Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  One of the glasses from the bar is in her hand, ice clinking against it, clear liquid swishing back and forth. “Morgan!” she shouts, finally noticing me. She stumbles forward, the smell of her perfume and smoke arriving first, and hugs me. “Might I offer you a drink before my parole officer extinguishes the liquid gold?”

  I eye the almost-empty bottle of Absolut on the table. “I just wanted to check and see how things were going.”

  Two men are visiting her as well. The one seated at the table looks as weathered as Lou, face leathery, skin peppered with pockmarks. He’s wearing jeans and a black vest outlined in silver nail heads, an orange T-shirt underneath. His hair is matted down, covering one of his eyes, and he keeps flicking his head back in the hopes of moving the strands out of his line of vision. The younger man is slumped on the loveseat. Hipper in appearance, he dons black-and-white Vans, army green pants, and a T-shirt that reads TECHNO SUCKS.

  “This isn’t a goddamn party,” Honor says, ignoring me. “I guess bringing her here sober would have been too much to ask?”

  “What do you want from us?” the older one barks. “We bloody got her here.”

  “Did she even go home last night?” Honor lights a cigarette.

  “I’m not her babysitter. I’m not some fucking groupie and I’m not on your payroll. So why don’t you just say ‘thank you’ and leave it at that?”

  “I’m in the room,” Lou slurs.

  I clear my throat. Everyone stops.

  “Alright Lovey. Looks like this is good-bye.” The older one gets up and walks over to Lou, who is now leaning up against the wall. “We’ll see you in a week or two. This will be real good for you. You’ll write some new stuff, get yourself back in the recording room…”

  “Yeah, Trevor’s right. You’ll be good as new.”

  Each man takes a turn hugging Lou, who has a lit cigarette in one hand, the other still holding her drink.

  “Why don’t you guys stay for dinner?” Lou suggests.

  “It’s noon.” Honor says.

  Lou makes a face, struts like Mick Jagger, then laughs, spilling her drink on the carpet.

  “Okay, lunch it is, then.”

  “When you’re well enough for visitors, we’ll have a lovely meal downstairs. Okay?” the older one promises.

  As the men move past me and exit, Honor takes what’s left of the vodka and pours it down the sink. I watch Lou slump to the floor as I hand her an ashtray from the table. She winks while reaching for it, the silver rings on her fingers catching the light.

  We both watch Honor dump Lou’s bag out on the table. The cell phone skids forward while several lipsticks roll in different directions, as if trying to make a run for it, and end up falling to the floor. A wallet and three packs of cigarettes tumble out, as do matches, lighters, keys, gum, and other paraphernalia. Last to make an appearance are the small bottles of vodka and tequila. When Honor examines the zippered pouch, she extracts a plastic bag of powder and a few tabs of what I can only guess are acid. She inspects the Camel Lights and removes two joints from the package.

  “Where’re your suitcases?”

  Lou ignores her and starts humming.

  Frustrated, Honor walks over to the couch and opens a large duffle bag, which sits next to a sketchbook, keyboard, and guitar. On the coffee table is a Discman, pile of CDs, pens, colored pencils, and headphones. She sighs deeply and searches through Lou’s collection of T-shirts, underwear, jeans, sweats, and some mismatched pairs of socks. Each CD case is opened and inspected, as is the Discman, even the place that holds the batteries, in which Honor discovers a small vial of coke. Three more joints and five hundred-dollar bills, which were taped to the inside of the guitar are added to the pile of no-no’s.

  “This is it?”

  Lou doesn’t answer but turns to me instead. “She’s better than any drug dog. When she’s done with PR she can work for customs.”

  Honor puts Lou’s cell, the cash, her wallet—with the exception of her driver’s license—and mini bottles of liquor in her own handbag. The joints are ripped in half and stuffed down the drain along with the other drugs.

  “The phone can only dial the front desk. They have a list of names and numbers that are okay for Lou to be connected to,” I tell Honor. “At this moment it’s just you and myself.” Then to Lou, “If you want housekeeping or room service or me, just ask them to connect you. The fridge has everything you requested.”

  “I know. I checked. I spoke with housekeeping and the head concierge,” she tells me. “You understand there will be no visitors except for you and the nurse, who will be coming three times a day for the first three days, then twice, then once a day as needed.”

  “What name’d you check me in as?” Lou asks.

  “Telling you would only be futile, wouldn’t it?” Honor says.

  “Once I was KiKi LaRue,” she informs me, her head moving a little bit, as if she’s listening to a song. A big, blissful smile is on her face. “I was Miss Blow Cain when I went solo.” She laughs and downs what’s left in her glass. “That was one of my favorites.”

  Honor looks at her watch as her cell rings. She glances at the mini screen and ignores the caller. A second later the BlackBerry vibrates. “Okay kids, I’ve got to go.”

  “No you don’t.” Lou whines. “Let’s listen to some tunes, or watch a movie.”

  “This is the pretty part, enjoy it while it lasts,” Honor tells me.

  “I’ve spent half my life in hotels. You think this is going to change anything?” Lou sneers.

  “I’m hoping it will.”

  “Fine,” Lou screams, pulling herself off the floor. “Where’s the vodka?”

  “You finished it,” Honor tells her.

  She walks over to her bag, searches through it and when she comes up empty, angrily dumps it on the table. Her items scatter for a second time in ten minutes.

  “Where’s my stuff?”

  “I’ve got it.” Honor pats her Hermes bag. Her coat is now folded neatly over her arm. A fresh smoke is at her lips, sunglasses are on her face.

  “What about my mini bottles?”

  “I emptied them out.”

  “When?”

  “A moment ago.”

  “Those were mine!” The hoarse, charmingly seductive voice is gone. In its place is betrayed frustration. “You had no right. No right.”

  She walks to the fridge, opens it and seeing only healthy items slams it shut. “Fuck. Fuck you and this room and your great big plan to make me over.”

  “I’m too old to do this, Louise. I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.”

  “So don’t. No one’s asking you to.”

  “You want to work? You want to make jewelry or T-shirts or whatever you think you want to do with the next forty years of your life? Then you better clean up your act because I won’t be around to watch it.” Honor’s voice cracks and she stops herself. “Now give me a hug good-bye and I’ll call you later.”

  “No. I don’t want to do this. I’ve changed my mind.” She starts putting on her coat and can’t get her arm in one of the sleeves. “It wouldn’t kill someone to help me, you know.”

  “Lou, we talked about this.” Honor’s voice is stern, but even toned.

  “You talked about this. I don’t need you to do this. I can do it on my own. If I didn’t have any fucking talent you wouldn’t be here in the first place. All you see when you look at me is a fast buck. Some quick cash for an old, ugly PR person past her prime.”

  Unable to get her coat on, she whips it off her one arm and leaves it on the floor. She stumbles over to her clothing and starts to pack. “I can fucking leave any time I want.”

  “Security can be here in moments. They’ll stand outside your door all day, all night if they have to,” Honor informs.

  “Is that true?” Lou asks me. “You didn’t tell me that. When were you going to tell me that? That fucking changes everything.”

  “We went over all of this Louise
.”

  “No we didn’t. When? Tell me when. Tell me exactly when we had this so-called informative conversation.” She stands, rocks back and forth, trying to steady herself. “I didn’t agree to jail.”

  “I’d hardly call a five-star hotel jail.”

  I’m worried what other guests will say when they hear the yelling and I think this wasn’t such a good idea. That if things get out of hand, I could be fired. The underwater sensation returns as does the pressure in my chest. I need a vacation. Somewhere warm and sunny.

  “The nurse can give you a sedative. She’ll be here soon,” Honor assures her.

  Make that two. I’m way overdue for a room inspection, and if Lou could wait another half hour, I’m sure I could find an array of mother’s little helpers. Valium, Xanax, Klonopin, our guests aren’t choosy and at this point, neither am I. I think about excusing myself now. The idea of running down to the desk, selecting a few keycards, and doing a quick examination is most alluring.

  “Okay, this is where I exit,” Honor says, extracting a lipstick and her phone at the same time.

  Lou rushes toward her and blocks the door. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. Why can’t we just do this at my house? I want…”

  “This is it!” Her voice is high-pitched and comes out in short puffs. “I swear, this is fucking it.” She pushes Lou lightly out of the way but hard enough to knock her off balance and closes the door behind her, leaving Lou to take her arm and sweep it over the table while screaming at the top of her lungs as items fly in all directions.

  Chapter 8

  Morgan

  Suite 1512

  I’ve not slept in days and the last few room inspections have left me feeling hollow. The pills I was able to find have helped me greatly—kept the breathing issue at bay—and I feel a slight blissful sense of calm. However, it makes it hard to focus and feel awake. My normal cup of coffee is now accompanied by a shot of espresso. A Red Bull in the afternoon becomes the snack of choice. A cigarette in the a.m. quickly turns plural. An extra fifteen minutes here, another hit of the snooze button there, but I’ve got a morning meeting today so I’m in the office by 8:00. I’m sipping froth from the cappuccino I’m jonesing for when a frantic Paulina plows into my office, apologizing for the abrupt entrance.

  An older Polish woman who’s been with the hotel for years, she’s squat with a plump frame, which makes her uniform look uncomfortably tight. Her short white hair accentuates her full face. Lovable and kind, she’s considered grandmotherly to the younger staffers, especially those in her division.

  “I so sorry Ms. Tierney, there’s a woman in room 1512…” She’s breathless and bends forward, her beefy hands on her knees. She looks up at me, face red, eyes bulging. “Please, we go now.”

  “What’s happened?” I ask, taking off my earpiece and disconnecting myself from the phone.

  “A woman is tied to the bed in room 1512.”

  I’m standing now, reaching for the walkie-talkie, the digital camera, my cell phone, and an indemnity contract. “Is she dead?” I scan the room to make sure there’s nothing else I’ll need.

  “I don’t know. I go in to clean and find her there.”

  “Did you try to wake her?” I’m pushing her out of the office and taking the stairs, two at a time, not sure she’ll be able to follow me. I turn to look at her. Paulina shakes her head. “I too scared. In the fifteen years I work here, I never see anything like this before.”

  Neither have I. As far as I know, we’ve only had three deaths in the past five years, so it’s not unheard of. One heart attack, one OD, which makes me queasy every time I think about Lou, and one child who accidentally drowned in the tub. Thankfully none have happened on my watch.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  Once a year the hotel has Manager Gratitude Day, when the staff throws us a party. Similar to Senior Appreciation or the kind celebrated at sleep-away camp, a small party is thrown to acknowledge the hard work we do, the long hours we spend at the hotel, the twenty-four-hour on call job we accept. As refined as the hotel is, we’re not above a little mockery, and I have no trouble seeing one of the staffers tied to a bed while everyone yells surprise.

  Paulina is doing a fine performance. She’s actually shaking and sweat has formed above her lip, which upon close inspection could use a waxing and I’m tempted to treat her to this service at the hotel later today for doing such a good job.

  “She was just lying there, bloody and messy.”

  “I’m sure it’s a terrible sight,” I say, playing along. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know.” She shudders in the elevator and we ride the rest of the trip in silence. When we emerge on the fifteenth floor, Paulina hands me the key. A HOUSEKEEPING, PLEASE sign hangs on the door.

  Paulina steps back, looking scared and perplexed. Perhaps she’s afraid of getting in the photo or if she enters first, people will yell surprise at her instead of me. I give an authoritative tap first and say “housekeeping,” but when I get no response slide the card through. The door clicks open and I prepare myself for the collective cheer, but hear nothing.

  “Who’s there? Robin? Is that you?” A shaky, yet angry voice travels from the next room.

  Okay, they’ve taken this a bit too far, but I can play along. “Very clever,” I say, but the surprise is on me. Upon entering, I find the shades are partly drawn, creating a dim, dreary feel. I flip on the lights and in doing so almost trip over a tray of old food—brown fruit, uneaten toast, picked-over eggs, filled cups of coffee—while sliding on the New York Times, which is sprawled out in sections. Clothing is tossed carelessly on the arms on the couch, the back of the desk chair, and on the floor.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  “Robin?”

  Several bags, one from Barneys, one from Calvin Klein, and another that’s nondescript are by the coffee table, which has an open birth control disc, diamond necklace, pearl bracelets, iPod, and BlackBerry on it. The smell of stale tomato and urine gets stronger as we venture forward.

  “My name is Morgan. I’m one of the managers. I’m with housekeeping. May we come in?” I don’t wait for a response and enter the bedroom with Paulina behind me. The lights are already on and just as she said, a woman is tied to the bed. Dried blood, brown liquid, globs of cream, and what look like smoking patches cover her face. Her robe looks doused in colored dye. Clumps of hair lay on the pillow reminding me instantly of Dale. How small she looked in her bed. How her hair fell out in fistfuls. A tiara sits upon this woman’s head and I mentally, involuntarily, replace it with the Mickey Mouse ears. I don’t even try to breathe because I think my heart has stopped beating. I think about the oxygen tank Dale used. Remember what the plastic felt like on my face, scratchy and cold. I used it once, to see what it was like, to feel what my sister experienced. My mother walked in just as I was taking my first breath and slapped it out of my hand.

  “You are never to use that,” she said, her face close to mind, her finger pointed at me. “It’s not a toy and your sister could die without it.”

  I swallow the bile in my throat because I’m sure vomiting would be unprofessional. I force myself to look at the dirty robe, to focus on the empty bottles from the minibar that are scattered around her. I listen to the TV and radio, which are battling each other. I take note how the newscaster’s voice is deeper than the DJ’s. I feel Paulina nudge me in the side.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” she says, lifting up her head, her neck muscles straining. The tiara glimmers from the lights above the bed.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  In corporate, they train you to handle all situations as professionally and efficiently as possible. I announce everything I’m doing and try to talk slowly, soothingly, like Faye’s sister did. “I’m going to untie your right leg, first. Okay?”

  “Yes.” Her head falls back. Tears leak from her eyes.

&n
bsp; “I need to ask what happened.”

  “It’s nothing. Really. It was a joke my boyfriend played.”

  I don’t know if she’s been raped, I don’t know if she’s okay, I only know she’s lying.

  “I’ll pay for any damages. I’m fine.”

  If a guest offers to take responsibility for something, a broken item, damage to the furniture, whatever the case may be, you let them. And I’m not to offer any suggestions. For example, asking if one of our staffers did this can only give fodder if they’re trying to extort money or cover up for someone.

  I take hold of her foot, feel the coolness of the rope belt, notice its stark whiteness up against her reddened skin and the brown of the banister. “Paulina, could you please help me undo Mrs….” I pause. “I’m sorry, what’s your…”

  “Linda.”

  “Linda’s other leg.”

  Paulina moves swiftly, but I can see her hands are shaking. It only takes a second for me to untie the knot and carefully rest her foot on the bed. I then calmly move to Paulina, lay my hands over her trembling ones. “It’s okay.”

  She looks up at me.

  “It’s okay,” I say again, and she steps back. Stands watching.

  “How about getting Linda a warm, wet towel.”

  Paulina disappears into the bathroom while I fight with the material holding Linda’s left ankle to the bed. “This one’s a bit harder because the material has been knotted rather tightly. If you can hold on another minute, I’m sure I can get this…” My fingers are working fast but the knot isn’t budging. I scan the room and spot a knife on the nightstand. “I’m just going to use this…” I say, walking toward her. The knife feels cold and solid in my grasp. By the time I think about the fingerprints it’s too late.

  While near her hand, I untie her left one with ease since it’s only held by a black leather belt. Her face is maybe a foot away from me. The smell of wine and tomato and urine is making me nauseous. I want to look at her, but know once I do, I won’t be able to look away.