Page 95 of Working for the Mob

“Can you remind me again why we didn’t just take the train in?” I asked Art again.

“I just bought this car. I want to show it off,” he said.

His new car didn’t have the bullet holes of the previous car. And it had windows, which was necessary for the winter in Manhattan. But his argument was flawed.

“It’s the same car. It’d make sense for your brother to show off his car. He’s got a Rolly Roys. (“Rolls Royce.”) Whatever. His car is shiny and flashy. It probably goes fast too.” Art rolled his eyes. “This car is just average. See? There’s one right there.”

I pointed to a Ford Model T parked on the side of the road.

“Genevieve, if I knew the conversation would be this bad, I would’ve taken the train. And sat in a completely different car than you,” he quipped, and I rolled my eyes. I’m finally used to the barbed sarcasm.

“Then why drive?”

“Because if I didn’t, then I’d have nothing to give to the valet,” he said, and the car lurched.

He pulled into the Porte-cochère of a building that had ‘upscale’ written all over it. Marble bricks lined the outside, with gold plated window frames. An eager youth in a vest rushed to Art to collect his keys, while his twin already collected our bags from the trunk.

“Art, are we in the right place? Isn’t this the Hanover?” I asked, and stepped out of the car before the valet drove away with me.

I gave myself credit for wearing an overcoat over my sweater and skirt. December in Manhattan wascold.

Art threw me a confused look and marched into the hotel lobby as though he owned the place. I hurried after him, through the ornate double doors and into an open and ritzy lobby.

Greek columns ran along the entryway, with leather armchairs lining the perimeter. Modern paintings hung on the walls between golden oil lamps. Most swanky of all was a marble fountain right in the middle, with a seven-foot-tall Statue of Liberty replica.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, transfixed by the fountain. With my mouth open, I stared as the bellhops and guests passed me. A single night in this hotel would cost a month’s salary––maybe more. Art would never book a place this expensive. Not the man who reinvested every penny he had back into the town.

Art! He was already in mid-conversation with a pasty man behind the front desk. I hurried over to catch the man’s French accent and say, “An excellent suite, monsieur. One of our finest rooms.”

He handed over a key to Art. At the snap of his fingers a bellhop, in white gloves, shiny shoes, a burgundy coat, and a matching bucket hat, ran up and ushered us into the lift.

I stole glances at Art on the way up, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. The man lived in a cabin in the woods. He ate a free sandwich every day at the café. He would never spend this much on a single night in the city. Unfortunately, his face remained unreadable.

The elevator dinged and the bellhop led us around the corner. The lush carpet muted our footsteps, while my anticipation grew. The walls were lined with the same golden oil lamps, underneath meticulous trim and molding. The decoration of this one hall must cost more than my entire house!

The little bellhop stopped at the end of the hall and took out his key for the corner room! The corner room? Art actually splurged for the corner room?

“Have a lovely stay,” the bellhop said, and waved us through.

My jaw dropped and I traipsed into the sitting room. The whole thing screamed upscale. The ceilings had to be at least ten feet high, with a crystal chandelier. A writing desk stood to the side of the room––as though I’d have time to sit down and compose a letter. And a magnificent cherrywood wardrobe towered over us from the left.

The far wall opened into a bedroom with a king-sized bed and off-white linens. And upgrade from my double bed at … was I calling it “home” now?

The bellhop shut the door behind us, leaving us alone with our bags, which had beaten us up here.

“You …paidfor this room?” I asked him.

“I guess I wanted to spend my money on something ‘shiny and flashy’,” he said. The corner of his mouth did the smallest twitch possible.

I continued staring until I finally remembered to close my mouth.

“There’s only one bed,” I said, and shot him a questioning look.

“Is that alright?” he asked, and his eyebrows popped in concern.

“Yes, of course,” I said, too quickly.

The fact that we were alone for the first time all day dawned on us at the same time. Art closed the distance between us in two steps and brought his chin down to my ear.

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