"Sir?"
"Forget it."
Anyway, I finally got to speak to the "manager". She wasn't much more help. She was rude, lazy and completely incompetent. This hotel was in desperate need of a new management team. Who did they pay off to get that five-star rating?
Honest to crap, another two and a half hours later, we were finally entering out two bedroom suite, which was a downgrade from our penthouse, with a wonderful view of the top of the building behind us and some desert. Yay. My frustration and anger actually kept me totally preoccupied during the rather speedy elevator ride up to our floor. Good thing. I didn't even realize we were on the elevator until we were stepping off. Elise was impressed. Now I just had to figure out ways to manage going back down. Anyway, thanks for the downgrade!
Stupid Myra Hotel!
At first glance, the room appeared rather nice; two nice big bedrooms and a common room with a decent television, sofa, small kitchen table and kitchenette. The bathrooms were also impressive with a large tub, a steam shower, two sinks and a toilet featuring a warm seat and a bidet. It was almost tempting enough to make me try out a used toilet seat.
Almost.
If the room had stayed that impressive I would have been happy and able to put our previous setbacks out of my mind. No luck though, of course. I opened my suitcase and removed my pre packed Rockstars. Then I took out my fresh can of Lysol to spray everything down. I was going to give the inside of the fridge a good once over so I could put the drinks in there when I discovered that it was not cold. Nope. Not cold at all. What it was, though, was fucking broken! I called the front desk. Apparently, someone would be up to fix it.
I wasn't holding my breath.
Second, I plug my iPod into the dock near the TV. Does it work? Of course not. I called the front desk again. Someone would be up shortly. MmHmm.
I was getting aggravated and was mildly pleased to see Elise getting rather pissed off herself. She decided she would take a bath to try and calm down and relax a bit. I told her I would be sitting here in an anger filled stupor.
Less than two minutes later I hear a loud GOD DAMN IT echo through the bathroom and rattle my soul. I quickly shot up and headed into Elise's bathroom. My first step onto the tile soaked my sock. The ground was covered in water. Apparently, Elise had the nerve to turn the jets on in the bathtub. Instead of shooting air and bubbles into the tub, this particular unit shot water out of the base and onto the floor. Elise was livid. So pissed, in fact, that she didn't even mention me standing there while she was naked.
"Get dressed, Archie!" she barked at me. "You, my good man, are taking me out for dinner and drinks. Lots and lots of drinks."
"You know she's dead?" I ask.
"What?! What the hell are you talking about?!"
"Mayra... Urkel's girlfriend from Family Matters. She died a long time ago from cancer while the show-"
"GET DRESSED!!!"
Yikes! I stepped back a few feet and told her I would go get ready. She got out and started getting dressed while I went back to my suitcase and unpacked my sheets. I stripped the linen from the bed and began replacing them with mine after I drenched the mattress in Lysol. Elise caught me.
"What the hell are you doing?"
(The mouth on her lately, I swear.)
"I'm putting sheets on my bed."
"Well, this is a new one. I don't recall you doing this at the beach. You were terrified of a motel but not the sheets. We come to a five-star hotel and now the sheets disgust you?"
"The motel was at the beach. A nice family vacation spot. These sheets are located in this aids-pool called Las Vegas, with their hookers and their crabs and their greaseball, juiced-up douchebags in Tapout and Affliction shirts. There is no way I'm lying on these disgusting sheets. Jesus himself could descend from heaven and wash them with his magical bible powers and they still wouldn't be clean enough for me to sleep on. No way, no how. Now get dressed."
"What are you going to do about the scary, scary toilet? Are you afraid of that, too? Did you bring your own toilet seat in your bag there?"
"Very funny. Don't be silly. I don't use the toilet at all while on vacations. At least not sitting. Strictly number one."
"Right, you had to sit on the toilet at the beach, we were gone for over a week."
"Nope. My body knows what’s up. Didn't have a single poop the entire time we were gone. No sweat."
"Wow." I could tell she was totally shocked and mildly disgusted, but I was proud of myself. "That’s just...Wow."
I could tell she still didn't understand, but whatever. She said fine, she would get dressed, then returned to her room. Forty-five minutes later she emerged wearing tight white jeans and a tight red top.
"That's what you’re wearing?" I ask.
"Yes, rude! What the hell is wrong with it?"
"Oh nothing, I guess."
"You guess?"
"Yeah, well, it's just...you kinda, a little, look like a giant used tampon."
She turned around rather quickly and stormed off back into her room, slamming the door behind her.
"That's for making fun of my poopies!" I yelled to her. I snickered, rather proud of myself, if I do say.
Fifteen minutes later we were exiting our shitty hotel, Elise wearing a black top now, and were on our way to somewhere with a little more inspiration in its design.
We had a much needed fun night out. I'm not a big drinker, it's not something I really enjoy or look forward to, but seeing as we were in Vegas I decided I would let Elise pick our evening's entertainment. Between the kids, me and the job, her nights of partying had all but come to an end (unless you count that stupid date,) and she decided our first stop would be the next door's hotel bar. Followed by another hotel's bar. I ordered a Medina and told the bartender to make it funky and cold. He stared blankly at me, un-amused and ready to rip my throat out. I changed my order promptly. I ended up having one vodka-Redbull at each stop, trying to take it easy. Elise had three drinks to every one of mine. Our final stop on our casino crawl was the MGM Grand across the street. As we were walking up to it from the outside, above us on a massive screen as bright as the noon hour's desert sun, was my main man, Tom Jones.
I stopped in my tracks and grabbed Elise by the arm, stopping her forward motion with a quick jerk.
"Oh. My. God!"
"What?" Elise asked slowly, drunkenly and rather apathetically.
"TOM JONES!!!"
"Oh dear."
"Look, look!" I pointed up towards the screen and bouncing up and down in excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. "Look! Seven straight nights starting Thursday! We have to go, oh my god, please can we go?!"
"We have to leave on Thursday night, 'member, Honey?" Elise said. At least I think that's what she said. Her voice was slightly slurred. She rested her head on my shoulder. I'm not sure if this was affection or pure drunken laziness. Either way, I'll take it.
"Well, maybe?" I desperately ask.
"Yeah, babe, maybe we can leave Friday morning. We'll see." She reached out and took my hand and we continued walking into the casino. After a few more drinks we had to call it a night.
We returned to our room two hours later, drunk (me slightly, her ridiculously) and exhausted. Elise gave me a kiss on the lips that seemed to linger longer than her normal, friendly kisses, her even going so far as to give my lower lip a little bite, then she turned on her heel and quickly vanished into her room.
What! The! Fuck?!
Confusing much?!
Stupid girls!
9.
I heard a sound coming from the other room and got up to investigate. I entered the living room that didn't belong in the hotel. It looked familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it. It was dark outside. I went to the window and threw open the curtains, revealing the massive rainfall illuminated only by the night's full moon. I stared for what seemed like a long time before a loud cr
ash of thunder startled me from my reverie. I closed the blinds and rubbed my eyes. I was still groggy and wanted to return to bed.
Someone coughed behind me and I flinched in fright. I turned to look but there was no one there. I went back to bed. A different bed than the one I had just gotten out of. I was just crawling back under the covers when I heard another cough. I kicked my feet over the slide of the bed.
"Who's out there?" I ask with no response. "I have a gun!"
I began to walk slowly back into the living room. The rain is pounding on the roof of whatever house I am in. My heart is beating faster than it should be. I step silently on the carpet, entering the next room. My phone rings loud and I am again startled.
"Hello?" I whisper into the phone.
A gruff man's voice answers, "You call a cab?"
"No. No, I didn't call a-"
"Fuck you!" the man yells at me. "I'm going to rip your eyes out and shove them down your fucking throat! Do you hear me?! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
I release my grip on the phone and it falls silent onto the plush carpet. I can still hear the man’s voice from the floor, threatening me. It doesn't concern me now because in the far corner of the room I see Elise tied to a chair. Her back is to me but I know it is her. She's crying.
I walk up behind her and put my hand on her shoulder. "I'm here," I tell her. "It's okay. I'm here. I won't let them hurt you."
Elise suddenly wasn't bound to the chair anymore. She turned freely in her seat to look at me. I noticed her hair had grown a little longer than when her back was turned. She looked me in the eyes and put her hand on top of mine and I found myself looking at my wife now.
"It's time, Archie," Marianne says to me.
"Time for what?" I ask. I can feel myself starting to cry
"I have to go."
"No wait!" I yell, but my wife and the chair she was sitting in was already gone. The rain had stopped. Tears rolled down my face and the only sound left in the room was coming from the carpet where someone was continuing to threaten my life.
I awoke the next morning feeling good. I know I'm not the biggest drinker, but I've still yet to have a hangover. I'm pretty proud of that. I got out of bed with a smile on my face, something I haven't done in a long, long time. My dream had already slipped away but had somehow left me...better. Then I remembered the previous night's moment and I became really confused again. Oh well, I'll have time to worry about that later. Today, we had work to do. I showered and got dressed and was very pleased to see that, for a change, I would get the chance to wake Elise up. I snuck into her room and approached her bed. She was laid out flat on her back with her mouth wide open. She reeked of booze and was snoring softly. Her head shifted a bit and a ray of sunlight from the crack in the blinds made the drop of drool rolling out the side of her mouth glisten a bit. Funny, for how repulsive she looked, she was still beautiful. I opted out of punching her in the arm for her wakeup call and decided to touch her on her shoulder.
"Hey Butthole. Wake up," I whispered.
Nothing.
"Come on, darlin, we've got to go."
Still nothing. Oh well, I tried. I put my weight behind her and gave her a quick, hard shove. She rolled right off the bed and hit the floor with a thud. She quickly shot up and yelled at me.
"What the hell?!"
"Ha! Payback, beyotch! Get dressed. We've got work!"
She groaned and gave me a dirty look. Her eye makeup was smeared and she looked like some sort of drunken raccoon. She was still fully dressed from last night.
"I need a shower," she mumbled.
"Bullocks!" I exclaimed! "You look marvelous!"
"I look like death."
"Yep! But we're in Vegas, nobody will even notice. Hurry it up."
"Ugh, I'm nauseous."
"No you're not."
"Like hell I'm not."
"I think you meant to say you are nauseated. Nauseous means something has the ability to make one nauseated. Like; the sloppy horse vagina they're passing as roast beef at Arby’s is nauseous. You're nauseated. Not nauseous."
Elise stared at me with her empty eyes and did a disgusting closed mouth burp which she then blew in my direction.
"Actually," I said, "I was wrong. Upon further inspection you are nauseous."
"Hate you."
"Go get ready!"
I was able to watch a terrible movie on HBO from start to finish before Elise was ready to go. We were really behind schedule. I hoped we could make up some time. A big break early on sure would help us out.
We made our way to the front desk and asked to speak with the head of security. The brain-dead zombie behind the desk asked what my business was and I responded by flashing her my P.I. license. This seemed to satisfy her and she told me to take a seat. Shortly after, we were invited into a private office just off to the left of the check in area.
"What may I help you with, Mr.-"
"Lemons," I add.
His name, according the plaque on his desk, was Greg Adams, Head of Security. He didn't seem very threatening from here. While he was tall, he didn't have much muscle to him. I wondered how he would handle a situation which needed securing. Then I remembered that he probably sat on the bench and told a bunch of meat-heads what to do.
"Mr. Lemons," he continued. "And your name, Miss?"
"Reynolds. Elise."
The two hours of prep didn't help her hangover much. She was a mess. I found it rather humorous.
"Sir, we are here about a recent death in your hotel?" I told him.
"I see," Greg said, appearing confused.
"It appears early last week a man died in one of your rooms."
"It happens," he said. "All too often, actually."
"I would imagine, but this guy died, how shall I say, while in the act of self-gratification."
"Oh yes, I won't be forgetting that one anytime soon. You'd be amazed to know what we discover in these rooms. This is a new hotel, so that was our first death by autoerotic asphyxiation. Probably won't be the last though. That case was ruled accidental. What do you have to do with it?"
"Well," I answered and then glanced towards Elise. This is usually where she interrupted me. She was staring at the wall behind Mr. Adams, eyes glazed over, with a lifeless expression on her face, breathing through the gap between her parted lips. I continued, "We were commissioned by his friend and work partner, whom he was traveling with at the time of his death. It seems his friend was his roommate back in our hometown and knew the deceased quite well. Our client doesn't believe at all that his friend died in this manner. He wants us to take a closer look at it, see if we can find anything maybe the police missed."
"I appreciated your situation, Mr. Lemons, but I can-"
He was cut off by a slight groan from Elise. We both looked at her with expressions of shock and repulsion upon our faces. She hadn't even realized she had made the sound and was clueless to our gazes.
"-Is she okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, she's fine. Just. Ya know. Vegas."
"Right." He went on, "Anyway, I can assure you, Mr. Lemons that I took control over that case and we found absolutely no signs of foul play. We found the young man on the security camera, sitting at a table when he stood up and went up to his room. We have him stepping on the elevator alone. That's where the camera loses him, but ninety seconds later he used his keycard to enter his room. The door was opened again with the keycard only once more a half hour or so later, but we assume he pushed his room service tray out into hall and the door closed on him. The cart was still outside his door when they body was discovered. And that's it. Nothing more. The door was not opened again until the maid used her pass card to do her cleaning duty. I promise you there is nothing else to investigate. There is nothing to find."
"All the same, Mr. Adams, we'd still like your permission to poke around."
"As you wish. The room
is still vacant, as is company standard. The young man died last Tuesday and the room has to remain vacant for two weeks. It is Tuesday again. You have one week. But I cannot promise you much help from our end. We are involved in something much more pressing."
"What would that be?"
"We had a young woman who claims she was abducted from our hotel and taken to a vacant, dirt lot a mile or so away where she was savagely beaten, raped and left for dead."
"Oh my god," Elise gasped. It seems she had regained consciousness. If there is one thing she hates more than anything, it is a rapist. Mr. Adams's story had grasped her from her hungover stupor and caught her attention.
"What does being sued have to do with you?" I asked.
"Well, I'm not really at liberty to say. It is a private matter," he responded.
"Come on," I urged him. "We're both professionals here. Maybe you've heard of me. Remember the Brad Jackson case?"
Stroke of Genius (Archie Lemons #3) Page 5