Requiem for a Realtor by Ralph McInerny Read Free Book Online Page B

city’s architecture. Two, nothing got into the papers the Pianones did not want to get in, so why worry? He satisfied the reporter’s curiosity about the rundown hotel that it was Verdi’s fate to manage.
    Fifty percent occupancy isn’t too bad for any hotel, and the Frosinone could count on that. Two floors, six and seven, were assigned to the model escorts who brought their johns to the Frosinone, and then there were the permanent residents, those who rented by the month, guests like Willie Boiardo, the musician. When his neighbors complained about Willie’s piano, Verdi would ask him to play on the grand in the ballroom, the piano Willie used when he practiced with Wanda, his partner. Verdi was an audience of one as Willie went through a repertoire of operatic themes. What was an artist like Willie doing playing in a joint, Verdi wanted to know.
    â€œSpeaking of which,” Willie said.
    â€œI left it in your room, in the bathroom cabinet.”
    Maybe that was the difference, concert pianists didn’t get hooked on drugs. Willie’s supply was courtesy of the Pianones, the message enigmatically delivered by Peanuts, the Pianone nephew who was impersonating a cop.
    â€œYou try to collect, I’ll break your legs.”
    One of the uncles, the head of the family, had heard Willie play on the ballroom grand, and when he learned of the musician’s habit, offered to finance a cure.
    â€œWho’s sick?”
    The uncle had shrugged. The role of reformer didn’t fit him. But he resolved to take care of Willie’s habit gratis. Hence the message from Peanuts.
    Tuttle, the lawyer, usually accompanied Peanuts on his periodic visits, which were no doubt meant to make sure Verdi was not taking money from Willie Boiardo.
    â€œI like this place,” Tuttle would say, pushing his tweed hat to the back of his head and looking around the lobby. “It’s got class.”
    Tuttle also professed to like the food in the hotel restaurant where the chandeliers and elegant china were mementos of the great days of the hotel. The same menu was now offered every day of the week, but Tuttle always pored over it as if it represented a new challenge. Verdi joined their table from time to time, having a glass of wine while Tuttle and Peanuts enjoyed their Salisbury steaks. These two were beer drinkers and complained when bottles were not brought to the table. Verdi told the waiter to put the beer in a wine bucket. He had a residual sense of what was fitting in the former U. S. Grant hotel.
    â€œHow’s business, Tuttle?”
    â€œGood, good.” He chewed reflectively. “I don’t think I’ve ever had Salisbury steak like this.”
    â€œMany people say that.” But not with the admiration there was in Tuttle’s voice.
    â€œI told Bob Oliver about this place. He’s thinking of doing one of his features on Fox River hotels.”
    â€œHe came by.”
    â€œWas his photographer with him?” Tuttle asked slyly.
    â€œI don’t think he was impressed by the Frosinone.”
    â€œGood,” Peanuts said.
    All in all, a conversation with these two was about as rewarding as one with Boiardo. Many jobs are boring, but working in a hotel carries boredom to new depths. Verdi stayed because leaving would involve a decision, and he had quit making decisions. He was sixty years old and what future he had stretched before him like a barren moonscape. There had been a time when the sight of one of the model escorts would awaken an earlier version of himself, but Verdi tried to tell himself that all that was behind him now. He would have had no regrets if it were. In his experience, women were poison, and the consolations did not begin to make up for the aggravation. He had married three times and none of them had lasted a year. The last wife he had brought to his suite in the hotel, and within a week she was crawling the walls.
    â€œThere’s nothing