At six o'clock on Friday morning, Brett was in the tiled guest shower by the indoor-outdoor pool. This was not her usual time to swim, but since having switched to the eight-to-four shift, it was the best time of day for it. None of the hotel guests would be using the pool at this hour. While the pool was heated, the air was still chilly. Exercise would make it seem warmer.
At six o'clock on Friday morning, Brett was in the tiled guest shower by the indoor-outdoor pool. This was not her usual time to swim, but since having switched to the eight-to-four shift, it was the best time of day for it. None of the hotel guests would be using the pool at this hour. While the pool was heated, the air was still chilly. Exercise would make it seem warmer.
Line 482:
Line 482:
“To your left,” Brett said. “Have a pleasant stay.”
“To your left,” Brett said. “Have a pleasant stay.”
The remainder of the day passed in a dreary, foot-aching blur. A slow but steady stream of guests checked into the Lakes Hotel. Several conferences and seminars and tradeshows were being held that weekend. A number of casinos advertised low-airfare specials for Friday-morning flights. There was also at least one family reunion, according to a black man who checked in with two less-black teenagers who must have been his son and daughter and also with a young white teenager — what kind of family reunion ''that'' would be, Brett didn't want to speculate. Perhaps the white kid was the daughter's boyfriend.
How much more of this could Brett take? Tomorrow would be the same: travelers, irritated by their long flights or long drives, would stand at the counter making demands. Most of the men would look at her as if she were a side of meat, trying to peer through her silk blouse to see if she was wearing a bra. Most of the women looked as if they were grading her choice of clothing. A handful of the guests, male and female, looked in trepidation at her Japanese features, and appeared pleasantly stunned that she spoke comprehensible and unaccented English.
Perhaps, she thought, it was time to leave the Hotel. She had been here six months now, six months without a sign of reprieve.
But near the end of her shift, three guests arrived that put all of that out of her mind: three women she had known from a past life, from before the Hotel.
“Brett! My God, it's you!”
That was Tara Addison, coming into the lobby at fifteen minutes of four: thirty, tending toward plump, dark-haired and blue-eyed, her enthusiastic charisma tinged with every new bride's fear that she wouldn't fit into the dress. Tara wore large, dark sunglasses and a coy sun hat, and a flowing pink dress. She dropped her suitcases and crossed the carpet in a rush to exchange embraces with Brett over the counter.
“Tara!” Brett smiled. “Sister, you made my day. What are you doing here?”
“We're staying the weekend!” she said brightly. “We've come to visit you.”
“Yes,” Brett said, “but why ''here''? You know what happened last time!”
“Exactly!” Tara said. “I talked it over with the girls — you know, all of us who were bridesmaids at Cody's wedding? And we decided that we absolutely had to stay here for one weekend right before my wedding.” She waved vaguely toward the door. “The other girls are fighting over who gets to pay the airport shuttle.”
“But—” Brett didn't quite know what to say. “I didn't see your names in the reservation computer.”
Tara ducked her head sheepishly, and gave an anything-but-shy grin. “We cheated. I had us all use different names. I went by my middle name, and my mom's maiden name. Joy Benson.”
“Look at you, being all secret agent,” Brett said, and looked Tara over. “What's the dark glasses and the hat for? And pink. You ''hate'' pink.”
“I know, it makes my face look red,” Tara replied happily. “Did you recognize me?”
“Xavier?” Brett asked blankly. “Why, is he coming here tonight too?”
“Shhh!” Tara said, and giggled. “It's his bachelor party tonight.”
“And they're having it here?” Brett asked, shocked. “Tara—”
Tara waved away Brett's objections airily. “It'll work out, Brett. We wanted them to have it here. In fact, we specifically prohibited Frank from staying here.”
Brett nodded. Frank was Xavier's best man, and the most reliable of all the groomsmen: when you told him he couldn't do something, you knew for certain he would move heaven and earth to defy you. “It sounds like Frank.”
“Cody and Denise are deliriously happy,” Tara said, changing the subject. “Denise is already pregnant.”
“That must come as a surprise to her,” Brett said nastily.
“Don't laugh,” Tara said. “It might have been you!”
“I know it,” Brett sighed. “And to think I was one day away from marrying her myself.”
Tara's expression turned sober. “It wouldn't have worked. You and Cody would never have made it. A lot of us knew you just weren't right for each other.”
“Apparently not,” Brett said. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“What was there to say?” Tara asked simply. “You can't talk someone out of being in love.”
Brett turned her attention to the computer, stung. “Fine, Tara. Go ahead and give me the speech again about how it's all for the best. It's still hard to not feel betrayed. I came here for the wedding rehearsal expecting to get married to Cody, and what happens? This damned Hotel decides that Cody would be happier getting married to my ''best man''.”
“Denise isn't a best man any more,” Tara said quietly. “She's a pretty good woman, though. And she and Cody are happy.”
“Does Cody make a better man than I did?” Brett asked, a bitter edge to her voice.
Tara shrugged. “They're happy. What else can you want for them?”
Brett looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Nothing, I guess. I do want them to be happy. I just don't understand why it had to come at my expense.”
“Jealous?” Brett laughed bitterly. “Jealous of me? Tara, I got transformed into a woman, I'm stuck here working at this hotel. My whole life got wiped out and rewritten.”
“Yes, jealous,” Tara said, raising her voice. “Brett, it may take a little bit of time, but the Hotel is going to set you up with your perfect match. The best possible relationship that it can, ever. Something that lasts. Do you know how ''hard'' it is for the rest of us, trying to find someone we can be happy with for a little while? Trying to find somebody you can love and trust? This is going to be my third marriage already,” Tara went on. “My ''third''. That means I screwed up twice. You, you'll get the perfect man just by ''being'' here.”
“Or woman.”
“Right. Or woman. I don't know how the Hotel can do it — change people — frankly, I don't care,” Tara said. “But it ''knows''. It knows if relationships are right.”
Light dawned, and Brett began to smile. “Ah, so ''that's'' why you're here incognito. You managed to get your fiancé checked into the hotel for his bachelor party, and you're secretly going to check into a room yourself. If this is the relationship that's meant to be...”
“Then I'll know,” Tara finished uneasily. “And if it's not, I'll know that too.”
“Big risk.”
Tara smiled. “Maybe. What's the worst that can happen?”
The door dinged again, and two other women entered the lobby. One of them Brett recognized: Carmen Griffith, a raven-haired Latina her own age whose once-lush beauty had been depleted by years of tanning beds and marital stress. Her brow was beginning to show an unhappy crease, and her mouth now seemed to be turned permanently down. Carmen had on a simple black tank top and jeans and had not, Brett observed, bothered with makeup. In her hand was a cardboard cup of coffee with the Hard Rock Café logo on the side.
“We went back to the place across the street to see if that cute guy still worked there,” Carmen explained, showing her cup. “But he wasn't in.”
=={{Separator|r|'''to be continued'''}}==
=={{Separator|r|'''to be continued'''}}==
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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 mama 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 plain,” 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.”
By seven o'clock, Hyatt had moved on — to the craps table, then to video blackjack, then to the nickel slots, if Elliott was any judge of the man's history. Russell Hyatt liked to claim that he only stopped by the Lakes Hotel on his way to somewhere else, but ultimately spent more time here than he would probably care to admit. Not that the machines at the Lakes Hotel offered any better payout than the casinos down the street, but the girls here were certainly prettier. Much prettier, Elliott mused, thinking of Dee Dee.
Occasionally Dee Dee, or one of the other cocktail waitresses on shift, would return and ask for a drink on Hyatt's behalf: something unusual, something salty — something to change Hyatt's luck, not that any drink ever would. Elliott kept a careful mental list of the drinks he had prepared for him, and hoped that this weekend, Hyatt's luck would turn.
The evening was busier than the afternoon. Gambling was a twenty-four-hour pastime for many, but only the most dedicated drinkers started before the five o'clock work whistle. Ursula Abrams never materialized, but soon Elliott was too caught up in his bartending to spare much thought for her.
At about eight, a woman slipped into the Sand Bar and headed straight for a bar stool, positioning her room key-card protectively in front of her. She was about forty, and blonde, but her face was unmade and prematurely lined, her expression hollow and haunted. There was a lingering trace of a bruise around her left eye.
Elliott bustled his way over to where she sat. “Room 316,” he noted, looking at her key-card. “What can I get for you, miss?”
She smiled wistfully at the word. “I haven't been called miss for a long time.”
“Then it's time someone did,” Elliott quipped. “What can I get for you, miss?”
The woman stared at the racks of bottles behind the bar, casting her eye over the bewildering variety. “I don't know,” she said. “What are people drinking these days?”
“The martini has come back into style,” he suggested.
“Has it? That's nice.” She bit her lip. “My husband doesn't like me to drink.”
Elliott again noted the bruise near her left eye, and decided he'd mention it. “I can see that,” he said. “But there's nothing wrong with a drink now and then, in moderation.”
She laughed bitterly, and touched the spot. “Moderation is not a word my husband is familiar with. He would be absolutely horrified to find I was here in a bar with drinking and gambling.”
“I won't tell, I promise,” Elliott said. “What would you like?”
“I'll have a martini,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. “Do they still come with olives?”
“If you like.”
“I don't like,” she countered, with a shy grin. “I can't stand olives. But I'm going to have one anyway.”
“Good girl, that'll show him,” Elliott said, returning the smile.
“And nobody's called me girl in a long time, either,” she added, watching Elliott pour gin and vermouth into the glass.
“I can't just call you Room 316,” he said as he stirred.
“Then call me Nadine. Nadine Oba.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, and introduced himself. “Are you staying for the weekend, Nadine Oba?”
“As long as it takes,” she said, and sighed. “I'll probably go back Sunday. I just need to get away from him for a while. He'll worry if he sees I'm not there.”
The lesbian couple from earlier in the morning came into the bar, and seated themselves in a booth far from the door, eyeing the scantily-clad cocktail waitress. After serving them, and several more customers, Elliott made his way back over to the bar to check up on Nadine. She was biting into the gin-soaked olive and making a face.
“How was your martini, Nadine Oba?” he asked her with a smile.
“Perfect,” she said, pushing the empty glass back toward him. “Even the olive.”
“Another?”
“Please.”
She watched as he mixed a second martini for her. “Oba,” Elliott mused aloud. “Japanese name?”
Nadine nodded, brushing hair from her face. “He's very traditional. Hard-working.”
“And he doesn't want you to drink. Here you are, one martini.”
“Thank you. He hates the very thought,” Nadine said, dipping a finger into the gin and tasting it. “Can you imagine that? It doesn't stop him from drinking, of course, oh no.” Once more the bitter laugh surfaced, possibly emboldened by alcohol. “He drinks like a sailor. Is that the right word? What is it that people drink like?”
“Most people say curses like a sailor,” Elliott said, “and drinks like a fish.”
“Well, he does both,” Nadine said airily, and took a ladylike sip. “So I'll say he drinks like a sailor.”
“If you say so,” Elliott grinned.
“I do say. He's not here.” She took another finger-taste of her martini as the thought settled in. “He's not here. What do I care what he thinks?”
Dee Dee came up alongside her and leaned over the bar on her elbows again, nearly spilling out of her bikini top. “Mr. Hyatt wants a Coke,” she announced. “I think he's about done for the night.”
“Good call,” Elliott said, and pulled the Coca-Cola nozzle out on its flexible tube and filled a drink. “Coke is usually his last drink of the day.”
Nadine's sidelong look of mild, jealous disapproval at Dee Dee's cleavage waterfall dissipated when she saw Elliott fill the glass with cola. “That's clever! What's that?”
“It's a bar gun,” he said, showing it to her. “They're very handy. There's Coke, soda water, and plain water, on these buttons here.”
“Aren't they cool?” Dee Dee asked, beaming. “I totally want one.”
Nadine's reservation seemed to melt. She didn't appear to want to like Dee Dee — or perhaps her husband didn't approve of her having friends. But Nadine offered her up a tentative smile nevertheless. “I don't think Yasuo would let me.”
“If he's the one who let you have that bruise,” Dee Dee said, not unsympathetically, “then maybe you ought to think about leaving him behind.”
“I could never do that,” the woman mumbled. “He needs me.”
Dee Dee rolled her eyes at Elliott and left the Sand Bar, cola in hand. Nadine turned to Elliott, almost worried. “That's right, isn't it? He does need me.”
“Perhaps,” Elliott said slowly, picking his words, “perhaps he needs you a lot more than you need him.”
“I just don't know,” Nadine fretted. She picked up her second martini and took her first drink from it. “I don't know if I can leave him.”
Elliott smiled at her. “Miss, I hope you get the chance to find out.”
9♥ J♦ J♠ 7♦ 10♠
At six o'clock on Friday morning, Brett was in the tiled guest shower by the indoor-outdoor pool. This was not her usual time to swim, but since having switched to the eight-to-four shift, it was the best time of day for it. None of the hotel guests would be using the pool at this hour. While the pool was heated, the air was still chilly. Exercise would make it seem warmer.
Her morning laps in the pool represented a contract she had made with herself: exercise and stay fit, keep her body trim, come what may. Working at the hotel had her up and down at all hours, covering for other employees: one day serving food as a waitress, the next day helping to re-paint a hallway. The hotel's maxim was constant change, and Brett's routine in the midst of chaos comforted her.
She swam several times across the outdoor half of the pool and back, watching and listening as the hotel staff in the cabana bar prepared for the day: slicing lemon and lime garnishes, stocking the shelves behind the bar, throwing out empties. Her long hair trailed behind in her wake.
It's going to take forever to dry, she thought idly. Tomorrow I'd better get up earlier.
Brett climbed out of the pool and wrapped one of the old-style hotel towels around her body. She was tiny and the towel huge; it completely covered her yellow one-piece swimsuit from shoulder to thigh. Through vacant hallways, she padded back to her room in yellow flip-flop sandals.
With the hair dryer stretched to the furthest extent of the cord, Brett stood at her closet, head tilted to one side to let her hair hang in the warm air of the dryer. She wore the bored and befuddled look of someone who had absolutely no idea what to wear.
Eventually she chose a hip-hugging miniskirt in a floral-pattern orange, and a plain while silk blouse. She fished around in the closet until she came up with matching orange flats. For several long minutes she stared at her face in the mirror, trying to decide whether it was worth the time to wear makeup. In the end she sighed and did the minimum she felt she needed: foundation, eyeliner, blush, lipstick. She pinned back her still-damp tresses with a butterfly clip and studied the result.
Brett sighed again, and looked sadly at her own reflection. “What did I do wrong?”
Business at the hotel's front desk that morning was brisk, much busier than yesterday. Of course, it was a Friday; people were taking an extra day off to make it a long weekend, and they were checking in early.
One weekend at a time, Brett reminded herself several times that morning.
A tall man in his late forties, with steel-gray hair and a silk suit to match, checked into the hotel about eleven o'clock. He looked rumpled and red-eyed, and was sweating slightly from the midmorning heat. “I have a reservation,” he announced, setting down his cases. “It might be under Peak Performance Technical, or under the name Byerly.”
Brett accessed the reservation in the computer. “First name?”
“Schuyler. Or maybe Sky. I don't know, my secretary made the reservation.”
“Did you have a printed confirmation?”
He hesitated. “No. She gave me one, but I don't know where it is. Am I in trouble?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe,” Brett said. She was not in the mood to flirt today, certainly not with him. “Here you are. Schuyler Byerly, room 611. That's on the company card?”
He nodded.
Brett coded a new key-card for him, sweeping it through the magnetic read-writer until the computer gave the all clear. “All right, sir, here is your card. That gives you access to the pool and the weight room, and it can be used in the restaurant and the bar to charge your meals directly to your room.”
He shook his head. “The company doesn't pay the bar tab. That isn't on the per diem.”
“If you want, sir, I can disable that here in the computer.”
“Please do,” he said. “I leave myself entirely in your hands.”
Brett smiled. It had been an odd thing for him to say. She went on with her routine: “And you may also have a brochure about the Hotel.”
“Very good,” he said absently, and tucked the card into his shirt pocket. A rack of pamphlets and half-sheet ads caught his eye, and he wandered over to browse through them. “Over here. May I?”
Brett tried not to sigh, as she stood with the correct brochure in her hand. The businessman looked over the racks of pamphlets, advertisements, offers, coupons, and other assorted glossy color promotions. Lake Tahoe, Death Valley, Lake Mead, Mount Charleston, Spring Valley State Park Take a day trip to the Valley of Fire. Visit scenic Red Rock Canyon. And there were other, less savory advertisements. The man was pulling one out.
“Pahrump,” Schuyler said. “That's a strange name for a town. Why would anybody want to go there?”
“It has its attractions,” she admitted, grudgingly.
“Oh, really? Such as?”
That look of innocent curiosity has to be fake, Brett decided. Aloud she said, “Prostitution isn't legal in Las Vegas, Mr. Byerly — not anywhere in Clark County. Most people take a short trip into Nye County. Into Pahrump.”
“Really?” he said, sounding impressed.
Definitely faked, she thought cynically.
“Well, maybe I'll just take this one instead,” Schuyler said, selecting another brochure. “I don't think the company would pay for me to visit a brothel!” He laughed, and it was all Brett could do not to wince. The man was no actor. And he didn't put the brochure for Pahrump back into the rack.
He made a show of gathering up his suitcases. “Room 611,” he reminded himself. “Which way are the elevators?”
“To your left,” Brett said. “Have a pleasant stay.”
The remainder of the day passed in a dreary, foot-aching blur. A slow but steady stream of guests checked into the Lakes Hotel. Several conferences and seminars and tradeshows were being held that weekend. A number of casinos advertised low-airfare specials for Friday-morning flights. There was also at least one family reunion, according to a black man who checked in with two less-black teenagers who must have been his son and daughter and also with a young white teenager — what kind of family reunion that would be, Brett didn't want to speculate. Perhaps the white kid was the daughter's boyfriend.
How much more of this could Brett take? Tomorrow would be the same: travelers, irritated by their long flights or long drives, would stand at the counter making demands. Most of the men would look at her as if she were a side of meat, trying to peer through her silk blouse to see if she was wearing a bra. Most of the women looked as if they were grading her choice of clothing. A handful of the guests, male and female, looked in trepidation at her Japanese features, and appeared pleasantly stunned that she spoke comprehensible and unaccented English.
Perhaps, she thought, it was time to leave the Hotel. She had been here six months now, six months without a sign of reprieve.
But near the end of her shift, three guests arrived that put all of that out of her mind: three women she had known from a past life, from before the Hotel.
“Brett! My God, it's you!”
That was Tara Addison, coming into the lobby at fifteen minutes of four: thirty, tending toward plump, dark-haired and blue-eyed, her enthusiastic charisma tinged with every new bride's fear that she wouldn't fit into the dress. Tara wore large, dark sunglasses and a coy sun hat, and a flowing pink dress. She dropped her suitcases and crossed the carpet in a rush to exchange embraces with Brett over the counter.
“Tara!” Brett smiled. “Sister, you made my day. What are you doing here?”
“We're staying the weekend!” she said brightly. “We've come to visit you.”
“Yes,” Brett said, “but why here? You know what happened last time!”
“Exactly!” Tara said. “I talked it over with the girls — you know, all of us who were bridesmaids at Cody's wedding? And we decided that we absolutely had to stay here for one weekend right before my wedding.” She waved vaguely toward the door. “The other girls are fighting over who gets to pay the airport shuttle.”
“But—” Brett didn't quite know what to say. “I didn't see your names in the reservation computer.”
Tara ducked her head sheepishly, and gave an anything-but-shy grin. “We cheated. I had us all use different names. I went by my middle name, and my mom's maiden name. Joy Benson.”
“Look at you, being all secret agent,” Brett said, and looked Tara over. “What's the dark glasses and the hat for? And pink. You hate pink.”
“I know, it makes my face look red,” Tara replied happily. “Did you recognize me?”
“Xavier?” Brett asked blankly. “Why, is he coming here tonight too?”
“Shhh!” Tara said, and giggled. “It's his bachelor party tonight.”
“And they're having it here?” Brett asked, shocked. “Tara—”
Tara waved away Brett's objections airily. “It'll work out, Brett. We wanted them to have it here. In fact, we specifically prohibited Frank from staying here.”
Brett nodded. Frank was Xavier's best man, and the most reliable of all the groomsmen: when you told him he couldn't do something, you knew for certain he would move heaven and earth to defy you. “It sounds like Frank.”
“Cody and Denise are deliriously happy,” Tara said, changing the subject. “Denise is already pregnant.”
“That must come as a surprise to her,” Brett said nastily.
“Don't laugh,” Tara said. “It might have been you!”
“I know it,” Brett sighed. “And to think I was one day away from marrying her myself.”
Tara's expression turned sober. “It wouldn't have worked. You and Cody would never have made it. A lot of us knew you just weren't right for each other.”
“Apparently not,” Brett said. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“What was there to say?” Tara asked simply. “You can't talk someone out of being in love.”
Brett turned her attention to the computer, stung. “Fine, Tara. Go ahead and give me the speech again about how it's all for the best. It's still hard to not feel betrayed. I came here for the wedding rehearsal expecting to get married to Cody, and what happens? This damned Hotel decides that Cody would be happier getting married to my best man.”
“Denise isn't a best man any more,” Tara said quietly. “She's a pretty good woman, though. And she and Cody are happy.”
“Does Cody make a better man than I did?” Brett asked, a bitter edge to her voice.
Tara shrugged. “They're happy. What else can you want for them?”
Brett looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Nothing, I guess. I do want them to be happy. I just don't understand why it had to come at my expense.”
“Jealous?” Brett laughed bitterly. “Jealous of me? Tara, I got transformed into a woman, I'm stuck here working at this hotel. My whole life got wiped out and rewritten.”
“Yes, jealous,” Tara said, raising her voice. “Brett, it may take a little bit of time, but the Hotel is going to set you up with your perfect match. The best possible relationship that it can, ever. Something that lasts. Do you know how hard it is for the rest of us, trying to find someone we can be happy with for a little while? Trying to find somebody you can love and trust? This is going to be my third marriage already,” Tara went on. “My third. That means I screwed up twice. You, you'll get the perfect man just by being here.”
“Or woman.”
“Right. Or woman. I don't know how the Hotel can do it — change people — frankly, I don't care,” Tara said. “But it knows. It knows if relationships are right.”
Light dawned, and Brett began to smile. “Ah, so that's why you're here incognito. You managed to get your fiancé checked into the hotel for his bachelor party, and you're secretly going to check into a room yourself. If this is the relationship that's meant to be...”
“Then I'll know,” Tara finished uneasily. “And if it's not, I'll know that too.”
“Big risk.”
Tara smiled. “Maybe. What's the worst that can happen?”
The door dinged again, and two other women entered the lobby. One of them Brett recognized: Carmen Griffith, a raven-haired Latina her own age whose once-lush beauty had been depleted by years of tanning beds and marital stress. Her brow was beginning to show an unhappy crease, and her mouth now seemed to be turned permanently down. Carmen had on a simple black tank top and jeans and had not, Brett observed, bothered with makeup. In her hand was a cardboard cup of coffee with the Hard Rock Café logo on the side.
“We went back to the place across the street to see if that cute guy still worked there,” Carmen explained, showing her cup. “But he wasn't in.”
to be continued 
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to be continued 
