Hotel Destiny, page 11
“Oh, for God’s sake, what kind of an answer is that? What does that mean? Stop talking in riddles. Why can’t you just tell me things?”
“There are rules.”
“Who makes them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who enforces them?”
“Mr. Sackler, you are asking the wrong questions. You need to be continuing your journey. If you want answers, you must look for them.”
“What about the fire? Did I get my burns in the 1948 fire that consumed Room 302?”
Her eyes playfully went up to ceiling as if she knew the answer but simply didn’t want to tell him.
Cole cursed, threw up his hands, and then crossed his arms. The whole thing was frustrating. He turned to watch the dancers as the band shifted into playing “It Ain’t Necessarily So,” as if that was the answer to his earlier question. He could see Chadwick with his arm around Miranda as they spoke to other couples at a furniture arrangement near the bar.
He swiveled back to Agnieszka. “I keep seeing the man with the black cloak and white mask. He must be a ghost, too. I’ve seen him in different years, different eras. I’m thinking that he’s my twin brother, Charlie. Am I right?”
She shrugged. “Under the mask, he is a mirror image of you.”
“I take it that’s a yes. I need to talk to him.”
“When you finally come face to face with him, then you’ll have all the answers you seek.”
“Is he the serial killer? Did he kill you?”
“Cole, who are you talking to?”
Miranda’s voice startled him. Cole whirled around to find her standing with a martini in each hand.
“Oh, hi, is that for me?” he asked.
“Yeah, here, I brought you a drink. I saw you over here talking to the wall.”
“No, I was talking to—” He turned to introduce her to Agnieszka, but of course the fortune teller and her table were gone. “I was talking to the portraits of your parents.” He indicated the paintings. “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”
“Here, take the damn drink, will you?” He did so and had a sip. It was strong and cold, just how he liked it. “Yes, she was beautiful, and she was trouble. I didn’t inherit her looks, but her trouble was passed down to me.”
“That’s not true,” Cole said. “You’re the loveliest woman in the room.”
He was feeling awkward and uncomfortable again. In fact, he was downright queasy. Miranda Flynn was his mother, and he was talking to her as if she might be a prospective conquest. He had to get out of there.
“Listen, Miranda, to tell you the truth, I’m not feeling so good. I think I need to splash water in my face or something. Will you excuse me?”
“Sure. It figures you’d keep your distance when Curly’s in the room. All the men do. Would it make any difference to you if I said I’d like to keep my distance from Curly, too?”
Over her shoulder, Cole saw Chadwick conversing with men who looked like bankers, but the gangster’s eye was on him. The man was watching how Cole behaved with his girl.
Now he really did feel nauseated. Carrying the martini, Cole gave a little bow to Miranda and said, “Excuse me, please. I’m sorry, I need to….” He then left her again and headed for the doors.
“I enjoyed it while it lasted,” she called out to him, but not too loudly.
Cole made it to the foyer and headed for the men’s washroom. The last time he’d been in there, he was chasing after Charlie. He’d stepped into a portal, or whatever it was, when he’d opened the supply closet. It hadn’t been pleasant, so he was determined to avoid that little trap.
He set the barely drunk martini on the counter, went to a stall, closed the door, dropped to his knees, and promptly threw up into the toilet.
After the heaving was done, he sat there on the floor, trying to catch his breath.
So, who ever said a ghost couldn’t vomit? Here, have some ectoplasm, ha ha!
Then he passed out…
… No, he was just resting—or so he thought when his eyes opened—in the seventh-floor stairwell. He knew where he was from the fading number seven that was painted on the brick wall by the metal door leading to the hallway and rooms. It was the stairwell for the fire escape, at the far end of the corridor from the elevators.
The truth was that he had passed out, right there on the stairs. He had an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, and he felt the weight of his Smith & Wesson revolver in his pocket.
What the hell?
This all seemed familiar.
He managed to stand by holding on to the railing. Then he noticed he wasn’t wearing the tuxedo. He was dressed in “night manager” clothing—basically a thrift store suit. It had been his go-to look back in the day.
Cole moved to the door. He opened it, went through, and he was on the seventh floor. The scuzzy condition of the hallway, the loud disco music coming from an open door and the raucous hard rock emanating from another indicated to him that he was in the 1970s. In fact, the scene came rushing back at him.
This is one of those memory things Agnieszka told me about. The clothing is a clue. I’m re-living this. I’m not really here. Right?
It was around one in the morning. The only people on the floor were junkies, dealers, hookers, and johns. The year was 1976, to be precise, and Cole Sackler, in his role as night manager and hotel detective, was about to discover his first murder victim in the building.
He recalled that he had been making the rounds on the twelve floors and using the fire escape stairwell to access each one. He always carried his pistol in those days because one never knew what one might encounter in sleazebag central. He had walked down from the eighth floor, when something or someone had hit him on the head. He had lost consciousness.
Or had it been a sudden Dream State?
Cole didn’t know. He had been aware only of coming to on the cold concrete floor with an empty bottle of Jack in his hand.
Now it was replaying.
A sense of dread enveloped his chest as he moved toward the open door. 711. He knew what he would find inside.
Hutch Butler had been a two-bit drug dealer and pimp. His office was 42nd Street and his territory was Times Square and its environs. He’d been using Hotel Destiny as a sanctuary of sorts, where he would shack up with one of his girls or maybe sleep off a binge that lasted a few days. The man had been thirty-four when he died, but this was a guy who was as tough as nails. He and Cole had an understanding. Cole got a kickback from Hutch, and in return, Cole left him alone.
Hey, it was Times Square in the ’70s.
On this particular night, though, someone had shot Hutch Butler in the head. The man was found sitting at the only table in the guest room, face down, blood and brains dripping onto the floor. Whoever had killed him had left the door open and the music blaring.
It was an awful sight, but Cole had seen worse in Vietnam. He was more put out by the prospect of calling and having to deal with the cops.
“You live by the street, you die by the street,” Sergeant Redenius said.
The policeman was suddenly standing next to him while the forensics team worked the scene of the crime. A photographer took shots of the victim from several angles.
It was another one of those jump cuts that occurred in the memory pockets. Time will play games with you, Agnieszka had said.
“This place is a pig sty, Mr. Sackler,” Redenius said. “Fingerprints will be useless. This guy has probably had every streetwalker and every junkie in the precinct up here in the room. There are hundreds of different prints. You have any idea who was here in the room with him tonight?”
“No,” Cole said. “To tell you the truth, Hutch usually kept to himself when he was in the hotel. I never had any trouble from him.”
Redenius glanced down at Cole’s feet. “You have blood on your shoes.”
“Yeah, I know. I stepped in it when I found him.”
“Well, let’s keep people out of here for now, okay?”
Cole nodded, left New York’s Finest to their jobs, and went to the elevator. It came quickly, he got in, and rode it alone down to the second floor. When it opened, he scanned the dark foyer. No one was there. The New York Street Skunk were all up in their rooms.
But there was a light on in the men’s washroom on the other side of the foyer.
Now what…?
Maybe the janitor had left it on.
Cole walked across and entered…and the place was eerily empty and clean. No used hypodermics were in sight, no shit on the walls, no piss on the floor.
Just a little while ago I threw up in the stall, back on December 31, 1935. New Year’s Eve. Weird.
He went into the stall, inspected it, and came out…
… The light shifted. He felt a light tremor in the floor.
Music wafted in from the foyer. Someone was singing “The Talk of the Town.”
Cole walked out to see men and women in evening dress.
He was back at the New Year’s Eve party and dressed in his ghostly tuxedo.
A man came toward him, heading for the washroom, and nearly bumped into him.
“Hey, watch it!” Cole blurted.
The man didn’t notice him.
Ah.
Cole said hello to a woman who was making a beeline to the ladies’ room. She didn’t acknowledge him.
I’m invisible again. I was alone in the elevator and in the bathroom. The “trick” works even when I don’t concentrate on it. Being by myself with no looking does it. Fine with me.
Not wanting to go into the ballroom and face his mother again, Cole decided to go downstairs to the privacy of his old office. He wasn’t sure if anyone occupied it on that date in history, but he’d take the chance. He moved across the foyer back to the lifts. He pressed the button to call one of the cars, and he overheard one of Curly Chadwick’s henchmen—the man called “Shake”—talking to a party guest a few feet away. Cole had seen the gangster in Room 302 earlier, when they were all having drinks in the apartment before heading downstairs. The guest was surreptitiously handing over a wad of bills to Shake, who said, “Take the elevator to the fifth floor. Knock on the door to Room 510. Madeline will answer it. You tell her Shake sent you. You’ll then get your pick of the ladies and she’ll take it from there.”
“Thanks,” the man said. “Just the way to start the new year, eh? Then I’ll join you for the poker game at two o’clock. Oh, and I want to place a bet on the horse race.”
“Room 1107 for poker. You already bought in, right?”
“Sure!”
“The other high stakes games are in 1108, 1109, and 1110.”
“Poker’s my game.”
“Okay, see you then. Now go have a good time.”
The elevator arrived and the man got in. Cole decided to wait for the other one.
So, it was clear. Curly Chadwick was using the hotel for illegal activities. Gambling, prostitution, and who knew what else.
The elevator doors opened, and Cole stepped inside. He was alone again.
As soon as the doors closed, the bottom of the car dropped and Cole fell, flailing and screaming, into empty darkness once again.
17
The terrifying sensation of somersaulting through a void was akin to what Cole thought a heart attack might feel like. It went on and on…until it was just as abruptly all over.
He found himself sitting in a wooden chair at a polished wood table. The lights were bright. The American flag, limp on a stand, was a few feet in front of him against the wall. He could see the head and shoulders of a man wearing a black robe, positioned higher to the right and behind a podium-like structure. Another man in a police officer’s uniform stood nearby.
I’m in a courtroom.
Indeed, Cole looked around him and shivered from the memory. The year was 1968. Norma, a woman he’d been seeing, called the cops on him one night when he had been drunk and, apparently, abusive. He had no recollection of it, but the eyewitnesses and the bruises she bore around her neck proved it had happened. It had been a dark period for Cole. Looking back at those years after high school when he was aimless, unhappy, and drinking heavily, he was simply and frighteningly another person. The anger issue was a serious problem. He’d been arrested for public brawling a few times. He’d had to pay fines and even stay a few nights in jail. But this crime…it all came to a head with this one.
Norma Breem worked at a diner at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 39th Street. She was around his age, and she was street-smart, tough, and gorgeous. She liked to drink, too, but after three months, seven dates, and two unpleasant experiences when his Mean Drunk emerged, she had called off the relationship, such as it was.
Cole, feeling down and sorry for himself, partook of a bottle of Irish whiskey and went to the diner while Norma was waitressing. He confronted her, she told him to get lost, and he attacked her. The original charge was attempted murder, but his public defender miraculously managed to get it reduced to assault in exchange for a guilty plea.
He was ashamed.
“Mr. Sackler, before I pronounce sentence,” the judge said, “do you have anything to say to the Court?”
Cole remembered the nervousness he had felt that day as he cleared his throat and answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Please stand.”
He did so and spoke as honestly as he could.
“Your Honor, I acknowledge that I have a drinking problem. The incident for which I’ve been convicted occurred when I was out of my head. I don’t even remember it, as I’ve stated in my sworn affidavit. But that’s no excuse. Dr. Patterson has submitted a letter detailing my history of what he calls blackouts. This was one of those times, Your Honor. I’m truly sorry for what I did to Miss Breem. I will endeavor to stop drinking and be a better person. Thank you.”
With that he sat down.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Sackler. I’m going to hold you to it. You’re to spend five months in the New York City Department of Corrections facility at Rikers Island, with probation for two years after sentence is served.”
The judge banged the gavel and that was it. Cole didn’t look at Norma Breem, who was sitting in the courtroom behind him to the right.
Court was adjourned, and the bailiff escorted the prisoner out…
…into sunlight in the general population yard at Rikers.
Another time hop.
Cole was dressed in the standard prison jumpsuit. He was allowed up to two hours a day outside in good weather and he always took advantage of it. It was a rough and dangerous place to be, but he had already spent a lot of time in the Times Square neighborhoods of New York City. He was a big guy, he knew how to fight, and he exuded a cantankerous, don’t-mess-with-me attitude that other inmates innately respected.
For most of his stay at Rikers, he had been a loner. He didn’t join any gangs, he didn’t make any friends, and he did what he was told.
As Cole strolled toward the bleachers, where he usually sat for a spell after walking around the track by himself, he couldn’t recall any specific day in prison that stood out from others. He was aware he was re-living one of those days, but he didn’t have a clue when it might be or why it was replaying.
He climbed the bleachers to the next-to-highest bench and sat. Cole watched the other prisoners stake out their territories in an unspoken rivalry between separate gangs of men who had found in each other similar views and prejudices. Violence often broke out. The prison hospital was always operating at full capacity. Cole hadn’t witnessed any deaths, but there were some close calls.
“Animals,” a voice next to him proclaimed. “All animals.”
Cole turned to see the man in the black cloak and white mask sitting a few feet away from him on the same bench. He turned his head and stared at Cole through the holes in the mask.
What the hell is he doing here? I don’t believe this.
Cole decided to run with it. “Where have you been, Charlie?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you.”
The other man was silent for a moment, and then he responded. “I’ve always been within arm’s reach.”
Cole nodded. Somehow that made sense to him.
“We need to get together when I’m out. I miss you. We haven’t talked in a long time. And why are you wearing that costume here?”
Charlie said, “What you need to do when you get paroled—and you will get paroled for good behavior—congratulations for that—what you should do is join the army.”
“The army?”
“It will help you become disciplined, it will help you with your anger problem, and you won’t get to drink as much. It will be a positive experience”
“Wouldn’t I have to go to Vietnam?”
“They even take ex-cons as long as it’s just a misdemeanor charge.”
“Hey, whitey!” came a voice some feet away, down below on the ground.
Cole turned away from his twin and focused on one of his fellow inmates. He was a member of the gang of African Americans, someone who wasn’t his friend per se, but a guy who acknowledged him with a nod every now and then.
“What do you want?” Cole hollered.
“You’re talking to yourself. You know you do that a lot?”
“All the time. I’m my best friend.”
The prisoner laughed, waved, and moved on.
Cole turned back to his brother, but of course he wasn’t there.
The horn blew and the usual guard announced over the PA that “recess” was over. “Time to come in from the playground. Hope nobody got hurt on the monkey bars.”
Ha. Ha. You think you’re funny, Officer Thompson.
Cole would like to punch Officer Thompson, but that would be acting on his anger. The prison shrink wouldn’t approve. Cole had agreed to spend time with the quack while he was serving his sentence. That was one of the reasons he got out after doing three and a half months instead of the full five.
He climbed down the bleachers, walked across the yard, ignored the rabble around him, and went through the door into…
…the hotel elevator. The one he’d entered at the 1936 New Year’s Eve party after feeling sick in the washroom.
