“You’re not cutting my hair,” I told him.
“Maybe I should just wrap some gauze around it. Like you have a head injury. We’re gonna be too lumpy this way.”
“Where is Jourdain Garmot now?” I asked Nueve.
“Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania?”
“He flew into Harrisburg two nights ago, where he rented a car and drove to a tiny hamlet called Suedberg.”
Something clicked when he said the name, but I couldn’t pin down why Suedberg sounded familiar to me.
“What’s a Frenchman who runs a company in England doing in a tiny hamlet in Pennsylvania?” I wondered aloud.
“Here it comes,” Cinnamon-Breath said. Then Nueve shrugged. “Maybe it’s more a tic than a gesture.”
“More of a mannerism,” Nueve said.
“You mean affectation.”
Nueve shrugged.
Cinnamon-Breath gave the wig one last violent tug, then fluffed the tight gray curls with his fingertips. He tsk-tsked at the effect.
“Think I should have gone with a darker shade. All this hair underneath is making it bulge. And the color—you look like a human Q-tip. Oh well. All done but the lips.”
“Don’t do the lips,” I said.
“I gotta do the lips. I don’t do the lips, people are going to notice the hair. And we don’t want them noticing the hair.”
“Why would an old lady be wearing lipstick in a hospital?” I asked.
“She’s leaving the hospital, Kropp. A Southern hospital. Jeez! Now make like you’re going to kiss me.”
“Make like I’m going to what?”
“Kiss me! Give me a smooch.”
“Perhaps you should purse your lips, Alfred, as if you’re going to whistle a happy tune,” Nueve suggested.
I pursed my lips and avoided Cinnamon-Breath’s eyes as he applied the lipstick.
“Now that completes the picture!” he said.
“Too red,” Nueve said.
Cinnamon-Breath ignored him. He held a hand mirror in front of my face.
“Soooo? What do you think?”
“I think I look like my grandmother.”
“Grandmother! Perfect! Now out of bed, quick; let’s get you dressed.”
He pulled a flowery purple dress from the valise and laid it on the foot of the bed.
“Can’t we just throw a blanket over me?” I asked.
“We could,” Nueve said. “But the transition to the car could prove difficult.”
I sighed. The makeup guy turned his back, Nueve closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, and I slipped the dress over my wig-covered head. I asked Cinnamon-Breath to zip me up and he laughed for some reason.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Grandma Kropp. Oh wait. I nearly forgot.”
He pulled a pair of white orthopedic sneakers from the bag.
“Oh, no,” Nueve said. “All wrong. It should be heels.”
“She has bunions—that’s the idea,” Cinnamon-Breath said. “And if for any reason he has to run, you wanna see him try it in pumps? Oh, did I say one more thing? I have one more one-more-thing.”
He pulled a shawl from the valise and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then he stepped back and admired his handiwork. “See why the lavender was all wrong?” he asked Nueve. “The rose goes much better with the shawl. How’s he look?”
“Like an octogenarian on steroids,” said Nueve.
“How do we get past the cop?” I asked.
“Uh-oh,” Cinnamon-Breath said, winking at Nueve. “I guess we should have thought of that!”
He picked up his valise and knocked twice on the door. It swung open and he stepped out of the room. After the door closed, Nueve turned to me.
“Do you still have the little gift I gave you?”
I retrieved the poisoned pen from under the pillow and slipped it into the side of my orthopedic shoe.
“Why do I need it?” I asked, following him to the door.
He smiled without showing his teeth. “No, the question is why do you persist with stupid questions?”
“A teacher told me once there’s no such thing as a stupid question.”
“Your teacher is an idiot.”
He knocked on the door.
There was no policeman sitting outside. Bought off? Dragged into the stairwell and hit on the head by Cinnamon-Breath? I didn’t know and I didn’t dwell on it. I told myself all this clandestine crap would soon be a part of my past.
A wheelchair sat against the wall. I plopped down; Nueve tucked his cane under his arm and wheeled me to the elevator.
“Samuel’s room,” I said as Nueve reached to press the button for the first floor.
“You insist?”
“I do.”
They had moved him to a private room. Nueve left me sitting in the hall and went inside. I could hear the rise and fall of their voices as they argued. Occasionally a word or two made it through the thick door. A couple of times I thought I heard the name “Sofia,” but it also could have been “sofa,” only it was hard to imagine why they would be arguing about a piece of furniture. Samuel had said the “Sofia” in ICU, and I wondered again if she was his nurse. But why would they be arguing about a nurse? Maybe Sofia was someone from Samuel’s past that Nueve was trying to use against him: Watch yourself or we’re going after Sofia. I tried to imagine Samuel having a girlfriend, and failed.
Then Nueve came out and wheeled me inside the room. Samuel was sitting next to the window, a book open in his lap.
He took in the getup. “You look ridiculous.”
“It’s a disguise, Samuel.”
“The shoes are all wrong,” he said to Nueve. “You should have gone with pumps.”
“I tried,” Nueve said. “I was overruled.”
He took a long white envelope from the outer pocket of his doctor’s coat and laid it on top of Samuel’s book.
“What’s this?” Samuel asked.
“Your severance pay, courtesy of Senor Kropp.”
Samuel peered at the piece of paper.
“I thought you might prefer it in a Swiss account,” Nueve said.
“Twenty-five million ...” Samuel said softly. He looked up at me.
“Well,” I said. “I don’t really know how old you are, but I wanted you to have at least a million dollars for every year until you, um, died.”