When Faith Chandler had shown up at the hotel, he knew it was the beginning of the end.
It was Faith who had called him. Called to tell him the news. Called to ask for more money. It was now only a matter of time until all the pieces began to fall into place for the police, and everything would be exposed.
He stood, naked, considering himself in the mirror. His mother stared back, her sad, liquid eyes judging the man he'd become. He brushed his hair, gently, using the beautiful brush Ian had bought for him at Fortnum amp; Mason, the exclusive British department store.
Don't make me give you the brush.
He heard activity outside the door to his hotel room. It sounded like the man who came around each day at this time to replenish the mini-bar. Seth looked at the dozen empty bottles scattered around the small table near the window. He was barely drunk. He had two bottles left. He could use more.
He pulled the tape out of the cassette housing, allowing it to pool on the floor at his feet. Next to the bed were already a dozen empty cassettes, their plastic hulls stacked like crystalline bones.
He looked next to the television. There were only a few more to go. He would destroy them all, then, perhaps, himself.
There came a knock at his door. Seth closed his eyes. "Yes?"
"Mini bar, sir?"
"Yeah," Seth said. He was relieved. But he knew it was only temporary. He cleared his throat. Had he been crying? "Hang on."
He slipped on his robe, unlocked the door. He stepped into the bathroom. He really didn't want to see anyone. He heard the young man enter, replace the bottles and snacks in the mini bar.
"Enjoying your stay in Philadelphia, sir?" the young man called from the other room.
Seth almost laughed. He thought about the past week, about how it had all come apart. "Very much," Seth lied.
"We hope you'll return."
Seth took a deep breath, scrambled his courage. "Take two dollars from the dresser," he called out. For the moment, his volume masked his emotions.
"Thank you, sir," the young man said.
A few moments later Seth heard the door close.
Seth sat on the edge of the tub for a full minute, his head in his hands. What had he become? He knew the answer, but he just could not admit it, even to himself. He thought about the moment that Ian Whitestone had walked into the car dealership so long ago, how they had talked well into the night. About film. About art. About women. About things so personal that Seth had never shared the thoughts with anyone else.
He ran the tub. After five minutes or so he toed the water. He cracked one of the two remaining little bottles of bourbon, poured it into a water glass, drank it in one gulp. He stepped out of his robe, slipped into the hot water. He had thought about a Roman death, but had quickly ruled it out. Frankie Pentangeli in The Godfather: Part II. He didn't have the courage for such a thing, if courage was indeed what it took.
He closed his eyes, just for a minute. Just for a minute, then he would call the police and start talking.
When had it begun? He wanted to examine his life in terms of grand themes, but he knew the simple answer. It began with the girl. She had never shot heroin before. She had been scared, but willing. So willing. As they all had been. He remembered her eyes, her cold dead eyes. He remembered loading her into the car. The terrifying ride into North Philly. The filthy gas station. The guilt. Had he slept through the night even once since that terrible evening?
Soon, Seth knew, there would be another knock at the door. The police would want to talk to him in earnest. But not just yet. Just a few minutes.
Just a few.
Then, faintly, he heard… moaning? Yes. It sounded like one of the porno tapes. Was it in the adjoining hotel room? No. It took a moment, but Seth soon realized that the sound was coming from his hotel room. From his television.
He sat up in the tub, his heart racing. The water was warm, not hot. He had been out for a while.
Someone was in the hotel room.
Seth craned his neck, trying to look around the bathroom door. It was ajar, but the angle was such that could not see more than a few feet into the room. He looked up. There was a lock on the bathroom door. Could he get out of the tub quietly, slam shut the door and lock it? Maybe. But then what? What would he do then? He had no cell phone in the bathroom.
Then, from right outside the bathroom door, just inches away, he heard a voice.
Seth thought of T. S. Eliot's line from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
Till human voices wake us…
"I'm new to this city," the voice outside his door said. "I haven't seen a friendly face in weeks."
And we drown.