Chapter 4: Whores and Moustaches

The Marriott Marquis at Times Square is a huge hotel. It has a vast lobby, and a mezzanine for conference rooms. The guest rooms and suites are all on much higher floors and can be reached with fast, glass elevators.

The most remarkable item, however, is the big circular rooftop restaurant and lounge. It slowly revolves to give a breath taking view of times Square, Broadway and the skyline of Manhattan.

I had taken the elevator and had settled in the lounge. It gave me a view of the restaurant's entrance. I wore an outfit I would never want to be seen in dead. Which of course was the point. No one would expect me to wear it, least of all Betty. It was ugly, loud and baggy.

Judy had lied for me. She had been a convincing cousin of Betty's who called her office to say there was an emergency. A family matter. She needed to speak to Betty and could not get her on her cell phone. She wasn't at home either, so now she tried her at work.

The little watchdog had a problem. In the end she gave her a number. We backtracked it to the Marriott Marquis. And yes, a Mr. Mancini had booked a suite there.

I bought my stuff at a second hand store.

I took care there was at least a tie and a jacket. I might be refused entrance otherwise. I also got a silly golf hat. The glasses were a miracle, so was the pepper and salt moustache. They made me feel a perfect fool. But would it make me an unrecognizable fool?

Like: would I myself ever believe I wasn't me?

I had walked away twice, before entering. Now I sat here, trying to keep the entrance under surveillance. Who the hell was producing this cheap B-movie? B? C and lower. And why on earth did I think they would come in here? There were hundreds of bars and restaurants in the direct neighborhood. Better ones too.

But something told me I was right to choose this place. Something else told me I had not many alternatives anyway. But I had convinced myself that there was sound thinking behind my choice. I thought: if they cheat on me, they wouldn't want to increase their risk of being seen by spreading their presence over a lot of places. They would stay in the hotel.

Sound thinking, Jules. So where are they?

Two hours and four very slow beers later I thought my sound thinking needed a revision. It was past ten by then and the place was filling up nicely. Just to be sure I had made a careful round every quarter of an hour to see if I had missed them. I hadn't.

At eleven I decided to call it a day. A night, rather. I rose and walked to the glass elevators. They drop you fast and give you a nice view all the way down.

I saw them come in when the lift reached the hall.

They were two business-type men and two rather spectacular women. One was a platinum blonde. She seemed a bit tipsy and hung on the arm of the elder of the two men. There was another girl too, a pretty redhead. She was also very happy and clung to the other, younger man.

I left the elevator.

The group had walked over to the reception, where the men picked up the keys. They then came over to me, no doubt to get to the elevators. For some reason I don't understand, I retired halfway behind a pillar. Maybe it was because I am brought up with rather conservative ideas about being paid for sex. And about showing off your sexuality in public.

The blonde sure did that.

Her tiny dress was black, very short and very tight. Her high, round tits almost popped out of its decolleté. She swayed a bit on towering stiletto heels, which gave the man a nice opportunity to be chivalrous.

He held her firmly.

Both girls giggled. Their faces were made up outrageously. The redhead squealed when the young man slapped her tightly packed ass. She also wore a revealing dress that left her belly bare. She obviously didn't wear a bra, nor needed one.

They passed me, totally oblivious of my presence.

I did a double take on the blonde. I watched the face under the make-up, the body, the posture. Then I lost her. She cried out and laughed a throaty chuckle when they entered the glass elevator.

"Ah, mais vous êtes tres méchant, monsieur... olala!"

I heard the voice. I heard the French. My heart sank.

It felt as if something wet and heavy slapped into my face. A dizziness came over me. I carelessly lugged forward to get another look of her face. Right before the glass booth rose, I saw a big hand disappear inside the top of a black little dress.

Red lips opened eagerly.

I sat in the chair. From it I watched the door into our apartment.

I had called Betty about four times on her cell phone. It stayed dead the whole night. Now it was morning. The first sunlight had thrown its merry rays through the windows an hour ago.

It did nothing for my mood.

I was deadly tired. I had tried to sleep when I came home, but sleep never came. There were only images of Betty fucking the men. Sounds of her squealing and giggling voice. Of her damned whorish French endearments. And most of all of her laughing, her pointing at me, sticking out her tongue and making obscene gestures about my male incompetence.

That had passed by now. I felt as if I were a stranger living inside my skull, looking out. I had drunk cups of black coffee until my stomach surrendered.

And all the time I had gazed at the door.

Of course I had run to the other elevator when I came to my senses. It took ages to come down. By the time I rode up, the other one was already empty. I got out on the floor where it had stopped and started pulling and pushing at random doors. I even slammed my fist on a few.

It is a huge hotel.

I got no response, of course. So after a while I took the elevator down again and went to the desk. I asked where Mancini's suite was, but they said they were not at liberty to tell. I gave them money to tell me where the hookers went. I even pulled one of them by his lapels over the desk. I felt the silly moustache slide off my lip. That was when the doorman interfered. He threw me into the street.

I waited for another hour, totally humiliated. I watched the entrance. Then I went home, raging, yelling.

I didn't know what to do when she'd come home. I had no plan. I even had no rage left in me. My insides were filled with cotton. Weak, soft, shapeless balls of cotton. My brain was mush. Apart from that there was nothing left.

I felt sad. I was in mourning.

I had cried, of course. I had cried a lot. I had raged too. I had smashed half of our precious china. The pieces lay all over the kitchen floor, brilliantly adorned with broken crystal.

I had also emptied her closets and torn up dresses, suits and lingerie. It was childish, I know. I felt entitled to be childish. I felt permitted not to give a damn.

But now I was spent. I was calm and empty.

I was ready.

Her key rattled in the lock.

It was almost seven o'clock. She looked fresh like a bedewed apple. Her lovely brunette hair was in a neat pile. Her designer suit looked spotless. I'd say it was decent with a sexy twist. She carried the leather briefcase we bought on our trip to Paris.

She looked shocked.

"Honey! What is wrong? What happened?"

She rushed to me and took my weary head into her hands. Her eyes were wide and worried.

I shook myself free and stood. That is when she saw the mess behind me. The broken china. The torn up clothes. She groaned.

"Oh God! What happened here? Did we have a break-in? Were you mugged?"

I turned slowly, watching her kneel and rummage through the sorry rests of her expensive wardrobe. She sobbed. She turned her face to me, holding up a torn-up blouse.

"Yes," I croaked. "Robbed. Raped. Mugged. But don't worry, honey, it was only me."

She looked puzzled. Then she rose and walked back to me.

"Are you all right, Jules? Did they hit you? Let me see."

I avoided her.

"Don't bother, Betty," I said. My voice got stronger. "I only got beaten up, fucked over and killed a bit. It was all in a night's job, really. Don't worry, please. Vous êtes tres méchant, monsieur. O... la... la..."

I stretched the last vowels, my eyes locked on hers.

She never winced. She just wanted to damn hug me.

"Oh God, Jules. What did they do to you? Please lie down. Take an aspirin. Did you call the police?"

I grabbed her wrist, turned her around and marched her to the couch. I pushed her until she sat. She looked scared now. I kept standing, looking down into her upturned face.

"You scare me, Jules." Her voice was tiny.

"No, Betty. You scare me. I thought we were so close. You tell me you love me more than anyone, anything. But it is all a lie, isn't it, Elizabeth? It always has been, hasn't it?"

She gaped.

"Well?"

"I... I don't know what you mean, Jules. Yes. Yes, I love you more than anyone, anything. Yes, Jules. And I would never lie to you."

I almost hit her. My hand stopped less than an inch from her face. She flinched, gasping.

"LIAR!!" I cried.

She started crying. It got to me, but I clenched my teeth and dismissed the feeling.

"You look tip-top this morning, honey," I said. "Nothing a good long shower can't wash away, I guess. What did you do with the sleazy outfit? The wig, the crazy shoes? Drop them down the chute, no doubt? Or donate them to the Needy Hooker Association?"

I actually chuckled. She stopped crying. She looked dumbfounded.

"Jules. Are you on drugs?"

I just stared.

"I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about," she went on. Her voice got steadier. There was even a hint of anger. "Dammit, Jules. Here I come back after a late night of hard work and not much sleep and I find this! And you talking gibberish!"

"Late night, hard work," I repeated sarcastically. "Backbreaking work no doubt."

"Hard work, yes!" she cried. "And I had to be at the office early again, but I wanted to see you. Just to see you. I felt sorry to have thrown last night on you at such short notice. Just had to see you and now look! Now look!"

Her hand fluttered like a lame little bird.

"You sure did." I now whispered. I sank into the club chair in front of her. "You sure threw it at me, Betty."

Her anger disappeared. She reached for my hands.

"Honey... Jules. I don't know what is wrong with you. But if it was something I did, please... I am so sorry. I really don't know what you are trying to tell me."

A kernel of doubt started churning its sharp edges inside the weak mush of my mind. I shook my head to silence it.

"How can you be so cold, Betty? I saw you at the Marriott. I goddamn saw you. Don't tell me you weren't there. Stop the goddamn lying."

She sat straight.

"Yes, I was at the Marriott. Robert rented a suite for a client and a conference room annex suite for us to do our presentation. But why did you go there? How did you see me? I never saw you?"