Tuesday, July 13, 1965

I

The hallway stretched out before me, the bright lights held in sconces, the closed doors on either side, the carpet’s orange, black, and blue quadrilaterals overlapping in a hophead’s nightmare. Around a corner and still more carpet reaching into the distance, still more doors on the right and left, still the sharp lights burning on the walls. An ice machine clunked and gurgled in an alcove to the left. My watch read 12:04 a.m. I was late; but how could I have known the hallway was this long? The numbers on the doors were counting up with each step. Here it was, room 724. My fist made two sharp raps on the panel. I reached for the knob, turned it, and pushed.

There was darkness, and movement in the darkness, rustling, the sharp intake of breath, and the smell of sweat and skin. The opening door threw an oblong of yellow on the floor that widened as it swung inward. I felt for the light switch with my left hand and raised the camera with the right. The flashbulb popped just before the light came on and the scene appeared frozen. The pale back lifting off the bed, a second body underneath, the limbs once intertwined, now disentangling, a flay of dark hair spread out on the pillow, her face obscured beneath his torso. His neck swivelled at the noise of my entrance, and his bulging eyes, caught in the freeze-frame of the flash, were wide, staring, surprised. In that frozen moment, it was possible to see the change in his expression as lust leaked out, and anger and fear filled the vacuum. The bulb popped again, and he blinked as he turned and rose off the bed, the sheets falling from him, his salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the light, her hands holding on to his shoulders as she was pulled up by his movement. He emerged from the bed, the roar of fury on his face, the sagging flesh of his chest under a growth of grey moss. The woman was naked too, younger — much younger — her black hair falling onto her shoulders as she sat up. He pulled free from her grasp before the third flash flared. With his feet on the floor, he came at me, quick for an old guy and swiped at the camera.

“Easy, this is my livelihood.”

“You bastard. I’ll kill you.”

“Not in front of a lady.”

“She’s no lady, she’s a fucking —”

“I guess we can agree on one thing” — I cut him off — “she’s not your wife.”

“This was a set-up.” The whole time he was grabbing at the camera and I was holding him off with the other hand.

“I put the chain on the door.” He turned to look at her, beginning to figure it out.

The camera was held high, trying for a couple more pictures of his pathetic attempts — these ones not of the deed but strictly for entertainment value. There wasn’t much you could do in no clothes without looking like a fool, and he looked like one, trying to rip the Kodak out of my hand while I, in my nattiest Tip Top Tailor duds, stood just inside the door frame.

The camera was up out of his reach. It clicked, and time stood still again as the light flooded the interior, capturing the wounded animal, blinking, and sweating, secreting some noxious fear that crawled up my nose. The flash stoked his rage. He stopped swiping at the camera and tried a wild hook to my chin. I rolled to my right, stepped back, and watched it sail by with a grin.

He gave up on me and turned to the woman in the bed. She’d pulled the sheet up and held it over her chest with crossed arms.

“You bitch.”

She didn’t yawn, but her sleepy eyes didn’t express much interest.

“Leave the lady alone.” I stepped into the room.

“I told you before she’s no lady. She’s a two-bit tramp.” His anger was petering out; his bark had lost the teeth behind it. Shame and defeat showed in his eyes as he reached toward the floor, scooped up a handful of clothes, and retreated behind the bathroom door. The lock clicked. I agreed: getting dressed was best done at a table for one. Hopping around on one foot trying to find a pant leg wasn’t a pretty spectacle.

Victoria stepped out of the bed. She knew how it was done; she picked up the minidress — the pattern of orange, yellow, and red rectangles on a maroon background wasn’t so far off the fever-dream carpet on the other side of the door — slipped it over her head, pulled it down, smoothed the front, slid her feet into plain black pumps, scooped her panties and bra off the floor, dropped them into her purse, looked at me, and mouthed, “Let’s go.”

I held the door for her, and she made a two-step detour to scoop some bills off the dresser, before passing into the hall and turning left, away from the direction I’d come.

“Elevator’s the other way,” I said.

“Stairs,” she said.

I followed behind. It was the first time I’d been in the Royal York; she knew the routine. She reached the fire door and didn’t wait on me, but pulled it open. Once we were in the cement stairwell, I said, “Did you see the look on his face? I can’t wait for the photos.”

She shushed me, and I shushed. Seven floors down, round and round, eleven steps on each run. Beige walls and a pale grey handrail, fluorescent lighting and chips in the paint. It was eleven minutes past midnight and the lobby was quiet, even quieter in the corner where we emerged back into a world of lush colour. Victoria never broke stride. Six steps led us down to a back door that opened on Piper Street, the short service road that ran behind the hotel. She stopped on the sidewalk, looked at her reflection in the window of a parked vehicle, and adjusted stray strands of hair. “I need a ride. Where’s your car?”

Coming out the back door, it took me a minute to orient myself. “It’s on Station Street, across Front.”

Victoria nodded her head, reached for my elbow, and pulled me beside her. “Pretty safe now, but if anyone asks, we’re heading home after a night at the theatre followed by a nightcap.” We walked out to York and turned south. Red brake lights, the angry blare of a horn, and the truncated rainbow of the traffic signal brought the world alive.

“Good idea. We could make it real. What do you say to a drink?”

“No.”

“What’d we see?”

“What?”

“At the theatre.”

“Guys and Dolls. It just opened.”

“A musical?”

“That’s right, Patrick.”

“No, I can’t do it.”

“You don’t have to watch it. You just say you did.”

“I don’t know. Singing and dancing.”

“It’s about your world, Detective Bird: hustlers, molls on the make, low-life dives, PIs like you, the whole bit.”

“Maybe.”

We lapsed into silence as we passed onto the dark stretch of Station Street, parked cars, yellow pools beneath street lamps, and the half-darkness of night in the city. I opened her door, and she sat on the bench and swung her legs in.

I went around the other side and dropped the camera on the back seat. She slid over and cozied up to me, and I put the car in gear and my arm around her shoulder.

“Don’t get frisky,” she said.

“It’s all for show.”

“I’m a method actor.”

She poked a finger in my ribs, and it backed me up a little.

“You still living in the same place?”

“I’ve moved.” She named a western suburb that was a distance away and I asked about cross streets, and she recommended the highway they’d just built along the lake. I retrieved my arm from around her shoulders and used it to crank the wheel and turn south. I gave the engine some gas up the on-ramp and there we were on the new expressway, elevated above the city, with the lake on our left and tall new buildings sprouting up on our right.

“You were late.”

“Just a minute or two.”

“More than that. Let me see your watch.”

I held my wrist out for her to examine.

“It’s fine — which means the fault is yours. Every minute matters. It’s not easy to choreograph that kind of dance. It’s just about hell. Slow down, speed up, hurry up and wait. Everyone’s got their own timetable. Most guys think they can’t wait. Some of them really can’t. Next time, be on time. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.” She dug around in her purse and found a stick of gum, peeled the wrapper, and dropped it in the ashtray.

“Everything was okay?” I asked.

“Fine. I just need to know you’re going to be there when you’re supposed to be there.”

“Sid’ll give you a call in the morning and settle up.”

“I know how this works. I’ve been at it a good lot longer than you.”

The highway was still under construction and didn’t make it all the way to her neighbourhood. The car decelerated as we came onto the service road that ended in a traffic light. She guided me through the dark streets lined by bungalows and we stopped in front of a low-rise apartment on a dead-end that ran down to the lake.