Dante's Poison (28 page)

Nick proceeded to give me a rough guide to the floor plan, which fit the blueprint of most hotel/conference centers I'd ever stayed at. There were two wings jutting out in the shape of a wide-angle V from the reception area, located in a multistory, south-facing atrium. The grand ballroom room, fitness area, and spa were on the ground floor behind reception, and the conference area was directly above them. “You'll mostly want to stay in the west wing, where your room is,” Nick told me. “Just take the elevator down to the promenade level, where they'll be serving lunch. The CME will be taking place on the right side as you exit the elevator bank. The east wing on the left is for the company meeting that will be taking place at the same time.”

“Company meeting?” I asked as the elevator let us off at what he told me was six.

“Yeah, Atria always buys out most of the resort this time of the year so they can get their sales staff rubbing shoulders with the doctors at the bar and on the course. The reps are always saying how good for business it is. While you're attending your lectures, they'll be next door plotting their marketing strategy for the year. I'd try not to wander over there, if I were you. They're pretty touchy about security. Even the hotel staff has to stay out of the room when they're meeting. I got my ass chewed off last time for not knowing about the spy stuff when I was tapped for coffee urn duty. I walked into one of their rooms with the refills and it was like everyone had a stroke.”

“If I, uh . . . do get lost, how will I know which rooms to stay away from?”

“You're in luck there,” Nick said. “They changed the meeting room names six months ago, so those signs do have Braille on them. The west wing rooms are all named after flowers—Rose, Tulip, Iris, and so forth. The east wing rooms are all named after trees—Oak, Maple, Elm, etcetera.”

My curiosity got the better of me. “What were they named after before?”

“Foreign capitals. But someone in corporate decided it was un-American. So just remember to stick with the flowers and you'll be OK.”

Nick showed me how to find my room, which required turning left off the elevator bank and continuing past six doors on the right side of the corridor. “I'll come back in a bit and stick a piece of electrical tape just under the number so you won't have to worry about making a mistake,” he said. He opened the door and showed me in and took me all around the room, pointing out the location of phones, remotes, and climate controls. The room was regulation business hotel, right down to the king-sized bed with enough pillows in all shapes and sizes to supply a sultan's harem. Just before leaving, Nick took out a penknife and cut the corner off my key card adjacent to the magnetic stripe so I wouldn't have to try umpteen different ways of swiping it to unlock the door. I tipped him five dollars, and he was savvy enough not to refuse it.

“Call me if there's anything else I can help you with while you're here. Just press ‘0' on the room phone and ask for Nick. Turndown service with a complimentary water bottle is at eight o'clock.”

“Thanks,” I said, though I wasn't sure I'd be using the bed that night. A plan was beginning to form in my head that might require an early getaway.

In the movies, the blind man with his loyal German shepherd is as overdone as Italians in the mob. But the majority of blind people—even those more partial to dogs than I—get around using a stick. A lucky few develop “facial vision,” a sensitivity to air pressure so acute that they can walk right up to walls and other obstructions without colliding with them. Possibly because I still relied on my eyes more than I should have, my attempts to develop this skill had been a bust, with little more to show for them than bruised shins and some near misses with gas-company excavation sites. After scaring myself this way a few times, I'd become resigned to hauling the cane around with me whenever I wasn't at home or at work. Nonetheless, a little while later found me exiting my room without it.

I planted one foot carefully before the other, wishing the carpet wasn't so thick. A better echo from my steps would have helped me stay in a straight line. Without the cane I felt exposed and unbalanced, and it was a struggle to keep my arms in a relaxed position by my sides as I made my way down the corridor, which was as dimly lit as a coal mine. It wasn't until I got to a turn that I could detect a diaphanous glow coming from an exterior window. I used that and the sound of the cars moving along their cables to ascertain the location of the elevator bank, set within a darker recess in the fog-filled landscape to my right. The scent of face powder and an impatient sigh told me I had company. I trained my eyes on what was surely a woman and smiled.

“Going down to the conference?” I asked brightly.

“Uh-huh. More damned CME. Are you a doctor, too?”

I shook my head. “No, just one of the salesmen. We're meeting at the same time.”

“Too bad. I was hoping you could show me where I'm supposed to be.”

“That's no problem. Just hit the button for the promenade level and turn right when you get downstairs,” I said, enjoying the irony of being the one giving directions.

She thanked me just as the elevator chimed, announcing its arrival on our floor.

“After you,” I said, always the gentleman. I followed the sound of her heels into the crowded car and managed to get over the threshold with only a minor stumble. Normally, I would have located a free space by feeling demurely forward with my cane, but all I had now was my toe. I inched it forward until it met with another person's shoe, grinning maniacally in the hope that no one would notice. “Floor?” asked a man to my right with a distinct tone of disapproval. “Promenade,” I replied. I counted the chimes as the elevator stopped at four more floors, increasing its cargo each time until my back was pressed into the starched abdomen of the man behind me, who was breathing hot, foul air into my ear.

When the doors opened at the promenade level, the passengers streamed quickly out and I was pushed forward before I had a chance to gain my footing, nicking my shoulder as I passed through the door and staggering slightly. A woman to my rear stage-whispered, “Can you believe that? It's not even noon and he's already three sheets to the wind.” I ignored her and extricated myself from the thick crowd moving toward the buffet area, whose location my nose left no doubt of. I found a wall and anchored myself there for a moment, sweating profusely. Once outside the swiftly moving posse of conference goers, the sunlight filling the atrium straight ahead was easier to detect. I gathered my courage and marched toward the glare until I met up with the railing overlooking the lobby below, where I stopped to rest and wipe a hand across my brow.

I flipped the crystal on my watch to check the time. It was then 11:45. Based on the scraping of cutlery and raucous conversation nearby, lunch hour was in full swing. The formal meetings wouldn't start for another forty-five minutes, which with luck would give me the time I needed. With my back turned to the rail, I was now facing north. To find the flower rooms I should have headed to my left. Instead, I took a deep breath and started out in the opposite direction.

After Nick left me I'd rung up reception from my cell phone—again with caller ID blocked—and explained that I was stuck in traffic and had misplaced my agenda for the Atria sales meeting. Could they remind me where the meeting would be taking place so I wouldn't have to waste time looking for it when I arrived? The clerk who answered told me I needed the Elm Room, just inside the entrance to the east wing. There would be an easel with a sign bearing the company logo beside the door. Unless I was blind I couldn't miss it.

As I crept forward the crowd thinned, and by the time I'd reached the entrance to the east wing, looming ahead of me like the maw of a huge black cavern, there were few footsteps around me. It appeared I was mostly alone. My next job was finding the Elm Room. The easel by the door would be of no help—unless I happened to walk into it—and massaging the walls with my fingers would have surely pegged me as your not-so-average salesperson, if not a bona fide nut. Fortunately, I was saved from blowing my cover by the sound of someone heaving boxes onto a table and swearing. I advanced toward the sound with my right hand held out a few inches in front of my thigh until it connected with a cloth-covered surface, and beamed in the general direction of whoever was standing behind it.

“Hi, there,” came the candy-apple voice of a young woman. “Are you here for the sales meeting? You're early.”

“I thought I'd get a head start on finding a seat.”

“Smart idea. It'll be standing room only when the presentations get underway. I'm Gretchen, Mr. Henderson's assistant.”

I stuck out my hand, introducing myself as Mark Halliday.

“Hmmm,” she said quizzically as she took it. “I don't remember that name from the roster.”

“I, uh . . . only got called to the meeting at the last minute. I flew in from the East Coast this morning.”

“I wish somebody'd let me know. But the bosses are like that, aren't they? Always changing their minds at the last second and God help the poor slob who doesn't jump ten feet in the air to make it happen. If you're not on my list, I won't have a name tag for you. But I can make up a temporary. What did you say your name was again?”

I caught the whiff of a felt pen as she took down my alias.

“Office?” she asked.

“Westchester,” I said with my fingers surreptitiously crossed. How many Fortune 500s didn't have at least one office in Westchester? She didn't object and took this down too.

“Here,” she said, sliding something scratchy across the table. “You'll have to keep that around your neck so the security detail will know you're legit.”

I located the plastic pouch attached to a length of string without too much difficulty and said, “Thanks. I hope I haven't put you to too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Will you be around for the whole conference?” She stopped and added forwardly, “I wouldn't mind having a drink if you're free later on. You have nice eyes.”

If only she knew. “Er, thanks, but I'm in a relationship.” And even in my heyday I drew the line at robbing the cradle.

“Figures. The best ones are always taken. Here, you'll need this, too. But remember the rules: it goes right into the shredder after the meeting.”

There was no other option but to swipe at the thing she was holding out to me. My fingers closed clumsily on a thick laminated folder.

Gretchen giggled. “Now I get it.”

“Get what?” I asked, feeling myself start to color. Had I given myself away that easily?

“I was wondering why you looked so out of it. You had a few on the plane, didn't you?” she accused.

I breathed a sigh of relief and feigned embarrassment. “You won't tell anyone will you? I got upgraded to first class and it was hard to stop at just one mimosa.”

“I'll bet. But you better let me walk you in. It's still dark in there. Come on.”

I slid around the table and fell in behind her. Just inside the door, Gretchen flipped the switch on several lights, and the ballroom lit up like a baseball park. “Take any seat you like, but if I were you I'd stick to the back row,” she said in amusement as she retreated from the room. I inched forward and found the last row of folding chairs without making too much of a commotion. I slid my hand along their backs until I came to the one farthest from the center aisle, sinking into the seat just as my knees were about to give out. I checked my pulse, which was racing like a Belmont thoroughbred, and vowed—unless fortune were ultimately to shine on me—never to leave my cane behind again. My hands were slick with perspiration, and I dried them on my trouser legs before opening the folder Gretchen had given me and spreading it on my lap. Much as I needed a breather, this was no time to relax. I could have company at any moment.

I got out my phone and began snapping pictures.

A short while later, I was lounging peacefully with the folder resting innocently on the floor underneath my chair as the first of the conferees started rolling in. What started as a drop here and there soon turned to a flood as bodies swelled to fill the warehouse-sized space. The salesmen laughed and cracked jokes and called out each other's names, their voices rising and falling like a hive of buzzing insects. All of the seats around me were soon taken, and before long there was also a phalanx of bodies pressed up against the back of my chair. Business meetings at my hospital were never this well attended. Or this lively. Based on the atmosphere, it could easily have been opening night at the Oscars. I soon figured out why by eavesdropping on the two fellows next to me: Atria's recently ended fiscal year had earned it record-breaking profits, and the salesmen were anticipating the announcement of whopping bonuses.

All at once music began to swell from loudspeakers placed in the four corners of the room, and the din of conversation receded. I recognized the opening bars of Wagner's
Ride of the Valkyries
, which drew loud laughter. While the music continued to mount, someone tested the microphone up front with a deafening screech and said, “Wait, wait, you guys. You're playing the wrong tune.” The music abruptly stopped, to be replaced by the theme song from
Rocky
. Even more laughter broke out. Scratch the Oscars. It appeared we were in for vaudeville.