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Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}} | | Authors: ' |
Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}]]
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Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Fish | Fish}}]]
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}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}
A mile away from the frenetic neon bustle of the Las Vegas Strip is a hotel of modest means and unimpressive décor. Unlike its competitors — Excalibur, Caesar's Palace, Luxor — it has no need for outré architecture or boastful larger-than-life themes of legend, wealth or immortality. No bold display advertises its slot machine percentages, no staged spectacle of dancing girls lures customers to its rooms. This demure hotel existed in the midst of Sin City, and despite skyrocketing property values it was never razed to make room for anything newer, grander, or more profitable. It simply continued.
Once it had served its function as a destination for newlyweds and honeymooners. The hotel had previously given visitors the impression of living inside a giant, gaudy, ten-story Valentine's Day card: pink and white and red, festooned with images of cherubim, ribbons, hearts, and lace. Of its two hundred guest rooms, sixty were honeymoon suites; of its twenty bungalows, one was fashioned into the shape of a chapel. Couples arrived in Las Vegas prepared to tie the knot and, by the grace of Clark County's expedited marriage license program, the couples could be wed with a minimum of paperwork and delay.
A profitable decade passed, then the profits peaked. Traffic fell for several consecutive years, possibly due to the ever-increasing gravitational power of the nearby Strip. It was widely thought that the Honeymoon Hotel could not survive much longer on its own, and its staff of over a hundred would be let go. Some of the staff suggested that the hotel had been doomed by its poor location. Others with more tenure hinted that there was a murdered bride and groom that haunted the halls. It may have been its own institutional inertia that hurt the hotel the most: ten-year-old décor positively antique by Las Vegas standards, tired theme, anemic gaming tables, uninspired advertising.
At last, the Honeymoon Hotel was sold to new business interests. After extensive consultation it became clear that its two artificial lakes and one indoor-outdoor swimming pool would be costly to remove. The landlord chose instead to remodel its outdated interior design with its eye-searing pinks and reds. He was from Montana, and he enjoyed his time in the warmth of Nevada, so he chose a tropical theme — pedestrian in many ways, but so was he: stolid, unimaginative, businesslike, keen on profit and efficiency, short on vision. The romantic wallpaper was painted over in more modern teal and sand and mango; hearts and ribbons and cherubim were removed and replaced with palm trees, seashells, and hula girls. The two artificial lakes, one on each side of the hotel, were lined with palm trees. By the indoor-outdoor pool a thatched-roof cabana bar was erected. The chapel, which commanded the best view of the larger of the two lakes, was converted to office space for the landlord. It was renamed The Lakes Hotel, and couples no longer flocked to its rooms to become united in happy matrimony.
Deep down below layers of teal and mango paint, behind a tropical facade, the hotel was never truly remodeled. The walls remembered the images of Cupid's arrows, the rooms remembered the long-ago echoes of the wicked laughter of newly minted brides. If hotels could speak, this one might suggest that it missed the old days.
A♠ J♦
At ten minutes before six in the morning, Elliott Ketner woke to the insistent sound of knocking at his door. He stared for a moment at the glowing indigo digits of the clock-radio at his bedside without comprehending them, still thick-headed with sleep. Elliott had gone off-shift from the bar at three. Six o'clock was far too early to be awake.
It slowly registered that he had heard knocking. To the darkened, silent room he called out, “Yes?”
“Elliott, it's you,” said a voice he thought he recognized. “Thank God. You sleep hard, boy! Can I open up?”
Open up? Elliott couldn't remember at this hour who might sound so familiar and yet ask permission. “Yeah, sure,” he said, kicking away the blankets and pushing himself clumsily into an upright position. “Come on in.”
The door creaked open. Elliott looked stupidly at the feminine silhouette framed against the bright hall light, and recalled the sound of the voice. “Brett?” he asked, surprised, as he fumbled for the corner of a discarded blanket to cover his midsection. “Is that you?”
The woman in the doorway seemed to glance down at herself. “Yeah,” she drawled. “Last I looked.”
“What's up? Why so early?” Elliott wanted to know. “Something wrong.”
Her expression could not be read against the light, but she put a hand on her hip and threw a lilt of sarcasm into her tone. “No, nothing. You know Jeremy?”
“At the bar? Yeah.” Elliott rubbed his eyes. “He works afternoons.”
“Not any more,” Brett said. “It's all you now, boy.”
In the dark, Elliott smiled through a yawn. “Jeremy's gone? Good for him. He meet somebody?”
The shadow nodded.
“Cute?”
“I didn't see,” the shadow said. “But Ed tells me you're working his shifts, now. Set your alarm. You start at noon.”
“So why'd you wake me up at six?”
“I'm switching to the front desk,” Brett said. “Reception.”
“Congratulations.”
“And you're training me.”
“Oh.” There wasn't much to say to that. Turnover was both slow and sudden at The Lakes Hotel, and it meant every member of the staff had to be prepared to train the others at any time. “What time do you start?”
“As soon as you get dressed,” the shadow said shortly. “Come on, get showered. I don't want you to make me late.”
A♥ 7♥ J♦ A♠ Q♣
Brett Noble was a tiny, slender Japanese woman of about thirty years of age: intelligent, quick-witted, and reserved, with a healthy interest in sex. Brett always ate properly, focusing on vegetables and low-fat, low-carb meals in the Lakes Restaurant. Elliott had seen her on many mornings swimming laps in the indoor-outdoor pool. For her first day at the reception desk, she wore a practical and stylish yellow pencil skirt and a silky floral blouse. She really was lovely, Elliott admitted. He had known her now for six months, and he was growing rather fond of her. It was such a shame that they were co-workers. A relationship would never work between them.
By nine in the morning, Brett was beginning to understand the responsibilities of her new position. She was an adept learner, and she had been at the Lakes Hotel for six months, so the duties weren't entirely unfamiliar. Elliott actually found himself admiring her as she stood behind the counter in the lobby, her lips pursed and her brow creased. She studied the weekend reservations with a charming expression of intense thought, tucking dark stray hairs behind one ear absently.
When the lesbian couple came into the lobby at quarter after nine, Elliott could see them checking her out. The two women gave him a single, dismissive look, then returned their attention to Brett, who gave them her best smile and greeted them with a cheery “Hi! Welcome to The Lakes Hotel. How can I help you?”
The older of the women, a tall mixed-race black woman with closely cropped hair, pulled a wallet out of her pocket on a long metal chain while her partner brought the baggage to the counter. She was probably forty, with an unattractive asymmetry of freckles, and wore no makeup. Elliott had little impression of the shape of her body, because she wore a burnt orange crew-neck shirt beneath a shapelessly severe sports jacket. She slipped out her identification. “I'm Maris Barnhardt,” she said, her voice a low velvet purr. “I have reservations here that were placed online through Peak Performance Technical. Here is the printout,” she added, producing a document from her inside pocket folded precisely into thirds.
“Thank you, Ms. Barnhardt,” Brett said, taking the document and examining the reservation computer. “I have your reservation here for Room 740, single occupancy. Will your friend be needing a second room?”
“No, we'll stay in the same room,” Maris responded with a touch of impatience. “She's my partner.”
Brett didn't bat an eyelash. “The single-occupancy rooms are somewhat small, Ms. Barnhardt,” she said delicately. “Would you like to upgrade your room to a double?”
The other woman at the counter bristled. “Are you suggesting I'm fat?” she demanded.
Elliott could see that the honest answer would not do: she was indeed overweight, a round-faced Chinese woman no more than thirty, with short, spiked hair and a collection of piercings. The tattoo of a fish swirling in a spiral could be seen on the bare skin of her meaty upper arm.
“No, ma'am,” Brett said, and she artfully lowered her voice. “Between you and me, those beds are really tiny. It's a single. You and she wouldn't be very comfortable in one of them together.”
The Chinese woman chewed on that response, looking over Brett with some distaste. Brett was the model of elegant Asian beauty, and this woman was everything Brett was not: pale, thick-bodied, dressed unflatteringly. Unable to find a way to object, the woman simply harumphed to her partner. “What do you think? Will the company spring for an upgrade?”
“Of course they will, Honor,” the black woman replied blandly. “I'll see that they do.”
“And if they don't?”
She turned to her partner. “Peak Performance won't be around much longer to complain about it, will they? I don't think the company is going to last the year. We're doing our own expense reports. Nobody is going to be paying attention to the cost of a hotel room. The only reason they're still sending me to this seminar is that they already paid the registration fees up front.” Maris smiled faintly. “And as long as they're paying, I'm going.”
“Might as well make the most of it,” Elliott said lightly, but the two women ignored him.
“I can upgrade you to a lakeside bungalow for another hundred and twenty dollars,” Brett announced, tapping at the computer, “Or I can also get you into a double-occupancy room for fifty.”
“No, you can't,” Maris said calmly.
“I'm sorry?” Brett asked.
“I'm quite sure I just heard you say there weren't any doubles,” the black woman said, unruffled. “A bungalow will just have to do, won't it, Honor?”
Her partner grinned a nicotine grin. “We'll just have to make do,” Honor said, and glanced at Brett. “Double bed?”
“King size,” Brett assured them, and handed across a digitally encoded credit-card key. “You're in B12. Go out the doors you came in, turn left and go around the building. When you cross the footbridge you'll be at B10, so just keep on going until you hit B12.”
“Or you might take a brochure,” Elliott added, offering one. “It's got a map, the history of the hotel, the restaurant hours, and the number for room service.”
Maris Barnhardt took the brochure from Elliott with a perfunctory thanks, and thanked Brett more effusively for her help.
“Well,” Elliott said after the two women had left with their luggage in tow. “They're going to be interesting. They hardly even knew I was here.”
“They must not like men very much,” Brett said smugly.
“Well,” Elliott said with a shrug, “I hope they're flexible on that.”
Business was slow for a Thursday. Brett listened carefully as Elliott explained everything that came to mind about working the reception counter. It had been months since he had worked at this position. In the intervening time, Elliott had been promoted into positions with more guest exposure, as the Hotel management called it. Brett had little trouble picking up on the basics, although at times she seemed pensive and distracted.
“Still taking it all in?” Elliott asked her gently at one point.
Brett blew out an impatient breath. “I had a date this afternoon. I had to cancel.”
“Cute?”
She sighed. “Yeah. I don't think it would've worked out, but...” Brett trailed off, lost in thought for a moment, then stabbed viciously at the registration computer. “Damn it, this just pisses me off, you know? One of these days I'm going to just quit. Just walk out of this job and never look back.”
“And leave all this behind?” Elliot said dryly.
Brett gave him a tired smile. “Yeah. There's nothing keeping me here. Six months, down the drain. You've been here a year? I don't know how you do it.”
Elliott put a hand on her arm, and found she was shaking silently. “One more weekend,” he suggested.
She looked at him, a question in her gaze. “Is that how you do it? One weekend at a time?”
“No,” Elliott said, and shrugged again. “To tell you the truth, I—”
The electronic bell rang as the front door opened. Elliott saw an frail old woman of at least seventy struggle to handle the door, a battered blue suitcase wheeling behind her, and a cane. She moved with the slow precision common to the elderly and the injured, as if one leg, or one hip, caused her difficulty. Her faded blue sun dress flapped around her scrawny legs in the Nevada wind.
“Let me help you,” Elliott offered immediately, stepping around the counter.
As he took both the door and suitcase in hand, the old woman offered him a brittle smile. “That's nice of you. What's your name? Are you the bellhop?”
“Actually, I'm the bartender, miss,” Elliott said, letting the pneumatic door close behind her. “My name is Elliott.”
“I'm Mrs. Abrams,” she said.
—and there was a distant little twinkle in her blue eyes, as if she were hoping that would be enough. As if she secretly wanted Elliott to fill in the missing information. He took in her face: lined, yes, but shaped well, and somehow familiar.
Then it dawned on him. “Abrams?” Elliott asked. “As in Ursula Abrams?”
The twinkle returned to her eye, and she smiled. “I'm surprised you recognized me, Elliott. And pleased.”
“Of course I recognized you,” he said, grinning broadly. “You're one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood history!”
“Not any more, dear,” Ursula sighed. “But thank you anyway.”
“Brett, do you know who this is?” Elliott asked the reception clerk excitedly. “This is Ursula Abrams. She was a huge Hollywood star during the 1950s. Remember the movie The Sultan's Favorite Wife? This is that actress!”
“Really?” Brett asked with minimum polite interest.
“She was making movies about the same time as Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield,” Elliott went on, bringing the luggage to the counter. “She did this great movie with Tony Curtis, what was it? Get Along Joe.”
“Jayne Mansfield,” Brett said, frowning. “Was she the one with the big—” She made two cupping gestures over her own chest. “Whatever happened to her?”
Ursula spoke up in a tremulous voice, emphasizing her recollection with a gnarled finger. “Automobile accident. She was killed. Nineteen sixty-seven. Two years before my accident. And five years after Marilyn.”
Elliott looked at the aging starlet in sudden realization. “Is that why you never made any movies after that?”
Her smile was melancholy. “I made movies after that, dear, but nobody saw them. I was too old, then. Nearly forty I was, when I could walk again.” She twisted her cane on the hotel's seashell carpet. “The world cared about dead Marilyn and dead Jayne more than old living Ursula with a broken leg and a funny walk. I still have the scars on my hip.” She sighed again. “And of course by then it was Raquel Welch. She was more your time,” she added to Elliott with a wink.
He smiled, and didn't mention that Raquel stopped being a sex symbol the year he had been born. What he said was, “She never had your screen presence.”
“Oh!” Ursula said, delighted, and brushed away his compliment. “I didn't do that much. I had a good run for my time.”
“What have you been working on lately?” Elliott asked, as Brett found Ursula's reservations in the computer.
“Just blowing around this town like an old ghost,” she said wryly. “That's what you get when you waste your youth on movies. You end up old like me, without any kids to spoil.”
Elliott nodded. “Well, come visit me in the bar in the afternoon and evening. We'll talk about movies, if you like.”
Ursula took his wrist in her hand warmly. “I would like that.”
The two hotel employees watched as Ursula Abrams left the lobby in the company of one of the new bellhops, Kelly or Kenny or whatever his name was.
“Well, Brett,” Elliott said expansively, “it's time I got ready for work. Good luck here. I think you've got the hang of it.”
Brett shrewdly watched her friend's gaze return back to the hallway, where Kenny or Kelly was leading their new guest to her room. She nodded in that direction. “Think it's her?”
Elliott shrugged. “You never know in this place.”
A♠ 4♦ 2♠ 6♦
The indoor bar at the Lakes Hotel was named, somewhat unimaginatively, the Sand Bar. It followed the same tropical theme that the new owner — the staff considered him the new owner although he had already been here seven years — had dictated. The walls were painted in vivid sea-green and coral, festooned with marine life both sculpted and painted. Two life-size brass mermaids flanked the entrance. A second bar had been added in the cabana outdoors to service the guests at poolside, but the owner, having exhausted his creativity, neglected to name it.
Elliott had worked the bar for a few months now, having recently received his bar tending license. It was an excellent place to meet people, to see whether they were enjoying themselves, and to find out which rooms the cute ones were staying in.
On a Thursday afternoon, the bar was empty. Only the most die-hard of regulars were here. The blue LEDs on the jukebox flickered unseen as it played Alannah Myles quietly to itself.
One of his regulars brushed aside the beaded curtain in the doorway and entered the bar. He was an older black gentlemen named Hyatt, and he walked with a certain arthritic stiffness, tapping his fingers against his thigh to music in his head.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hyatt,” Elliott called to him. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”
“You got anything sour?” Hyatt asked, slipping onto a barstool. “I got the taste for something lemony.”
“Gin and tonic?”
Hyatt made a face, rubbing the white stubbles on his chin. “No, I reckon I had one too many o' them in my life. B'sides, gin and tonic always makes me lose bad at the craps table.”
“Vodka Collins?”
He shook his head. “Don't much care for vodka. Maybe something with lime, that'd be good.”
“Lime, and sour,” Elliott mused.
“Something different,” Hyatt said. “I gotta do somethin' to change my luck.”
“How about a Chocolate Soldier?”
Hyatt chuckled. “Sounds like me. Chocolate Soldier. What's in it?”
“How's gin, vermouth, and lime juice strike you?”
Hyatt tapped the counter with one decisive finger. “That's the stuff right there. Shoot me one of those.”
Elliott proceeded to mix the drink into a shaker, juicing half a lime industriously. Hyatt jostled his arm.
“You didn't ask for my ID,” he said, grinning. “You breakin' the law.”
“You're a regular, Mr. Hyatt,” Elliott said mildly. “We all know you.”
“If I was still on the force I'd be bringing your ass in,” Hyatt said, amused. He waved a hand magnanimously. “I won't bust you this time. But I figured you'd wanna see.”
“See what?”
Hyatt slapped something flat down upon the bar with a triumphant smack, and gave Elliott an impish smile. “You don't wanna see my room number?”
“Your room number?” Elliott said, and beamed. “You're staying here?”
“Just this weekend,” Hyatt said. “I won't be staying here regular. I been living with my daughter and her husband just down the way. Usually I just stop here for a drink on my way down to the casino.”
And to see if our games are any luckier than the ones at the Excalibur, Elliott thought. But handed Hyatt his drink and didn't say it.
“Well, my daughter got a big ol' baby shower this weekend, so she kick the old man out,” Hyatt said, taking his highball glass and swirling the drink. “Gettin' to be where it looks like I'm in the way. She says no, but I can tell. They're kids, they gotta have some time to their self.”
“So why don't I put this on your room tab, Mr. Hyatt?” Elliott said with a smile.
“You call me Russell,” Hyatt said, offering his hand.
Elliott gave his hand a brisk, professional shake. Russell Hyatt had big hands, strong and calloused, evidently from a life of hard work.
“So you're an ex-cop?” Elliott asked, leaning against the bar. There were no other patrons, and drink service to the casino was fairly light. All the prep had been done for the evening, and there was nothing left to do.
“Twenty years,” Hyatt nodded. “Six in Chicago, ten in N'Orleans, and four here in Vegas. That's how I ended up with this stiff neck,” he added, taking a swig of his drink.
Thinking of Ursula Abrams, Elliott said, “Did you have an accident in your patrol car?”
“Huh-uh,” Hyatt said. “Drivin' along, I kept seeing damn fine women on every corner. Bad enough in N'Orleans during Mardi Gras they got them girls who don't wear nothing but beads, but here there's enough pretty women to give a man whiplash.” He chuckled to himself.
“What kind of work did you do for the force?”
“Mostly vice,” Hyatt said with a toothy grin. “And mostly vice on my time off, too. A man's gotta have a little relaxation time, you know what?”
“I do know,” Elliott said with a faint smile.
A cocktail waitress swept up to the bar wearing an extremely full bikini top and a floral wrap slung around her hips. She had dusky Polynesian skin, shoulder-length black hair with a hibiscus in it, and not an ounce of fat anywhere except the two obvious locations up front. “Hey, El,” she said, laying aside her tray and propping her elbows on the bar. “Can you make a Sex on the Beach with pineapple for me?”
“That's a great opening line, Dee Dee,” Elliott said dryly.
She smacked the bar with one tiny palm, causing some delightful jiggles, and gave an exasperated laugh. “Come on, I'm serious. Special order.”
Elliott reached for the peach schnapps, noting the way Hyatt's eyes gravitated to the way she bounced in her top when she had hit the bar. His neck didn't seem to hurt him all that much, did it? Elliott mixed the drink in a shaker and poured it into a highball glass. “There you go, Dee Dee.”
She laughed again, rolling her eyes. “I told you not to call me that,” she called over her shoulder as she left the bar, the drink perched on her tray. Hyatt watched her go, his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
“Whiplash?” Elliott asked with a smirk.
“Yeah, I'm telling you,” Hyatt said. “Whoooee. Damn. Is she new?”
“She's been here a while. She just started working this shift,” Elliott said blandly, rinsing out his shaker. The jukebox switched over from Alannah Myles to Everclear.
“Why d'you call her Dee Dee?”
“Isn't it obvious?” Elliott said, amused. “Double Dee. Her name is really Deanne,” he added.
“See, that's how come I had to quit,” Hyatt said, tossing a thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “All them girls out on the street. Kinda hard to watch the road.”
“Yes, it can be distracting,” Elliott asked in a careful tone. “I hope nothing happened.”
Hyatt took quite some time assembling an answer for that, but before he had a chance to speak they were interrupted again. A new patron had entered the Sand Bar, one unfamiliar to Elliott: white male, medium height, clean-shaven. Dark hair was slicked back from his forehead with some kind of styling gel. The newcomer wore a neutral gray jacket over a white tee, khaki Dockers, and brown work boots, and he appeared to be scanning the bar as if looking for something.
“Can I help you, sir?” Elliott called.
The newcomer approached the bar and pulled out his wallet without being asked. He flipped it open to show his license, which contained a poor but passable picture. Elliott had time to glimpse the birthdate and name — Garvin Danbury — before he flipped it closed again and returned it to his pocket. “Martini on the rocks,” Dabney said. “No gin.”
“On the rocks?” Hyatt asked. “That ain't no way to drink a martini.”
“My mana didn't raise me right,” Danbury said, and flashed a charismatic smile. The smile stayed for a moment, touching every part of his face except the eyes, and then flickered off again, as if a circuit had been cut.
“Vermouth, on the rocks,” Elliott said, pushing a cocktail napkin across the bar and pulling out a chilled martini glass from the mini fridge.
“You in town for the weekend?” Hyatt asked, looking the man over.
Danbury seemed to consider the question. “Yes,” he replied after a pause. “I'm here for a business conference. I fly out Sunday night.”
“Which conference?” Elliott asked, more to make conversation than from curiosity. “Management concepts seminar?”
Again, the pause; again, the charismatic smile flickered on. “Vacuum cleaners,” Danbury said. He scooped up the cocktail napkin before Elliott could deposit the glass there, and took the glass in his napkined hand. The smile flickered off again. “That's what I do. I sell vacuum cleaners.”
“It must be interesting,” Elliott offered.
Danbury didn't answer. He hoisted the martini. “I'll be back,” he said. “I fly out Sunday.”
“Have fun at your conference,” Elliott called to him as he left.
Hyatt also watched him go, then turned back to the bartender with a grunt.
Elliott wiped down the bar. Danbury's chilled glass had left a moisture ring. “Something bothering you?”
“Old habits die hard,” Hyatt said, lost in thought. “Something wrong with that guy.”
“People do drink vermouth straight up,” Elliott countered. “Not very often, I admit.”
Hyatt shook his head and took a drink. “Mmm, no, not that. You see them boots he had on? Hiking boots. Those weren't salesman shoes.”
“He can wear any kind of shoes he wants on his own time.”
“Maybe. And he didn't offer a card. Never met a salesman yet who wasn't trying to get me to take one of his cards. Vacuum cleaners, my ass.” Hyatt drummed his glass with his fingers. “And the way he had the glass in his hand. With a napkin. Like he didn't want fingerprints on it.”
Elliott shrugged. “What difference does that make? He showed me ID. We know who he is. He had to leave a credit card number in order to get a room.”
“Didn't show it for very long,” Hyatt objected. “And he didn't wait for you to ask. Huh.”
“I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Hyatt,” Elliott assured him. “Maybe he's hiding something, and maybe he isn't. I'm sure the Hotel is very safe.”
Hyatt took another pull at his cocktail, and then grinned ruefully. “Hell, you're probably right. Old habits die hard.”
to be continued 
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to be continued 
