Did he do that?

The room is dark. There is only a faint glow around his curtains. His room faces the ocean, and the sun rises over the mountains behind his shoulder. He is glad. He hates being caught with his pants down during daylight, but the day has just begun. He looks at the clock, and it is 5:30 AM. He moves the bottle of JB and grabs the phone.

“Front desk, please? Oh, this is the front desk. Yes, I’d like to order some breakfast. Two soft-boiled eggs in an egg cup with a side of soldiers… Don’t you have room service? You don’t have breakfast? What kind of an operation are you running here? When I saw Casa de Blanca, I didn’t expect the Sherry-Netherland Hotel, but at least Jesse Livermore could have gotten some eggs in the cloakroom before blowing his brains out. You don’t know who Jesse Livermore is? Who are you! Call me when the chick gets in! I’m hanging up.”

“How does the world expect me to find a pregnant 16-year-old if I can’t even get soft-boiled eggs in little holders?”

He looks at the provided slippers.

“Jesus Christ.”

He grabs the phone and dials a number.

“I want silk pajamas. Mrs. Windcock? Yes. I see.” He slowly nods. “That changes nothing about the pajamas I was given! How am I supposed to find a 16-year-old girl without silk pajamas? Go to bed? Are you mad? It’s 5:30 AM.”

He runs his hand through his hair. It is a wreck, and in the reflection of the television, he sees how red his face is, and wonders if it is possible to have too much blood. He disconnects the call and presses 0, still under his own observation, making deals with himself. “Operator?”

He’s thinking about going Italian on everyone’s ass: sunglasses and a white button that reveals where one can smooch.

“Hello?” says the operator.

It sounds like she has been saying this for a while.

“I’d like to make an international collect call.”

Beside the bottle of scotch is a picture of the missing child. A pregnant girl. A soon-to-be mother.

“Tell her. What do you mean she won’t take it? She doesn’t know who it is…She does? Well, tell her she’s wrong, and that I’m dead.”

He hangs up. Talks to himself. “I should have told her my name,” and proceeds to unleash the hounds in the bathroom, followed by a shower.

He opens his briefcase and finds that he can go Italian on everyone’s ass. White button-up. Grey slacks and penny loafers. No socks, but a dab of cologne. Not too much.

He marches around room 316 with his head up, smelling everything, making sure he does not smell like the French, a country he regrets liberating.

He stretches, brushes his teeth, and applies wax to his blondeness—a drop of antihistamine into each eye, and a morning prayer.

He gets onto his knees and looks over his folded hands. The glow is stronger around the curtains.

“God. Send me some silk pajamas. Amen.”

He grabs his keys and watch, opens the door, looks back and says, “I can’t believe I slept here.”

His BMW is keyed. He jumps up and down, up and down as if he were smashing someone’s head. His loafers offer no protection, and he must transport all of the kicking he wants to do with something else. A baseball bat would be preferable, but he sees no youths and marches to the front desk.

“Where’s the concierge? I need a nine iron.”

The 17-year-old behind the counter regretfully informs him that this is a motel and that there is no concierge.

“What kind of operation are you running here?”

“Sir?”

“Where’s the closest golf course?”

“This is Aberdeen, sir. There is no golf course. Everyone works at the mill.”

He stops breathing and stares at her. He refuses ever to let her see him breathe again. He leaves. She picks up the phone to call her manager, but the bell above the door rings. He is back.

“Someone keyed my car!”

“Which one is yours, sir?”

“The only one out there! The one that I put on your silly intake forms! The beamer!”

“Oh.”

He leans over the counter and points.

“Listen to me, you little slut. I don’t think you know who I am.”

“You’re Mr. Beetle, room 316.”

“Yes, but do you know how important I am?”

“I don’t.”

He stares at her ghostly face.

“Why don’t you do something about those pimples?”

“Mr. Beetle. There’s an international call on the line for you. It’s getting quite expensive.”

“Send it to my room.”

He walks past the giant scratch on the side of his car and unlocks his room. The phone is ringing.

“Cricket, are you there? How did you know it was me? My voice, ha-ha-ha, very funny. No, I am not dead. How did you know? I see. Listen, love, I’m in hell, it’s called Aberdeen. I don’t think they have silk pajamas here. Love? Love? Love!”

He hangs up and calls the front desk.

“Is he still there? Ok.”

He drives away, acutely aware that everyone is staring at the key scratch on the side of his car. Why don’t they look at their own scratches, he thinks, but the thinking is over. The police are in his rear-view mirror.

He signals his intentions and moves to the right. The police also switch lanes. He turns, and the squad car lights go off. He pulls over, muttering, “God damn, Aberdeen—no nine iron. No concierge. No one has smelled me.”

The cop taps on his window with his baton. He has a thick, black mustache and aviators. The kind, Mr. Beetle’s brother, wore in the sky during the war.

“Did you call my daughter a slut?”

“Whose your daughter?”

“Out of the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Step out of the car, sir.”

“No.”

The cop breaks his nose with the bottom end of the baton. Blood drips onto his white, button-up, Italian on their ass’s t-shirt.

“Look what you’ve done!”

The cop grabs him by the collar, ripping several buttons.

“Listen, and listen once, you fragrant ass. I want you to go back to Casa de Blanca and apologize to my daughter.”

“The front desk clerk?”

“Yes, Mr. Beetle. Yes.”

“But this was minutes ago.”

“Minutes ago? She said you said this last night?”

“Did she key my car?”

The cop looks at the side of his BMW. Licks his thumb and touches it.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Arrest her.”

“What is your business, here, Mr. Beetle?”

“To not bleed to death from my nostrils.”

“Anything else before I arrest you?”

He reaches into his pocket.

“I’m looking for her.”

He shoots the officer with a small pistol, puts the car in drive, and drives back to Casa de Blanca. She is waiting for him. She has everything. She gets in and says, “Fucking scumbag.”

“He said he was your dad.”

“They all do. Did he do that?”

“Yes.”