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Others want autographs, but Jerome shakes his head and points to his watch, mimingwe’re late. He escorts Sista—Betty to her besties—toward the elevators. Holly has only seconds to make a decision, and instead of standing where she is so they’ll see her, she steps into the newsstand and turns her back. It’s an instinctive move, as thoughtless on the conscious level as taking the next breath. She only realizes why she avoided Jerome while she’s looking at the magazines without seeing them. Jerome has his own security job to do this evening. He would let that go in a moment if Holly asked him, but she won’t ask him to desert his post. Or put him in harm’s way. How would she ever explain to his parents or to Barbara if she got him hurt or, God forbid, killed? Thatwouldbe her fault.
She crosses the lobby to the revolving doors, Find My app open on her phone.
2
5:50 PM.
The late Christopher Stewart got a ha-ha room; the best Corrie could wangle for her boss was a junior suite; three floors up, Betty Brady got the Presidential. Jerome escorts her inside. Sitting in the living room in front of the TV are two people, one male and one female, both old and skinny. The man is wearing a showy red suit and a black turtleneck with a peace sign on a gold chain. Short snakeskin boots adorn his feet. Betty introduces them to Jerome as Alberta Wing and Red Jones and says Red will be accompanying her on sax when she sings the Anthem.
“Your outfit is on the bed,” Alberta says. “I had to let out the ass of the pants to the limit. You gettin sobig, girl.”
It’s clear that Alberta expects a zesty comeback—Jerome does, too, it’s how his aunts and mother do when they get together—but Betty just gives another of those token smiles and tells Red to come with her. He picks up a blue travel bag and leaves his saxophone case by his chair. The two of them go into the bedroom and Betty closes the door.
Alberta says, “This song she’s doin tonight is a freebie, and those the ones that always cause trouble. You ever hear that old sayin, no good deed goes unpunished?”
Jerome says he has.
“It’s true. Huh, lookit you, like the cat that got the cream.” She waves a dismissive hand. “You think you gettin close to a big star is all this is, somethin to tell your friends and your kids about later on, but I’m sayin you must take this serious. Hear me?”
“I do.”
“You goan take care of her? Keep anyone from gettin nasty with her?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You make sure the plan works, then.” Alberta shakes her head. “Somethin weighin on her. She ain’t right.”
3
In the bedroom, Betty strips off her shirt, displaying a truly mighty bra and a mightier midsection. The mom jeans come next, exposing an acre of cotton underpants. Red takes a glance, then turns his attention out the window to the skyline.
Although burdened, Betty isn’t entirely devoid of humor. “You can look, Ernest,” she says. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me with my clothes off before.”
“True,” he says, still looking out, “but the last time you was a double-D.”
“Triple,” she says, shimmying on the sequined bellbottoms and a pink silk smock that falls to her thighs. She cinches it with the starry sash. “Now I’m a goddam F, but ne’mine my bra size. Did you bring it?”
“Yes I did, and why you want it I don’t know.”
“Nor do you need to. Give it over.”
For nearly twenty-five years, since 9/11 tightened up inspections and restrictions at airports, Red has traveled by bus. He never liked to fly in the first place. He’s afraid of being hijacked, he hates theturbulence and the crowding, says the food isn’t fit for sick dogs. He says trains are better, but he favors a good old Greyhound because he says it gives him a chance to watch at least three movies and unpack his thoughts. Sometimes he even entertains fellow travelers with a tune or two, like “Yakety Sax” or “Baker Street.” Also, he can bring along “his good pal,” which he now takes out of his ancient Pan Am flight bag. It’s an elderly Smith & Wesson J-Frame revolver. The worn wood grip has been wrapped in a layer of white tape.
He hands it to her with clear misgivings. “Five-shot cylinder, .38 slugs, fully loaded. Would put Mike Tyson down, so for Christ’s sake don’t shoot yourself with it. Remember there’s no safety.”
She puts it in her purse. “Thank you, Red. We been the miles together, haven’t we?”
“And more to go, I do hope,” he says. “Don’t you want to tell me what you want that for?”
She shakes her head. Which is what he expected.
4
5:55 PM.
The crowd across the street from the hotel has grown exponentially. There are still plenty of pro- and anti-Kate demonstrators, but the majority of the crowd, which stretches up and down the block, seems to be made up of Sista Bessie fans hoping to get a glimpse of her… and to take the all-important photo, of course.
Parked in the turnaround is a powder blue Thunderbird with the hotel’s manager standing beside it. Mr. Estevez is stroking the side with a proprietary air that can only mean this is his baby. Parked behind it and looking rather dowdy in comparison is a red Subaru that Holly recognizes. She also recognizes the man leaning against the driver’s side.