F. Paul Wilson Doesn't Believe in the Chelsea's Creative Energy

Author F. Paul Wilson has been generous enough to send us an excerpt from HOSTS, which features the Chelsea Hotel and El Quijote in a couple of scenes.  HOSTS features a recurring character known as Repairman Jack -- a name given him because he will, for a price, fix situations that can't be remedied through official channels -- blackmail, for instance. He lives under the radar with no Social Security number and no official identity -- a ghost in the modern machine. The woman he meets in the Chelsea lobby turns out to be the older sister he hasn't seen in 15 years. She wasn't a lesbian when he left her, but she is now. 
What you do? I'm a writer -- novels (thrillers in all sorts of genres) and short stories. 2006 marks the 35th anniversary of my first publication.

Do you live in the Chelsea neighborhood? No, but I went to high school here. I was a Joisey kid who commuted daily to a Jesuit military school -- Xavier on West 16th. The military part was mandatory then and we were known citywide as Subway Commandos. I came of age in Chelsea -- I learned where to get fireworks in Chinatown, how to get a mug of porter in McSorley's (men-only then), all sorts of cool stuff. I fell in love with New York then and have continued the affair ever since. The city is very much a continuing character in the Repairman Jack novels.

What inspired you to set a scene in El Quijote? I've eaten there quite a few of times. I love their shrimp in green garlic sauce -- you can't close-talk to anyone for the next six months, but it's worth it.

Do you think that there is a creative energy in the Chelsea Hotel? No. I don't believe in any of that stuff. Creativity isn't some sort of astral goo you can leave behind. This is a bring-your-own world. But if you have a few creative bones in you, the idea of staying in the same place -- maybe the same room -- as so many icons of whatever field your working in might spark you to greater achievement. I mean, come on -- Gregory Corso lived here!

What's your favorite Hotel Chelsea story? Well, being into crime and mayhem -- evidenced by the subject matter of my fiction -- the Sid and Nancy story sticks out. But my love of the place goes back to my high school days when I used to wander the city looking for cool buildings. I started making a list back then (still have it) and the Chelsea was near the top. Still is. I simply love the look of it.

What's your favorite El Quijote story? Don't have one...besides the food.
An excerpt from HOSTS: A Repairman Jack Novel © 2001 by F. Paul Wilson
Somewhere in Chapter 5 . . .
            Not going to happen, Jack told himself as he headed down the stairs for the street. 
            He’d do whatever it took to keep this one lousy incident from disrupting his life and his business.
             His business . . . he hadn’t checked his voice mail in a while. 
             Walked over to Broadway, found a phone booth, and tapped in his codes.  One call.  From a woman who said she’d been referred to him as someone who could help her with a problem involving a friend and a cult.  Left her cell phone number but didn’t say who’d referred her or any details about the cult or her problem with it.  Decided she was worth a call back.  An indefinable something about her voice appealed to him, made him want to work on her problem.
               Glanced at his watch: 11:20.  Might be late to call her, but he needed something to do and this could be it.  A new customer with a new fix-it job would occupy his mind and time while waiting for the fallout from tonight’s fiasco.   
              Dialed her number.  When she answered he said. “This is Jack, returning your call.”
            “Oh.  I didn’t expect you to call back so soon.”  A nice voice; soft and mature.  Not too old, not too young.
              We’re off to a good start, Jack thought.
              “Some problems can wait,” he said, “some can’t.  You didn’t say anything about yours.  I can meet you tonight if necessary.”
              “Gosh, it’s late but . . .”
              “Where do you live?”
              “I . . . I’d rather not say.”
              “Not your street address, your section of the city.”
              “Oh.  It’s called the Flower District.  It’s—”
              “Know it.”  Upper Twenties around Sixth, above Chelsea.   “I can meet you anywhere you want down there in about fifteen minutes.”
              “Tonight?  Gee, I don’t . . .”
                “Lady, you called me.”
               A pause during which he swore he could hear her chewing her lip.
              “Okay.  But someplace public.”

Someplace public . . . could meet her on Forty-second Street. Few places in the city more public than the Deuce since Disney moved in.  Maybe too public.  Better to make it closer to where she lived . . .
              Considered the Seventh Avenue Papaya on the corner of Twenty-third, but that was usually a madhouse this time of night.  He grinned.  Maybe he should freak her out and suggest La Maison de Sade, the S-and-M supper club next to the Chelsea Hotel.   Wait—that was it.
              “How about the Chelsea Hotel?”
              “Where’s that?”
              Something not right here.  “Thought you said you lived in the Flower District.  You live down there and don’t know the Chelsea?”
             “I’m visiting.  I’m from . . . from out of town.”
             “Okay then.  It’s right down Seventh from you.  On Twenty-third.  I’ll meet you in the lobby.  Is that public enough?”
              “I don’t know . . . this is so strange.” 

Hesitant.  Jack liked that.  He’d take a hesitant customer over a gung-ho out-for-blood type any day.
             “Here’s how we’ll work it: I’ll hang out there until midnight.  If you change your mind and don’t show, fine.  If you see me and don’t like what you see, just turn around and go back home and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
            “That sounds fair, I guess.”
             “And you should know up front that I don’t work cheap.”
             “I think it’s a little early to haggle about fees.  How will I spot you?”
              “No problem.  I’ll stand out.”
              “How?”
              “I won’t be wearing black.”
              A tiny laugh.  “I’ve spent enough time here to appreciate that!”
             Something about that laugh . . . something vaguely familiar there . . . an echo of a laugh from long ago, but damned if he could remember who or when.
                  “Do I know you?” Jack asked.

“Oh, I doubt that.  I doubt that very, very much.”
                Probably right.  She said she was from out of town and Jack didn’t leave the city much.
               She added, “I only heard of you a couple of hours ago.”
                 “From whom?”
               “That’s the strangest part.  This woman I’ve never seen before gave me your number and said you could help.”
              “A stranger?  What’s her name?”
               “I don’t know.  She had a Russian accent and a big white dog.  She said to call you tonight . . . only you.”
            Got his number from a stranger . . . that didn’t sit right, especially since the only people he knew with Russian accents were members of a Brighton Beach crew he’d had a brush with last year, and they weren’t too fond of him.
            A little extra caution might be in order here.
           “You call someone you’ve never heard of on the recommendation of someone you don’t know.  You must be a very trusting person.”
            “No, I’m not.  I’m just a very upset person.  Maybe even a little frightened.” 
           Thought he heard her voice threatening to crack at the end there.  Okay.  She sounded genuine.  He could figure out later who the mystery woman was.  For now . . .
           “All right.  I’ll be dressed like Joe Prep; no way you’ll be able to miss me in that crowd.”  Thought of something.  “And remember, it’s the Chelsea Hotel, not the Chelsea Savoy which is a couple of doors away.  You want the big old red building with wrought iron balconies all up and down its face and a red-and-white-striped awning over the entrance.  Got it?”
               “Got it.”
              “Okay.  See you then.” 
              Hung up and flagged a cab.  As the driver headed down Broadway, Jack wondered why he felt so determined to involve himself in fixing this woman’s problem, whatever it was.  He knew he was looking for a distraction, but it went beyond that. 
              Shrugged it off.  Important thing was he was on the move, doing something instead of hanging around his apartment like a prisoner in a cell.

#

Jack knew it was her the moment she stepped through the door. 
              He’d been sitting in the Chelsea’s intimate, marble-tiled lobby on an intricately carved sofa situated between the equally intricately carved fireplace and a metallic sculpture of some sort of jackal sitting atop an undersized elephant.  He’d spent the waiting time admiring the vast and eclectic array of art festooning the walls. 
          The Chelsea had been a fabled haunt of artists and entertainers for decades, and nowadays most of them seemed to own clothes of only one color: black.  So when this woman in beige linen slacks and a rose sweater set stepped through the door she stood out among the leather and lingerie habitués as much as he did.  Her head was down so he didn’t see her face at first, but the style of her honey curly blond hair and mature figure jibed with the voice on the phone.
            Then she looked up and their eyes met and Jack’s heart stuttered and missed a beat or two.
            Kate!  God, it was Kate!
            Her voice, that little laugh—now he knew why they’d sounded familiar.  They belonged to his sister.