The Nightly Disease (Serial Novel)

by Max Booth III

  “Well, we don’t have any fat, so this conversation is pointless.”

  We spin around for a while, staring at the ceiling. George coughs. “Where would we even blow it up?”

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about that. “I guess in the parking lot.”

  “We’d definitely wake up the guests.”

  “Fuck the guests.”

  George sniggers. “And cheat on throw-up girl?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  The phone rings. George answers and hangs up. He retrieves the flask from his bag and takes a swig. I decline a turn when he offers it to me and instead return to the safe, wondering what would happen if I just started screaming at it. Would it suddenly pop open out of common courtesy?

  George continues drinking. “Forget about it,” he says between swigs. “Might as well get drunk and take a nap. This was a dumb idea.”

  I grab the flask from his hand and slam it on the desk, standing over him. “I don’t have any other choice. I can’t just take a nap and forget about my problems. You saw my fucking closet. The universe is collapsing and I don’t have much longer before it’s too late to escape. I need to do this tonight. Are you with me or not?”

  George holds up his hands, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah, man, shit, okay, I’m with you. Now will you please back off? Your breath smells like ass.”

  I give him some space and kneel down by the safe. If I can’t get this open, I’m not going to get very far before either the police or Hobbs’s people find me. Money is fuel and I’m running on an empty tank.

  I wrap my arms around it and try to pick it up. It budges slightly, and with another pull it slides a few inches forward.

  “You’re going to throw your back out doing that,” George says.

  “Do you think if we both tried picking it up, we could carry it somewhere?”

  “Carry it where?”

  “The roof.”

  “…And why exactly would we carry it there?”

  “Maybe if we push it over the edge, it’ll explode open when it hits the ground.” Much how Yates exploded when he landed on the handicap pole outside my own hotel—except, instead of blood and guts coming out, we’ll be greeted with white envelopes full of cash.

  “That sounds a little bit too much like a Looney Toons episode. Aren’t safes supposed to be, like, safe? You know, indestructible?”

  “I seriously doubt people who run our hotels dished out on anything too top of the line. They won’t even install cameras. Which is, coincidentally, why they’re about to get their asses ripped off.”

  “Getting your ass ripped off sounds super painful.”

  “I imagine it is. Now go grab a luggage cart.”

  It takes some patience and a lot of energy, but we eventually drag the safe on top of the luggage cart. The large contraption settles in on the thin board of metal and the screws creak and tighten as the cart struggles to maintain the new weight.

  “It’s going to break the goddamn cart,” George says.

  “It might not.”

  “But it might.”

  “It might also rain flaccid penises from the sky. So what.”

  “It might rain hard penises, too.”

  I wipe sweat from my eyes and crack my neck. “Let’s get this over with. We still have the safe at my hotel to bust open tonight.”

  “Heists are exhausting,” George says. “I haven’t worked this much since your mom came to visit that one time—”

  “Shut up and push.”

  We get the cart to the elevator and ride up to the sixth floor. Despite being one floor taller, my hotel still has twenty more rooms than George’s. We push it down the hallway, cursing under our breaths and snapping our heads around every few steps, afraid a guest is going to exit their room and catch us in the act. But so what if they do? This shit is nobody’s business but ours. Well, ours and the hotel owners.

  The flaw in our plan doesn’t sink in until we’re standing in front of the stairway leading up to the roof, luggage cart between us.

  “I don’t think we can carry it up that far,” George says.

  “We’re gonna have to try.”

  “What if I pull my back? I’m not in the best shape, in case you haven’t noticed. And neither are you.”

  “We don’t have any other choice.”

  George looks at the safe, then the stairs. He sighs. “This is not going to end well.”

  “I think you’re underestimating our strengths.”

  “I think you’re vastly overestimating.”

  I flex, but he doesn’t seem too impressed. Screw him. “Okay, on three, we lift.”

  “Ugh. All right.”

  We kneel down and position our hands around the safe. There’s a brief moment of silence before we take action, like the last few seconds before a presidential assassination.

  We lift and it’s immediately clear this plan has a few flaws. I’d been anticipating one of those “mother lifts car over screaming child” superpower moments—instead, I am hit with the side-effects of never having worked out once in my life. Rather than carrying the safe up the flight of steps and onto the roof, I let out a long, wet fart and scream, “No, I can’t!” and release my grip. The safe drops on George’s foot, who squeals at a volume equivalent to a dying hyena. But the safe is not quite finished, as it then tips over and begins rolling down the stairs we’d just climbed. George and I watch it tumble down not just one flight, but two flights, then it’s out of sight but still not stable. Frozen, we listen to it crash to the ground floor.

  Tears flow down George’s face as he sits on the landing and holds his foot.

  I stand above him, watching him cry, then peeking over the banister and trying to locate the safe down on the bottom. It’s nowhere in sight, but the stairway leading down has definitely taken a very visible pounding. “Well, that sucked.”

  “No fucking shit,” George says.

  Helping him balance, we slowly descend to the ground floor. The safe awaits at the end of the stairway, lock busted and door wide open. My plan has worked. I am a genius. Inside the safe are dozens of small white envelopes, and inside these envelopes are various amounts of cash. I pull out a trash bag from my pocket and fill it with envelopes, figuring I’ll count it later today once I’m a safe distance from the crime scene.

  George collapses on the steps, still groaning.

  I hold up the bag. “Dude, relax. We did it. We actually did it.”

  “Yeah, and we also broke my foot in the process, you insensitive asshole.”

  “I’ll buy you a new foot in Mexico.”

  “I know you’re joking, but that sounds kind of cool.”

  If we leave the safe here, the police will undoubtedly wonder why the robbers went through all the trouble of bringing the safe to the top of the hotel and dropping it down the stairs instead of just taking the whole thing with them. However, even if we do move the safe, there’s still plenty of damage done to the stairwell. But that’s only cause for concern if the police decide to search the stairs, which they shouldn’t have any reason to if George explains the imaginary thieves were never near that area. When the maintenance man discovers the vandalism tomorrow, he can blame a group of drunks who’d gotten lost on the way to their rooms. This explanation works because there are always drunks, every night, forever lost and accidentally breaking things.

  I leave George on the steps holding his foot and retrieve the luggage cart from the top floor. Somehow I roll the safe back on the cart without any help and we wheel it to the back office. The lobby is empty. I don’t know how we would explain ourselves to any guests who might witness us wheeling around a cracked open, empty safe. I don’t know why we would have to explain ourselves. Guests are just that: guests. The only thing we truly owe them is a pillow pressed gently over their sleeping faces, and they’re lucky to get that. I push the safe off the luggage carts so it lands back where we’d originally taken it from and tell George perhaps he can
explain the robbers had come in wielding sledgehammers.

  “Man, they’re not gonna believe me,” George says. “How am I going to explain my foot?”

  “Why would they know about that?”

  “I can’t exactly hide it, Isaac.” He winces as he adjusts in his seat. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s fucking broken.”

  “Well, I guess you could say they hit you with the sledgehammer, too.”

  “Who are they? How many? What did they look like?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. You were the one who got robbed. You make it up.”

  “Yeah, but they’re also gonna hit your hotel up, so don’t you think we should figure these details out so our stories match?”

  He has a point. I check the time and gasp at how late it’s getting. Or early, depending on how you look at it. If we’re going to rob my hotel too, then we gotta get moving.

  “Okay.” I visualize what I assume a group of sledgehammer-wielding hotel robbers would look like and see a couple of young black guys. Unhealthy black guys. Like maybe they’re addicted to crack or heroin. Wait. No. That’s extremely racist. But also, this is Texas. The police are already hoping the robbers are black. This way, when someone calls them out on being racist pieces of shit, they can use this incident as proof that they are right. But it is still troublesome my mind immediately went there. Perhaps I am also a racist piece of shit. But on the other hand, perhaps I am simply a genius. Maybe there isn’t a difference. Maybe both the racist pieces of shit and the geniuses will all eventually be dust and none of it matters, none of it has ever mattered.

  “Wait,” George says. “Why even bother explaining ourselves to the police? Why don’t we just go empty out your safe then get the fuck out of here?”

  I laugh at the realization of what he’s been saying. “Since when are you coming with me?”

  He shrugs. “It’s either that or I hang myself in the lobby.”

  I nod. “All right. Well. Before I thought we’d need to talk to the police because you were staying here, but now that you’re coming with me…we should probably still go along with the plan.”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  “I think we’d probably have a way easier chance of getting to Mexico without being wanted. It’s bad enough Hobbs will be after me, but at the same time, I don’t think I’m important enough for him to actually hunt me down. So this Mexico trip would really be more of a vacation than anything. I just don’t intend on ever coming back to Texas, even when we do eventually leave Mexico. If we ever leave. It might be awesome.”

  “It’s obviously going to be awesome.”

  “At this point, I’m pretty sure the shitter of a Taco Bell would be awesome compared to my current situation.”

  George frowns. “What about the guy you killed?”

  “I’ll figure something out.” If it comes down to it, I’ll take the poor dead bastard with us to Mexico. But I’m not telling George that. He would probably disagree. George gets queasy when it comes to these kind of things. “Also, I didn’t kill him. We’ve already been through this.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that he’s still dead and in your apartment. Cops find the body, I doubt they’re gonna give you the benefit of the doubt.” He readjusts his leg and groans. “Mexico better have some great feet, man, because this one is just bullshit.”

  “I’m sure if you Googled ‘Mexican feet’, you would be impressed. But in the meantime.” I clap my hands together, like maybe I’m a high school football coach now or something. “We’re running out of night.”

  George bites his lip. “I think the cops are gonna think my foot injury is suspicious.”

  “Most foot injuries are suspicious. So what?”

  “So…it just seems weird the robbers would just bash my foot. Like. I think if they’re okay with breaking a guy’s foot, then they’re probably not going to hesitate to really rough you up.”

  I check the time again. Shit. “Dude, what are you saying?”

  “I think if we want to make this realistic, if we want to come out of this looking like the victims, we’re going to have to really sell it. We’re going to have to beat the ever-living shit out of each other.”

  If I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to think of an alternative option. But right now, his words make more sense than anything else in the universe. I laugh and I don’t know if it’s a laugh of amusement or sadness or madness or what. Sometimes a laugh does not need an agenda. Sometimes it can just be a laugh.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  George nods. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

  “So you want me to hit you?”

  George stands up and moans at the weight he puts on his broken foot. “Once I’ve had some sleep, I will probably hate you. But that’s in the future. This is the only way we do this without getting caught. You hit me. I hit you. We gotta Detroit Rock City this shit.”

  I clench my hands into fists and loosen them. This is silly. “Okay, man. Fuck it. You’re right. Let’s do this. Where do you want it?”

  George shakes his head and closes his eyes. “Don’t tell me. Just do it. Hurry before I change my mind.”

  “All right…I can’t believe we’re really—”

  “Fucking hit me.”

  I hit him.

  Hard.

  Blood flies from his mouth like coffee from a lidless mug in a cup holder. I start to apologize, then fall silent as he trips and tumbles. It unravels in slow-motion and I’m still not fast enough to save him. A loud crack fills the back office as his head connects with his assistant manager’s desk and his neck snaps in a ninety degree angle. Then he’s on the ground, completely still, and I’m standing above him with a heartbeat loud enough to shatter eardrums.

  “Uh,” I say, because it is the only thing to say. “Uh.”

  I nudge him with my foot. He does not move. I nudge him harder. He remains motionless.

  “Uh.”

  I scream and flee the back office. I am no longer tired. Feet slap against the outside pavement as I haul ass back to my hotel. There’s a junkie outside waiting for me to let him in. He tries to give me hell about making him wait so long, but I push past him and escape into the lobby bathroom. I dive into the stall and project a steady stream of vomit into the toilet bowl, and suddenly I miss Kia so much it seems impossible to continue living another second without her company, her warmth. Where did she go? Does she still watch the hotel from a distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of me on the roof? Or has she skipped town? Did the owls get to her? Did she ever even exist?

  The junkie is still in the lobby when I exit the bathroom. Green goo drips from the corners of his eyeballs. “I need the presidential suite, please.”

  “Two-oh-nine.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Slice your throat and swim to it in your own pool of blood.”

  I stumble around him and hide in the back office. Eventually the junkie discovers the elevator. My breathing matches the pace of an out-of-control street racer and everything inside me burns. Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe he’s back at the Other Goddamn Hotel, struggling to get to a phone because his best friend abandoned him. Maybe there’s still time to save him. But maybe that’s all wishful thinking. Maybe I’ve killed my best friend over a few thousand dollars. Maybe I’ve…

  Shit, the money.

  I check the time. I’m no longer worried about my own breakfast lady, but now I’m racing against the Other Goddamn Hotel’s breakfast lady, who will be arriving within the hour. If I leave the money, the scene will only confuse police. Why would the thieves just leave the cash there after killing the auditor? Unless he knew the auditor, and didn’t mean to kill him…unless the other person was in fact the auditor next door, one of his only friends in the universe.

  No. The money can’t stay.

  This time I drive to the Other Goddamn Hotel. I’m afraid if I run any more I’m going to have a heart attack, which actually might be the only real solution to my
situation. Except I don’t have the willpower or ability to drop dead at the tip of a hat, so instead I sneak into the Other Goddamn Hotel. It’s still empty and George hasn’t moved since I left him. That’s because he is dead. That’s because I have killed him. That’s because I am a fucking moron and do not deserve to rot on this planet any longer. Or maybe I do. Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe immortality only comes to those who are true pieces of shit. And I’m not just any piece of shit. I am the faith-healer-leader-of-a-revival-cult-kool-aid-mixer piece of shit. I’m the Jesus Christ of pieces of shit. Not only did I convince another human being to commit a felony with me, but then I fucking killed him afterward because I don’t know how to properly throw a punch.

  I collect the trash bag of cash-filled envelopes, but I can’t bring myself to leave George alone. He had been a good friend. Not a great friend, but a damn good one. He can’t be dead. Twenty minutes ago he was alive. Twenty minutes ago, we were going to Mexico. We probably would have rented a Mexican prostitute together. Maybe we would have seen a donkey show or gotten into a fight with the cartel. Now we will do none of these things. Now he will decompose and I will sweat and panic until I’m also decomposing.

  I can’t abandon George. I can’t leave his body here. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen.

  This happened.

  This happened because of my poor decisions.

  I have to make things right. I have to react. I have to show courage.

  I have to cover this up.

  It takes fifteen minutes to roll his corpse on a luggage cart then push him outside and lift him into my trunk. His weight proves greater than the safe, but at least I’m well-practiced when it comes to disposing dead bodies. I wonder if I can include that on my resume if I’m ever in the market for a new job. Like “prison librarian.” I return to the back office of George’s hotel and wipe down various spots that I may have touched tonight. I don’t know if this will actually throw the police off my trail, but that’s what everybody always does in the movies, so I figure it’s worth a shot.

  Back at my hotel, the breakfast lady is standing outside, ready to bitch at me in Spanish for not being around to let her inside on time. I nod and apologize and pretend like I understand what she’s saying, then help her set up breakfast.