Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

That’s my name.” He slid his driver’s license from his wallet and held it out to the clerk.

The man looked at the license, then to George, and then back at the license. He tilted it between his fingers under the light, then handed it back. “You have very cruel parents,” he said with a polite smile.

“They were pretty cool past the whole name thing,” said George.

“However, Miss Quilt was very clear she did not want to be disturbed this afternoon.”

“I know,” ad-libbed George, “but this is kind of important, and she’s not answering her cell phone.” He decided to risk winging it. “Neither is her assistant.”

The clerk sighed. “I will check, sir, but I’m quite sure what the answer will be.”

George put up his hands. “If she doesn’t want to talk, I’ll move along quietly.”

“Yes,” said the clerk, “you will.”

His fingers danced on the keyboard’s number pad and he picked up the phone. He turned halfway from George so the handset muffled his voice. He spoke for a few moments, listened, spoke again, and then listened again. His eyes flitted from George down to his computer screen.

George turned away and tried to look casual. He gazed around the lobby. His eyes met the large man’s for a moment, and George gave the man a polite nod that wasn’t returned.

“Sir,” said the clerk. “She’s waiting for you. Sixteenth floor, the Royal suite.” He gestured at the elevators.

George stood for a moment, just as stunned by the news as the clerk was. He was pretty sure the clerk was hiding it better, though. He managed a “thank you” before he walked away.

The elevators were all mirrors and brass. Like the lobby, they felt expensive. George looked at his reflection in the doors and brushed a few more wrinkles out of his jacket. He saw his boots and wished he’d switched into sneakers or something more casual. He was pretty sure there was a pair of sneakers in his car. He wondered how long it would delay him to run and get them.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a smaller lobby, just as elegant. He checked the signs and headed down the left-hand hallway. It was dotted with small tables and flower arrangements.

A man was waiting for him at the door. He was maybe an inch taller than George, but slim. His dark clothes accented that slimness. The man’s steel-colored hair was bristle-short, and a pair of round spectacles balanced across his nose. George couldn’t decide if the John Lennon glasses made the man look more like a hipster assistant or some sort of undercover Nazi officer.

“Mr. Bailey?” His voice was dry, but not in a weak way. It was the kind of dryness found inside pyramids. A powerful rasp with tons of weight and history behind it.

“Yeah.” George nodded and held out his hand.

The man made no move to take it. He didn’t even seem to notice it. He gestured George through the open door and closed it behind them.

George followed the man into the hotel suite. It was cream colored and gigantic. He was pretty sure his entire apartment would fit inside the main room. One wall was all windows and French doors leading out to two different balconies. He walked past a sprawling, L-shaped couch and a glass-topped table to stare at a flat screen the size of his bed. George was pretty sure any one of them cost more than his monthly rent.

“You have ten minutes,” said the man. He pointed at a chair with two fingers. The chair looked expensive, too.

“Thank you, Father,” someone said.

George turned and saw the woman on the couch. She was slouched just low enough that he hadn’t seen her there. She set her book aside and straightened up without using her hands. Her body flexed and pulled her up to a sitting position. She also gestured at the chair.

Living in Los Angeles, George had seen more than a few celebrities. He’d run into Lindsay Lohan once hiking up in Runyon Canyon, and seen Scott Bakula at a pizza place in Larchmont. One time, around Christmas, he’d stood in line at Target with Biff from Back to the Future, and one summer he’d sat across from the redhead from Six Feet Under at a coffee shop for half an hour. It made him aware of how human celebrities were. Without special lighting or an hour of makeup, when you just saw them from any old angle, most of them lost a degree of beauty and appeal. They were still all a lot more attractive than him, but it was clear they were just people like everyone else.

Karen Quilt looked better in person than she did in photographs and on television. She wore a black tank top and form-hugging sweatpants. If she had any makeup on he couldn’t tell. Her dark hair draped across her bare shoulders. Her arms were muscular.

Her gaze flitted down to his shoes and back up to his face. She had gorgeous eyes. Sky blue. They had an edge to them that was hard but didn’t look cruel. He kept watching them, hoping to see a spark of recognition.

If there was one, she hid it well.

“George Bailey,” she said. “The main character in the 1946 motion picture It’s a Wonderful Life. I would recall meeting someone with such a distinctive name.”

Something sank inside him. “You don’t remember me?”

Her dark brows shifted. “Remember you from what?”

“From … I don’t know, remembering me.”

She smiled. The smile was even more formal and polite than the desk clerk’s downstairs. “I generally do not associate with janitors.”

His heart lurched back up in his chest. “You know I was a janitor,” he said.

Karen pointed at his hand. “There are seven round spots on your right sleeve,” she said, “each discolored to a different degree. They are from drops which splashed up when you were soaking a mop, and do not appear on your left arm because it would be held higher from the bucket. The discoloration was caused by