You Were Never Really Here by Jonathan Ames

Author:Jonathan Ames [Jonathan Ames]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781782272953
Publisher: Pushkin Press
Published: 2016-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

Joe left the car in front of the W, told the doorman he’d be right back and gave him a twenty. He carried Lisa, in the sheet, across the lobby and to the front desk. She rested her head on his shoulder, asleep now like a child who’s been on a long car ride and is being carried to her bed. She felt precious to Joe, fragile like a bird. He hoped that Votto, without his wife, could look after her.

The lone, sleek-looking clerk at the front desk hid his discomfort at the sight of the tall man carrying a child wrapped in a sheet. It was hard to know what to make of it, something was strange—the man was wearing latex gloves—but he knew to stay cool. That’s what they teach you at Cornell’s hotel school, especially if you’re going to work the after-midnight shift in a city hotel.

“Senator Votto,” Joe said. “He’s expecting me. Tell him it’s Joe.”

The clerk nodded, picked up the desk phone, dialed the room, and waited. Then: “There’s someone here named Joe, sir. Send him up?” He nodded silently to whatever was said on the other end, hung up the phone, and came around the desk, leading Joe to the elevators, his hips swaying like a woman’s. There was an elevator ready, and the clerk swiped his card inside, freeing the system. As Joe carried Lisa past him into the elevator, he smelled the man’s cloying perfume, and then hit the ninth-floor button.

He carried her down the hall to Votto’s room, and the door was slightly open. Joe pushed it in with his foot and stepped inside, and three uniformed cops with guns raised—one of which was equipped with a silencer—came at Joe from his right and his left. Two from the bedroom and one from the living room. Votto wasn’t there. The cops seemed out of breath, nervous and hurried, as if they had just arrived. They closed the door behind him.

“Move,” said the alpha of the three, a beefy Irish-looking cop in his mid-thirties, with red splotches on both his cheeks. His gun had the silencer, and he waved it, indicating that Joe should carry the girl into the living room, where he’d sat with Votto hours before. They were in the narrow entry space by the front door, and the cop wanted room. Joe couldn’t risk the girl getting shot, so he did what he was told. The other two cops then relieved him of the girl and carried her back out of the suite. She was still asleep, drugged, in shock. Joe heard the door close. Where were they taking her? Where was Votto? The alpha cop kept his gun on Joe. They hadn’t frisked him for weapons, but all he had was the cutting razor.

“Sit down, asshole,” the cop said, “keep your hands in front of you.” He took out his cell phone with his left hand, hit a button with his thumb. Joe sat down. He cursed himself. He had turned his jammer off when he drove to the W, wanting to conserve the battery.

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