The Chelsea Girls(33)

“Has anyone asked them what they’re doing there?”

The workers climbed down their ladders and folded them up. “Watch that, don’t scratch the floors.” Mr. Bard turned back to Hazel. “Nah. Why bother? They go through the garbage, they tap our phones. We know it and they know we know it. Just like Hungary, where I came from. I’m used to it. You Americans think it’s all so free. But no one’s free.”

Out on the street, Hazel peered around. A black sedan was parked next to the fire hydrant, unoccupied and unticketed. Maxine stumbled out of the hotel, a scrape of mascara down one cheek, which Hazel wiped off with a handkerchief. “Long night?”

“The usual.” Even Maxine managed to look alarmed when Hazel told her about the Feds staking out the hotel, listening in on their phone calls. She glanced at the car before taking Hazel by the arm. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a sangria.”

“Unbelievable. You never stop, do you?”

They did an about-face and headed into the street entrance of El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant located in one of the hotel’s former dining rooms. The interior decor was best described as Iberian bordello, featuring red leather seating, a long, dark bar peppered with fake Tiffany pendants, and rough adobe-style walls that would leave a scratch if you got too close. The place was huge, with rooms off of rooms. They grabbed a couple of seats at the bar. A few tables were filled with folks who looked like they’d accidentally stumbled in, but the place was otherwise empty. This was way too early in the morning for the restaurant’s usual clientele.

Lavinia Smarts sat at a table way in the rear, talking to an older man. She waved at them before turning back to her conversation.

“She’s so regal,” said Maxine, sliding onto a barstool. “That’s what I want to be like when I’m her age. A doyenne.”

“No one messes with Lavinia,” said Hazel.

As she said the words, she spied a man in a black suit in a shadowy corner of the restaurant. He was scribbling in a notebook, and when he wasn’t writing, he was staring right at Lavinia.

She elbowed Maxine. “Don’t be obvious about it, but that man seems like he’s surveilling our friend.”

Maxine pretended to drop a napkin and eyed the man as she picked it up from the floor.

“That was so obvious, Max!” Hazel almost laughed. “Seriously, no one would ever guess you were an actress.”

The man turned away, so they couldn’t get a good look at his face.

“You’re worried for nothing. He’s probably an accountant who wishes he was a writer, and comes here to soak up the poetic atmosphere,” said Maxine.

Lavinia rose and hugged her friend goodbye, before disappearing through the side door that connected the restaurant to the hotel lobby. As she did so, the man snapped the notebook shut and pulled out his wallet, tossing a few bills down on the table before trailing her.

Hazel stood, pulling Maxine along with her. “No. He’s up to no good.”

In the lobby, there was no sign of either Lavinia or her tail, and the elevator was slowly ascending. Instead of waiting, they hoofed it up the stairway. At the third floor, Hazel peered up over the railing. She loved this view, straight up, the ornate railing wrapping around and around and disappearing into the blinding whiteness of the skylight. Fancy and overdone, as if she were in Paris or London.

But this time, a few floors above, the man in black was looking right back down at her.

She withdrew fast and whispered to Maxine. “He saw me, he’s up there.”

They picked up the pace, trying to walk as quietly as possible, but as their steps quickened, the man’s did, also. Around and around they went, until they heard a bang.

“The door to the roof.” Hazel stopped. “We have him trapped.”

“I’m not sure we should follow him. What if he’s got a gun?”

Hazel thought of Lavinia. The very least they could do was show these men that they weren’t afraid, that the hotel residents would stand up for one another and resist such intrusion. “We’re just a couple of girls getting some sun. Come on.”

They pushed through the heavy door.

The man stood near one of the gables, looking down over the avenue as if he was searching for his ride. When he saw them, he took off his hat and fanned his face, an attempt at nonchalance. Hazel looked about. No one else was up there with them.

She made a beeline for him. “Who are you?” Up close, he was younger than she’d expected, and rather skinny. His nose was slightly too big for his face, above rose-colored lips that belonged on a girl. His unruly thatch of brown hair could use a barber. This guy sure didn’t seem like a Fed.

He looked from Maxine to Hazel, as frightened as a chicken.

Hazel stuck her hands on her hips. “Are you a Fed? If so, you’re a disgrace to the agency, going after a sweet old lady. We saw you, and the residents of the hotel don’t tolerate being spied on.”

“I’m not a Fed.” His voice was deeper than Hazel expected.

“Oh, please, everyone in the hotel knows we’re being watched.” Hazel studied him. Even though the morning was cool, sweat beaded down the man’s temple. The walk up the stairs had winded Hazel, but not that much. “We saw you taking notes about Lavinia Smarts.”

He tugged at his collar, as if trying to catch his breath. “I’m not a Fed.” The words were barely audible. “I work in the private sector.”