The Last Checkout

by Peter Besson

  Lost in her own dark thoughts, Nikki didn’t realize Manolo had spoken until he cleared his throat and tried again. “No much travel, miss?” He shook the suitcases for emphasis. Empty weight mostly, only a few things clumping around inside.

  “No. Not much. Just enough for a couple of days.” She smiled her sad smile, opened her purse and took out a handful of cash. “Thank you… Manolo?”

  Manolo hesitated. That looked like a lot of money. “Yes.” Gingerly, afraid she might snatch it away at any moment, he took the cash. Then he smiled broadly. “Gracias, señorita. I hope you not go fast.” He nodded, then closed the door behind him.

  Nikki stood in the middle of the grand suite, a pretty girl in a red dress, looking lost, as if she had been hired for the world’s saddest fashion shoot. She hugged herself. Looked up.

  At least she still had a dazzling chandelier. She smiled at the memory: the man down the hall, twitching at the end of the rope like a puppet being electrocuted. She laughed out loud, but it soon died in the stillness of the big room. Laughter felt like an intruder in these halls, quickly absorbed and forgotten.

  Nikki opened her suitcases. Manolo must have been seriously out of shape: there wasn’t much in there. Hastily thrown-in clothes, roughly a dozen items at that, a couple of books—real books, made out of paper and glue—a pack of condoms, god knew what for (well, He knew, but according to most religions, He’d rather look the other way when humans muck about that way), and, among those few scattered belongings, a framed picture of a little girl. Around six years old, she wore an ice-skating outfit, all glitter and prettiness, hair in braids, ribbons woven through. She stood at the center of an ice rink, cradling a giant trophy. Smiling the happiest smile, beaming like only kids can, with nothing holding them back. Pure joy.

  Nikki set the picture on the nightstand, carefully, caressing it as she did. Then she picked up the house telephone and dialed a number.

  It rang. Once. Twice.

  Click.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad?”

  “What—Nikki? Why are you calling me from…” It took a bit for her dad to process the information, but he must have seen the caller ID. “Oh no…”

  “Yes, Dad. It’s been a year. I even waited an extra day, so you couldn’t say I rushed things.”

  “Oh, Nikki.”

  “Tell Mom I love her.”

  “Nikki, what have you done?” The shock in his voice changed to a harsher tone. He seemed to have found his bearings. “Damn it, how could you just—”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  She hung up. Took a deep breath. Then she stepped to the bank of windows looking out over the concrete forest of gray on gray, the world she didn’t belong to anymore.

  Deep in thought, she rubbed the metal band clamped around her wrist. No visible lock on it, only a solid band of metal, displaying ‘08:00’ in red digital numbers.

  ***

  A knock.

  “It’s open, Morty,” Ansel called out.

  He was lounging on the couch in his suite, feet propped on the table before him, blowing smoke into the air with relish. Felt good to have one more cigarette. Felt good having the feet up. Felt good not giving a shit. Actually, felt pretty good just to be alive.

  On the floor, the shattered mess of the chandelier sprawled in every direction, a carpet of shimmering light. Gingerly, setting each foot with exquisite care, Morton Gallagher tiptoed into the room, his hands held daintily high as if this way he could avoid putting his full weight into the grime of crude physical matter. Or at least not sully his six-hundred-dollar shoes.

  Morton’s face looked like a plastic bag stretched taut over a skull. The skin was so tight, so flawless from multiple face lifts, it was a miracle it hadn’t snapped off and rolled up all the way to the back of his head. In his quest to appear ageless, there wasn’t a single improvement to his body he was capable of saying ‘no’ to. Nip-tuck? Snip-clamp? Yes, please—anything but surrender to the cruel fate of the body and its earthy desire to settle, crumble, and turn to dust. Morton thought he could simply stop aging and defy gravity—and, while he was at it, death as well. It was only a matter of conviction.

  “Good day, Mr. Grayson.” Morton’s voice was as smooth as liquid chocolate. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by, but I heard about your little… misfortune.” He regarded the bed of glass on the floor with genuine sorrow.

  “I’m surprised that thing didn’t fall by itself. Ever thought about just putting up a sturdy hook?” Ansel asked.

  “Here at Hotel Terminus, we strive to provide the most refined and memorable exit strategies for our guests, but we never intended this to be a trapeze for extended acrobatics.” Morton steepled his hands together. “Merely a sort of… glamorous stepping-off point.”

  Ansel measured Morton shrewdly. Took another drag off his cigarette. “I don’t think you came here to read to me from your brochure, Morty.”

  “No, Mr. Grayson, indeed I didn’t.” Morton stepped over the chandelier carnage, giving it one last glance of bereavement. “Please forgive me, but this is a… delicate matter, and in danger of sounding insensitive to our guests’ needs—”

  “For god’s sake, Morty. Do us both a favor: Stop the sidestepping like a fucking crab and spit it out.”

  “We would require you to pay for the damage.”

  Ansel blinked a couple of times and looked at Morton, unperturbed. “What damage?”

  Morton moved aside to afford Ansel a better view of what was left of the grand chandelier on the floor.

  “This?”

  “Yes.” Morton nodded gravely.

  “I’m not paying for shoddy workmanship.”

  “Mr. Grayson. This establishment has had the pleasure of serving the public for the last twelve years, as you very well know…”

  Ansel frowned. Was that a hint? No telling with Morton, who would rather swallow his own tongue than say anything resembling the truth, but it sure sounded like a dig at Ansel and his almost legendary indecisiveness with regard to checking out.

  “… and we have never had this happen,” Morton continued. “This is not a circus, and we expect our guests to behave accordingly. And if you’d ever done us the courtesy of leaving this room—”

  Oh, that was definitely a hint. More like a baseball bat to the head.

  “—we would have had the chance to renovate. As we have done with the rest of the rooms.”

  “I haven’t seen you renovate one thing.”

  “I do not expect you to be intimately familiar with the internal operations of Hotel Terminus—”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Morton pretended not to hear. “—so you may not be aware of paragraph eight, subsection twenty-three of the termination contract.”

  “Does it have anything to do with you pestering people until they jump out the window?”

  That slick smile never left Morton’s face. The surgeons must have carved it into his skull permanently. “It states that any disproportionate damage inflicted upon the property of Hotel Terminus is subject to collection from the guest’s standing funds before the balance of their account is paid to any surviving members of the family.”

  “From my account.”

  “Your account.”

  Stunned, Ansel let that one sink in for a while.

  After what he deemed an appropriate amount of time, Morton cleared his throat delicately. “And, after consulting said account, I’m afraid it’s running a bit low.”

  “How low?”

  “Well, if we take into consideration the extensive damage to the property, the irreplaceable nature of the turn-of-the-century Baccarat chandelier, the costs of repair and restoration, the lost income from—”

  “How much?”

  “There still might be some unforeseen expenses on our end. I’ll be sure to deliver a full, detailed—”

  “How much!” Ansel’s couldn’t-care-if-my-pants-were-on-fir
e indifference evaporated, boiled away by real anger.

  “Four days. Give or take.” The next words seemed to provide Morton with immense pleasure. “Mostly take.”

  “You greedy bastard.” Ansel flicked his cigarette stub so that it landed at Morton’s feet. Morton, barely raising an eyebrow, ground the butt into the powdered glass with his heel. “That’s how you make all your money, isn’t it? That slick suit, the dapper shoes, the twenty-seventh facelift… just come up with bogus claims, charge people outrageous fees, and bleed them dry.”

  “The rules are the rules, Mr. Grayson. I’m simply here to inform you.”

  “Consider me informed. Now buzz off.”

  Ansel wouldn’t have thought Morton’s saccharine smile could get any sweeter, but it did. He reached into his custom-fitted jacket and presented a white envelope. “The list of damages. For your tax purposes? Where would you like me to…” He scanned the destroyed room, trying to find the perfect spot for the bill.

  “Shove it.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “All the way up.”

  Morton, smile frozen, inclined his head and placed the envelope with considerable care on what was left of the metal chandelier frame. He turned to leave, then stopped, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “And Mr. Grayson? Should you find you lack the… fortitude to take the necessary step, I’m sure Huntley would be more than happy to assist. In any way.”

  “Fuck you very much.”

  Morton gave what seemed his first genuine smile and, with that, turned and slinked out of the room.

  ***

  4:15 pm.

  Huntley snapped his shirt sleeve back over his watch. He reached down, pulled out the sign and set it on the concierge desk. He nudged it so all its lines were at right angles to the tabletop, the lobby, the whole world.

  Huntley adjusted his jacket, tightened his tie, and, with measured steps, circled the desk and headed for the elevator, face stoic, chin up. Each movement was carried out with the care and dignity of a US Marine folding the flag of a fallen comrade. Soon, the elevator arrived with a hushed ‘ding.’ The doors opened. Huntley took unhurried steps inside. The doors closed.

  Room 516.

  Huntley slid a keycard into the slot. Green light. He pushed the door open, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

  Unlike Ansel’s room with its chandelier—or, as of now, without it—this was a much more ordinary one. Understated elegance slowly slipping into dusty irrelevance. Huntley paused in the middle of the room, taking stock. Everything was in its place: the bed made. The shades drawn halfway, spilling shadowy light across the floor. The carpets freshly vacuumed. A floral arrangement on the console table. Everything there except a guest.

  Huntley paced across the room, sliding his finger across the top of a picture frame.

  Clean.

  He aligned the picture.

  Perfect.

  He slid over to the bed and tucked in one of the corners with military precision. Smoothed the comforter. Lined up the pillows. At last, the room was as flawless as Huntley could make it.

  He took his place in the chair by the window, hands on knees.

  And so Huntley waited, his face in darkness, while the sunlight crept across the carpet.

  ***

  Chet Romer had his own ritual to attend to. It was a considerably more frequent ritual, and it involved a hell of a lot more drugs. One drug, to be precise. And precise he had to be.

  A seasoned junkie, Romer knew the exact limits of his failing body. He pushed them, but never too far into the paradise of a heroin overdose. He always rode the edge, opioid receptors in his brain on fire, singing hallelujah, Romer buoyantly surfing the waves of ecstasy. He was catching a big one when Ansel bounced the bathroom door against his skull, sending an altogether different electrical signal to his spoiled synaptic gaps, something inconsistent with heroin bliss and more along the lines of actual pain.

  “Ouch,” Romer moaned.

  He lay in his bathroom, sprawled on the floor like a dope angel, his head blocking the door from opening. It hit him again. “Ouch fuck what?”

  Ansel squeezed his head into the door’s gap. “Hey Romes.”

  “Hey what I’m not dead yet.”

  “I can see that. You got a minute?” Ansel asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Romer looked around, trying to orient himself. He was on the bathroom floor. Dressed. Good. There was blood. That was probably bad. But hang on. A needle stuck in his arm. Ah, that’s where the blood was from. And would you look at that: There was more smack to be had. “No, I don’t think I do.” He reached for the needle, about to push the rest of the liquid awesomeness into his bloodstream.

  “Hold it.” Ansel wedged himself through the open door, banging Romer’s head again in the process.

  “Damn it, what is it?”

  Ansel squeezed by Romer and sat on the toilet. “Morton came by. Gave me shit about breaking the chandelier.”

  “Why’d you do that? Those are nice.” Romer eyed the needle in his arm. So close…

  “Doesn’t matter why or what happened. Focus, Romes. Morton tells me I got to pay for it,” Ansel said, and waited for the appropriate outrage from his friend.

  They’d been neighbors for close to ten years, sharing a wall and most of their lives—what little they had left of them. Romer was one of the few things that kept Ansel from checking out—Romer’s unshakable calm and the broad wisdom the junkie lawyer had accumulated regarding life and the terrible abyss underneath, all hidden behind a half-smile prompted by either world-weariness or the smack coursing through his veins, depending on the time of day. Ansel had caught Romer at just the right moment; he was mostly coherent, and Ansel wanted to take advantage of that brilliant but addicted brain of his.

  Romer didn’t seem to be indignant enough at the trickeries of eel-slick Morton, though. “Romer! He’s taking money out of my account. How can he do that?”

  “Didn’t you read the boilerplate?”

  “No!”

  “Should have.”

  “Not everyone’s a fucking lawyer, Romes.”

  “And that’s how all the trouble starts.” Romer reached for the needle but was stopped by Ansel’s next outburst.

  “Now what? What can I do?”

  “Find money. Or check out.”

  “You’re one hell of a friend.” He jumped off the toilet and yanked on the door, almost hitting Romer again.

  “What? What do you want? Isn’t that why you’re here in the first place?”

  “Yes, but it was always going to be on my timeline. Not Morton’s. Not anybody else’s. Mine.”

  “Well, it’s been long enough, don’t you think? What are you waiting for?”

  Ansel stared at Romer. His mouth opened, then closed again.

  “I love you,” Romer said. “I do. But I know why I’m here. Do you?” He grabbed the needle and pushed the plunger down. “Ask yourself that, my friend.”

  Romer closed his eyes, anticipating euphoria. He didn’t have to wait long, and then he was off, shooting up high into the wide-open space of the terrific.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANSEL & NIKKI

  “Whaddaszatmean?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Henry, the drunk who invariably dropped his whiskey glass after breakfast, leaned in closer to Nikki. He’d just had his liquid dinner, twice over, consumed as always here in the bar, and the world was about to spin down and out for him, but when he got an eyeful of the new arrival, he held on to the bar counter with hard-earned tenacity.

  For the occasion of leaving his room, he had thrown on his suit, complete with food stains and scuffed elbows. Over the years, a ritual had developed at the Last Resorts where guests were drawn to the bar as a final stop on their road to the grave. They would come, dressed up as if attending a conference of professionals, hoping for one last interaction, one last spark of a common human
bond—but most would leave despondent and drunk, and would be dead by the end of the night. With the decline of the Last Resorts the nightly happy hour, never happy to begin with, had turned into a very low-key affair—any lower and it would be subsonic. Most showed up for a last drink, a quick check to see what they were leaving behind (not much, they determined), and possibly conduct a brief survey about preferred methods of suicide. Soon they disappeared to their room, followed promptly by a muffled gunshot or an abrupt surge in electricity.

  Nikki was wearing a stunning rose-colored dress, as tight as if it was poured on, and a frozen smile on her lips. She tried to remain polite and not lean too far away from the cloud of whiskey breath mingled with sour sweat that permanently encircled Henry. She’d come down to the hotel bar, not sure what to expect, but had decided to bring along a book, her favorite book, to give it a last glance over in case she determined that tonight was the night. She felt ambivalent about it, and wanted to find out if anything would happen that would push her one way or the other. She’d found the bar nearly empty. Henry swayed at the counter like a ship caught in heavy seas, and in the back, Leah the nymphomaniac straddled some poor soul who’d come in for a drink and a quick gun to the temple until he’d caught Leah’s lewd eye and had to realize that her plans were now his own. Try as he might, he couldn’t resist the full assault of Leah’s charms, so he settled down, accepted legs and arms all over him, and ordered another drink.

  “Whatddaszatmean?” Henry repeated. His slurring seemed to get worse. “From the classsshhp of the kn- knitt- knittd—” Now there was spittle flying. Henry frowned so hard his face was in danger of collapsing to a point between his eyebrows. “Knitted lockssshhh—” Another shower of saliva. “Fff-from the—”