” the leader continued. “A little Hunky,” he informed his liege with a wink. “Me and Lefty here is going to take youse to see the flam-ing-oes.”

“Merde!”
said little Jane, for her previous Mam’selle had not always been discreet.
“Vous m’ennuiez. Je n’aime pas les oiseaux. Allez-vous en!”
she repeated, and remembering Julie’s last picture,
Shangri Sahib, “Chop-chop!”
she added and clapped her hands.

“Walla, Walla,” the senior thug said. “Af-ghan-is-tan. The kid can’t talk English,” he explained, held out the paper bag and withdrew it, grabbed Janie’s arm roughly.

“C’mon, sister,” he said thickly, dragging her by the arm. “You and me and Lefty here is going to see the fla-ming-oes.”

Norn d’un nom d’un chien. “Cochons!”
little Jane screamed.
“Marquereaux!”
realizing belatedly that these Unsavory Characters were not extras after all. “Julie!” she called. “Ernie!”

The grimy hand that pulled her to the door was revolting, with its ragged nails and overgrown cuticle, but Janie summoned such molars and bicuspids as she still had and bit into it anyway.

“Ernie!” she lisped stranglingly, and longed for her denture. “Ernie!” she articulated again.

Ernie had delivered Fresh Broiled Brook Trout and a pint of whipping cream to the Mellott suite, Dr. Anna Pomery had just finished givink him somethink for the infantigo, and
he was headed for the Goodenows’ when he heard a bellow of male pain from Julie Templar’s suite.

Ernie sensed Trouble, and only hoped that nothink was wronk with the little kid when he heard a gargled “Ernie-ee-
Scelerats! Assassins! Voleurs!”

Ernie didn’t know what little Jane was sayink, but he opened the door anyhow. “Anythink wronk?” he asked.

“
On vent me conduir voir les grands oiseaux!
”
Janie gasped indignantly.

“Aw, I scarcey even touch her. Putcher hands up,” the big one with the gun told Ernie. Mam’selle was awake now, and her nose and teeth obtruded suddenly from the other suite, but little Jane knew how to handle her first big scene.

“Je me pâme
. . .” she said, and fainted with considerable satisfaction.

Ernie woulda done amost anythink for the little kid, so it had been easy, even natural, for him to be a hero when them two greaseballs try to put the snatch on her.

When Ernie seen what they was up to, he had threw Mr. Goodenow’s pot of scalding coffee—just one but make it a big one—at the punk with the gun, and then he had hit the both of them over the head with his big, spun-aluminum room-service tray. He had been still givink them a conk ever onct in a while with the tray, just to make sure, when the house dicks come and took them to the station.