She came up the stairs and turned the hall light back on. He heard her going into each of the other rooms again. At last she entered the half-ajar door of the guest bedroom and stood peering to see if he was there. He could not say anything.
Are you sleeping? she said hesitantly.
No, he said.
She turned on the light and looked at him.
I'm going to go now, she said. I'll be back in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half.
I'll come with you if you want me to, honey, he said. He was surprised at how easily the words came to him. It was as if some grace of husbands, wives and desperate angels had helped him.
Oh, don't bother, said the wife. It would be too much work for you.
It's up to you.
You really wouldn't mind? said his wife. Don't worry about it. I know you don't want to.
She stood there waiting for him to encourage her hopes. He strained his every effort to say the words again that would make her happy, but even as his mouth opened he knew that he was going to fail.
You — you heard what I said, he gasped out.
Her face became resigned again. — Never mind, she said. She turned out the light. Tears had begun to gush out of his eyes just as she reached for the switch, and it is possible that if she had waited another three or four seconds (or if he had somehow been able to make her do so), she would have seen them.
She went down the stairs, opened the door and left him.
Again he ascended the stairs between the two gratings, and tall black men made way for him on the landing because if he was white he must be an undercover cop.
Who you lookin' for, officer? one of them said.
He said her name.
You a cop?
No.
You a paid informant?
No, officer, he said.
The black man laughed grimly.
He got to the top of the stairs where the second grating was, and the lobby man who had buzzed him was already standing on the other side of the grating with his arms folded.
She's not here, the man said. She just now went outside to do her business, so I reckon she'll be back before long.
They always said she wasn't there, and she was always there, so the john wasn't surprised. — Can I wait on your stairs? he said.
Help yourself.
He descended a stair or two to show his respect for the workings of the hotel, and waited, looking alertly through the grating like a zoo-barred jaguar waiting for meat, watching and waiting until just past midnight he saw her pass across the lobby on one of her constant errands. He was here to tell her how she made him feel. He called her name, and her face lit up and she came running to make the lobby man let him in.
Thank you kindly, he said to the lobby man.
The lobby man gazed expressionlessly away. At least he didn't charge the john five dollars to get in.
I was just thinkin' 'bout you! the prostitute said. I was afraid you'd quit me. Come on!
She ran ahead of him up the back stairs by the toilet, and there was the man who had laid out his or somebody else's possessions on the stairs, including pennies and nickels, and stood patiently waiting for them to make him rich. The prostitute had already run high into the smoky darkness above him as he picked his way past more loungers, and then he had caught up with her and she'd taken his hand. Soon now he could tell her. Men like salt-encrusted pillars of carven ebony walled them on both sides, looking on silently as she kissed his lips and thrust her tongue repeatedly into his mouth. He wondered if he was tasting other men's sperm. She slipped her arm around him and led him to the room where the two lesbian whores lived. The lesbian whores did very well in that hotel by renting out their room to strangers for five dollars for fifteen or twenty minutes. That was why they were so well furnished. They had a TV and even a single bed. The prostitute (who knew that the john would pay her back) gave the white whore some money, and the white whore slipped out. Inside the room, another white boy was sitting on the bed. He was smoking crack and he was very nervous.
Y'all make yourselves comfortable and I'll be
The white boy offered him a piece of rock, and the john thought again: Why not? because the prostitute was still there and she was serving him so tenderly, holding the crack pipe to his mouth, lighting it, reminding him not to swallow the smoke or he'd get nauseated, and then the feeling hit, the good feeling, and the prostitute grinned and went out.
I don't like this, the other white boy said. I gave eighty dollars. Well, forty was just business, you know. But forty was to get me some more rock.
You'll see her again, the john said. You can trust her.
Usually I take her to my place and she stays the night, said the white boy. I don't like this place. This place is dangerous.
