by C.G. Banks
Chapter 2: Early Morning
Frederick woke up at six-thirty the following morning in Room 1734 of the downtown Sheraton on Canal Street. He'd stayed up drinking until three in the morning, trying to shake off the creeping malaise Samuel Franklin had brought on. He thought he'd conducted himself well enough to score the job, but the only bad thing was that bastard had seen him shake. Even if it was only a little, the fact remained, and that was too fucking much. The man was definitely psychotic; Frederick had seen his fair share of lunatics, but it was safe to say Samuel had all the fixings to be at the top of the list. And the bit about the blade, goddammit. Score Round One to the lunatic.
Frederick had had them pegged wrong. They weren't 'Daddy's boys' after all. Sure they were spoiled rich kids, but William appeared to be a savvy, secretive sort while his brother exuded the personality of a trained hit man beneath the touching facade of his $1,500 suit.
Frederick had tried to get in touch with Lincoln last night but no luck. It was just like that worthless fuck, when you really needed him you could never find him and when you didn’t give a fuck there he was. The sonofabitch was about as stable as a pinball.
Frederick guessed he'd come back to the room alone, since he couldn’t recall blowing his money on any barroom split-tail. Now it was a two-headed sword; he was pretty glad he'd not given some bimbo a chance to rob him blind, but he was also horny as hell, and fighting back a furious headache on top of it. He picked up the phone and dialed 0. A sweet, young voice answered on the second ring, delicately textured and inviting. "Room service," she whispered as if she were afraid of waking someone.
"Hello," he said, holding his head. "This is Room 1734. I need breakfast. How about a ham and egg omelet? Better make it three eggs, and a pot of coffee. Don't worry about the sweetener. And honey, see if you can't come by some aspirins too, okay?"
The voice remained passive and understanding. "Yes sir," (a clacking of a keyboard) "Mr. Paol. It'll be twenty minutes or so on the breakfast. Do you need the aspirins now or will it be enough to bring them up with your breakfast?"
Frederick scratched his head and closed his eyes. Choices, choices. "Just send 'em up with the breakfast, honey. I don't think I'll die in the meantime."
"I sure hope not, Mr. Paol. Hope your day gets better."
"It has to," he replied.
"Very well. If there's anything else we can do for you, please don't hesitate to call."
"I sure will, honey," he said. He hung up the phone and laid back on the pillows, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He worked on controlled breathing and clearing his mind and began to feel slightly better.
The room service was punctual and after breakfast and four aspirins he was on the road to humanity. He was even able to smoke a cigarette without gagging, and after he jumped in the shower, scrubbed his body and steamed a copious amount of alcohol free through his pores, he honestly didn’t feel that bad.
He dressed casually: jeans, pullover, loafers. The shoes were a little worn but a better, more comfortable pair could not be found. He checked the battery on his cell. He hoped to hear from the Weird Brothers before too long because there was another little bit of business he needed to tend to. Her name was Missy Stewart and she was something else. He figured to hang around New Orleans until two or so and if nothing by then, fuck 'em.
He thought about sitting around the hotel room for the wait. Then he finally drew the blinds and looked outside. The sun was high and proud. Thin strands of clouds traced like veins across the sky which was crystalline and pink.
It made him think of pussy.
He laughed into the emptiness of the room. Maybe it’d been the voice of the chick at the front desk. The minute he’d heard her his mind went to the gutter. He grinned at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and slicked his hair back from his forehead. The pricks had better hurry and call if that was their intention. He didn't give a flying fuck what time it was.
At ten-forty his phone rang. He set the coffee he was drinking down and answered it. "Hello?" he heard. Frederick wasn’t sure which brother it was, but he was positive it was one or the other.
"It's me," he said.
"We'd like to talk again, Frederick, but not today. Tomorrow night’s better. You know Copeland's on Jefferson?"
"Yeah, I know the place just fine. What time we talking?"
“Let's make it 10:30,” the voice said. “Place stays open late and there won't be so many people."
"Okay, tomorrow it is."
"Right," he heard before the connection broke.
He grabbed the USA Today before draining the coffee and dropped a five next to the salt shaker. Time to move, he thought. There was a woman out there with an itch he needed to scratch.