Mañana Means Heaven

Chapter 7.

41 7 The Duke Hotel was a modest block of brown stone that sat on the corner of San Pedro and Fifth Street.Two palm trees stood crooked over the entranceway, and in the lobby was a pair of knockoff marble cherubs, spilling a cracked jug of water into a fountain. They got their room key and started up the stairs. The air smelled like moldy clothes and body odor. She put her hand on the railing and felt the chipped wood grain sliding beneath her fingers. Down the hall a voice shouted out something indecipherable, and it sounded like an argument; two men were having it out in one of the rooms. Jack looked at Bea and then stuck the key into the hole and pushed the door open. It squeaked, and then rocked back on its own. The room was a modest box. Staring into it, Jack thought of that old Les Brown tune and sang a line: My dreams are getting better all the time. He flung the keys onto the dresser while Bea dropped her bags and collapsed onto the bed. “Sure feels good to rest my feet.” “Ain’t that the truth.” He made himself busy digging into his duffel.A short but welcomed silence gripped them. Bea checked her face in a small hand mirror and then realigned her lips. Jack pulled his notebook out and went over by the window and sat at the table. “What do you got there?” He bit the end of a pencil and glanced up at her. “Just my notebook,” he said, spitting out small shards of wood. He noticed a curious look on her face. “A writer’s gotta have his notebook with him always. It’s just how it’s gotta be.” She nodded. “Suppose I get an idea,” he continued, “something great, original, you know, and there I am without a pencil or paper to get it down. What kind of writer would I be then?”He hesitated.“It’s a habit by now. I’ve been at it since I was a boy. I used to draw in it mostly, back then, wrote a few things, kid stuff of course. Comics, that sort of thing.” He let the 42 pages flip in his fingers and he looked down at his words with a goofy sincerity. Bea giggled. “You sure are a writer aren’t you?”He scratched his head with his pencil.“Go ahead,” she said, “I’m not stopping you.” His eyes fell to the open page and he began scribbling away. She opened the curtains and tried pulling the window up but it was jammed. She banged on it with the heel of her palm and tugged again, and this time it skidded open. A gush of cold air blew in and she inhaled deeply, the sharp perfume of L.A. She set her hands on the sill and leaned out over the edge and looked down at the street below. “Gosh, I could stay up here forever, you know that?” Jack mumbled something. She went to the bed and began digging through her purse. She opened her thin red wallet and counted out what little money she had, a few bucks and some loose coins. Holding the change in her hand made her think about calling home to check on little Al. Maybe it was too soon. Besides, Alex had promised to watch after him. After a few minutes Jack shut his notebook and went to the bathroom. She pulled a cigarette from his box and stood in front of the mirror and watched herself smoke. The bathroom door was left partly open, and from where she stood she could see through the narrow opening between the hinges. His back was turned to her but she could see him standing over the toilet with one hand propped against the wall.She looked once and then looked away.And then once more. She distracted herself by going to the radio and fiddling with the knobs. Alberta Hunter’s staticky voice seeped through the small speakers. Bea relaxed and dropped her shoulders, kicked her shoes off. Jack zipped himself up, and when he came out of the bathroom the song ended and silence filled the room. They stood facing each other.There was no way around the awkwardness. “How about I run out and get us a drink?” Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “Good idea.” He grabbed his coat, and before...