The hotel is brown, brown on the outside in that distinctive New York style, brown on the inside with beige carpets and walls dirtied by years of foot traffic and cigarette smoke.
Liz steps inside on full alert. This is not Reddington's usual style. It must be important, to merit a meeting out here.
She sighs at the thought of another vile Blacklist case. It is not what she needs. She has had the worst day and nothing has gone right. It is hard to believe there is any good in the world. Reddington had better have a good reason for dragging her over here. She wants him on his absolute best behaviour or else.
The front desk is staffed by a dull-eyed girl in a velour track suit.
"I'm looking for a Mr -" For a second Liz cannot remember Red's alias.
"He's upstairs," says the girl, jerking a thumb. "Seventh floor."
Liz climbs the stairs, as the elevator has a crooked look which does not inspire confidence. The seventh floor is even dingier than the first.
She opens the stairwell door and sees Dembe standing sentry outside. "Hey. Is he here?"
"Raymond is in number six," says Dembe. He gives her a funny look.
"What?" The next person to jerk her about and so help her she will -
"Do not upset him," Dembe says. "He is in a bad mood."
"What? Why?"
"I should not tell you."
Clearly he is going to, though, so she waits. And after a time in which Dembe's eyes go from side to side as if considering all the exits, he says, "Raymond's divorce came through."
He nods at Liz and goes past her into the stairs.
"Right." Divorce?
Liz walks slowly to number six, knocks, and is admitted by Red.
He is in shirt sleeves, rolled up, tie and vest still in place, collar loosened. The suit today is the colour of houses on some Mediterranean cliff, where the sunlight mellows limestone to gold.
The room is a surprise. It is bright and clean. The floor is marble tiled, with cream rugs. A white bathroom lurks through one door. And in front of the white four poster, a spotless cream sofa crouches, a plump creature of brocade and velvet.
Red says, "Hello Lizzie."
"You wanted to see me."
"Hmmm. Yes." But he just stares at her. She looks right back and sees weariness in his eyes, the lines like a tally of care on his forehead, his fingers drooping around his scotch tumbler.
"Are you ok," she asks. "Dembe said -"
"Ah, Dembe. I love him dearly but he does like to flap his mouth, bless his organically sourced cotton socks."
He gestures her to the couch and they sit, either end.
"A divorce?" she asks softly.
"Yes. I no longer enjoy the fruits of matrimony." He takes a sip of his drink. then abandons it on the side table.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I had no idea."
"Of course you didn't. Don't feel too sorry for me, Lizzie, my newly acquired ex wife was number eight."
"Eight!"
"I am the Elizabeth Taylor of crime."
"Oh my God."
She takes the drink he hands her, and they sit.
"So - what's the deal? Eight wives. What, are you trying to knock Henry the Eighth off his throne?"
"Henry the Eighth had six wives."
"I know! I'm asking, is all. I can't see you as the marrying type." Certainly not the serial marrying type, although she does not add this.
"Oh ,I just love weddings. The music, the flowers, the cake. Everyone happy and congratulating you. Don't you love weddings, Lizzie? A chance to celebrate some of the last good news on earth."
"Weddings are ok. But I don't feel the need to always be the bride."
"Well then that's where we differ. I am a vision in ivory tulle, you should see me toss a bouquet."
She laughs. He chuckles, and they clink glasses.
"So what did you want to talk about?" she asks after a while.
"What? Oh, nothing."
She frowns. "You called me just so we could hang out?"
He tilts his head side to side. Of course. He would never admit to a thing like that. How the hell did he get any woman, never mind eight of them, to walk down the aisle with him?
"Let's talk about something else," says Red. "Tell me about your day."
She swigs scotch. "Well. It was going ok until this guy I've been seeing on and off, ups and tells me he's married."
She was going for a laugh but Red is sharper than any tack and says at once, "Divorced. And I would characterise it as more on than off, wouldn't you?"
Ha. Outsmarted. But the silence which follows goes on so long it becomes awkward.
"We don't see each other, Red," says Liz. "We just work together." Is she really having this conversation with him?
"I was not free," he says, and yes, she is having this conversation, right here, right now, in a suspiciously luxurious hotel room buried in Hells Kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon.
"Red -"
"It's all right. I perfectly understand. You're soured on the whole marriage deal, I'm the perceived instrument of your life's destruction, it's all a huge mess. But hear me out. What I'm proposing is not some fantasy based on late night pinot grigio and the bridal channel. I'm suggesting an alliance founded in solid mutual respect and shared interests."
He is staring at her with strange intensity.
"We already have that," she says. "We partner together. It works. I know it does."
He blinks. "And I know this has the potential to be so much more. What do you say? Will you?"
He sets down his drink. With his customary easy grace, he slides from the couch and onto one knee on the cream carpet. He takes her hand.
She gapes at him.
"Elizabeth."
His slow, mesmerising voice. His eyes, blue, she has never seen how blue before. His fingers enclosing hers are warm and calloused, the hands of a man who can work as well as command.
"What are you doing, Red?"
He keeps eye contact with her, lifts her hand and presses her knuckle to his lips. It is not a gallant kiss. It is urgent, and intimate.
"Red -"
He smiles. Tucks a tendril of her hair back from her face. "You're exceptionally beautiful," he says. "But that's not the reason for this. You're clever, and strong, and boy have you got a mouth on you when somebody ticks you off. You're fearless in battle and fierce in defending what you love -"
"Red. What is this." His thumb is caressing the back of her hand, and that plus his frank gaze on her face sends an odd weakness right to her belly. Suddenly eight wives seems plausible. "What are you doing?"
He chuckles then, kisses her hand once more and straightens up. "Bringing a moment of levity to a terrible day. I hope."
He stands, Scotch in hand, looking down at her and laughing. "Oh Lizzie. Did you really think I was longing to be once more a bride?"
"No but -"
"I'm not married, or divorced," he says. "The life I lead does not lend itself to settling down."
"I guess not."
"How do you like my midtown hideaway? Since they redeveloped, the view is stunning." And he is smiling still. But as he wanders to the window he looks so sad.
Liz puts down her drink and stands. "Was this just a joke?" she says. "Bringing me here? Making me think you'd had some emotional trauma?"
He glances round. She can tell that his tranquil expression hides wariness. He has seen her in a foul temper before. "Yes," he says flatly. But lies are easy and truth is hard, and she knows which she has just witnessed.
She sighs and stands behind him at the window. Before he can speak she slips her arms around his waist. She rests her cheek on the cool silk of his vest and says, "Thank you."
He catches her hands at his midriff, holds them. She rubs her cheek against his back, feeling his solid warmth. He is a constant, of a kind. "Well." He doesn't seem to know how to respond.
For once has she actually silenced him? "And another thing," she says, "given I cannot remember the last time anyone so much as tried to make me laugh. The answer is yes."
Now he really is silenced. But not for long. He frees himself, turns and grasps her elbows. She can see his doubt - is she returning the favour with a pseudo proposition? But then, where does fakery end and honesty begin? "You're sure," he says.
"Yes." And weirdly, she is.
"Well then."
They stare at each other. Beyond the window, New York is oblivious.
Liz says, "Aren't you going to -"
"Oh yes," says Red, and kisses her.