W Is for Wasted

father’s attention than I was at this point.
    • • •
    When Dietz answered the door he was in a fresh pair of jeans and a collared shirt, over which he’d pulled a black cashmere sweater. His hair was still damp from the shower and I could smell soap and aftershave. He helped me out of my jacket and tossed it over the arm of a chair. He’d ordered a bottle of Champagne that was nestled in a silver ice bucket frosty with condensation. He picked up the bottle, put a cloth over the top, and worked the cork out with his thumbs. He held up a Champagne flute, his way of asking if he could pour me a glass.
    “By all means.”
    The room was larger than my apartment, no big surprise. My studio is small, which is why it suits me so well. Here the king-size bed seemed to dominate the room with its puffy white duvet like a heavy layer of snow. The bedframe was topped with an ornate wrought-iron crown. The walls were a buttery yellow, the Oriental rug awash in muted colors, mild green dominating. There was a corner fireplace with a real wood fire, throwing out a warmth I couldn’t quite feel from where I stood. The furniture looked antique, which may or may not have been the case.
    Dietz handed me my Champagne flute and I took a sip, experiencing the surprise on my tongue. If I drink Champagne at all, it’s the cheap stuff, which is closer to a freshly poured glass of tonic water with harsh undertones. This was delicate, like a mouth full of sunshine and butterflies. I watched him pour a glass for himself.
    “Have a seat,” he said.
    I settled on a leather-upholstered easy chair with a matching ottoman, one of two set at angles on either side of the snapping fire. The bed was stacked three deep with pillows, each covered in a faded chintz and trimmed with a thick fringe. Dietz had money. I had no idea how he’d come by it. To hear him tell it, his family was a shiftless lot of gypsies and vagabonds. His father worked the oil fields when jobs were available and otherwise spent his life crisscrossing the country in a series of dilapidated station wagons and vans. His mother rode shotgun, her bare feet propped on the dashboard while she drank beer and tossed empty cans out the window. Dietz and his grandmother occupied the backseat, playing cards or reading road maps and picking out towns with weird names. They made a point of traveling south for the winter, usually to Florida, but any place warm would do. If they couldn’t afford a motel, they slept in the car. If money was
really
in short supply, they’d cruise country roads and raid kitchen gardens for something to eat. He was largely homeschooled and he had little in the way of formal education. I suspected his job history was checkered, yet he seemed at home in this opulent hotel room, which felt alien to me.
    “You hungry?” he asked.
    “Getting there.”
    “We should probably take a look at the menu. Room service is slow at this hour, so the sooner we order, the better off we’ll be.”
    He handed me a menu while he sat down in the other leather chair with a menu of his own.
    The bifold was oversize, printed on heavy card stock. I ran an eye down both pages, which were writ in an elegant hand as though a scribe had just left the premises. Shrimp cocktail was $14. Asparagus soup, $10. All of the entrees were $35 or more. Personally, I’d have preferred a peanut butter and pickle sandwich; seventy-five cents max. “A bit pricey, isn’t it?”
    “Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. If you’re feeling cheap, have a sandwich.”
    “Who said anything about cheap? The cheeseburger’s twenty-one dollars! Two dollars more if you add bacon or avocado.”
    “Relax. The burgers are prime sirloin ground to order. The patties are hand-formed and cooked any way you like.”
    I held up my Champagne glass. “I think I’ll make do with this and fix my own supper when I get home.”
    “Don’t be silly. If you don’t eat, you’ll get too snockered to drive.”
    “I can’t stay that long anyway. It would have been smarter to postpone. I’m tired.”
    “No, no. It was a great idea. Nick won’t roll in for another couple of hours.”
    “What’s he going to think if he gets here and I’m in your room?”
    Dietz studied me quizzically. “Are you concerned about that?”
    “I should have stayed at home. At least I could’ve put on my comfies and read a good mystery.”
    “You can do that here. I have two Robert Parker paperbacks in my suitcase,” he