The Case of the Linen Pressed Guest (The M.O.D. Files Book 2)

by K. W. Callahan

  “Kristen, meet Bushy. Bushy, Kristen,” I nodded. “He’s a man of few words,” I whispered confidentially to Kristen. “He’s been a fixture here since before either of us was born,” I explained. I then took a moment to explain how “back in the day” the chauvinistic businessmen who whiled away their after-work hours at the club would give the passing cocktail waitresses a little tweak to the tush or grope of the thigh as they passed or served their drinks. “Then they’d blame poor ol’ Bushy here. He was their favorite scapegoat.”

  “Sounds like a lovely work environment,” Kristen feigned a smile, her eyelids half closed to emphasize her sarcasm.

  We sat sipping our drinks for a few minutes, largely in silence, as we enjoyed taking in the ambiance and entertaining ourselves by way of our people watching. Working in hotels, both Kristen and I had become avid admirers of the human beast. We often took pleasure in observing the odd, yet intensely fascinating creature, interact with others in its habit. A hotel was just a little self-contained city, and we could monitor, study, and scrutinize the nuances of the homo sapien without ever having to leave the comfort of our workplace. It was like our own private reality television show.

  At close to nine o’clock, I said, “We’d better head up to the fourth floor. Things have probably started getting pretty busy up there.”

  * * *

  “Pretty busy” was an understatement regarding the situation on the fourth floor. People were packed like sardines into the waiting areas outside the ballrooms hosting the hotel’s main New Year’s Eve events. The entrance to the Blue Velvet Room (a ballroom whose walls were indeed clad in actual blue velvet) and the Grand and Sky Ballrooms (the dividing walls of which could be opened for events like tonight’s to make one titanic ballroom) were only about 50 yards apart. And with close to 1000 party-goers having already arrived for the night’s events, I could tell that things would quickly get out of hand if we didn’t get the ballroom doors open and the booze flowing soon.

  I looked at my watch. It was 9:04 p.m. The events were to have started at nine.

  I could already hear the grumbles of displeasure beginning to grow around us as Kristen and I worked to push our way through the masses and up to the entrance of the Grand and Sky Ballrooms where the largest of the two events was to be held. The scent of cologne, perfume, body spray, and alcohol hung heavy in a vaporous mist of body heat around us.

  “What’s going on?” Kristen yelled over the din of the crowd.

  “Not sure! But I’m going to find out!” I yelled back.

  As we approached the doors, I could see Tess Wiggins, the hotel’s main event coordinator, looking frazzled as she talked animatedly with her hands to two expressionless men in shirts and ties who looked less than interested in whatever she was saying. Several security guards held back an increasingly rowdy mob forming up around them.

  Tess was a South Carolina belle with an angelic face that could have placed her within the pages of Vogue if she’d had half an inkling to try her hand at modeling. And she had a heart-melting accent to boot. But Tess was a social bird, and she loved planning events not posing for magazines. What she didn’t love was dealing with last-minute issues that even the best event coordinator could not have predicted. That’s when this delicate southern flower tended to wilt in the heat.

  “Oh, Robert, I’m so glad you’re here,” she looked relieved by the arrival of reinforcements. “We have a real situation here,” she explained in her southern drawl.

  “It appears so,” I said, looking around us at the massing crowd, the crush of their weight forcing the front of the line ever closer to the ballroom doors. I opened one of the ballroom doors just wide enough to slip inside, guiding Tess along with me. Kristen and the two tie-wearing men followed so we could escape the tumultuous clamor of the gathering multitudes.

  “These are the agents for DJ Balldrop and DJ Fat Noose who are hosting tonight’s events,” Tess explained. “This is Mr. Robert Haze, the Lanigan’s manager on duty,” she introduced me to the two men who seemed indifferent to the fact.

  “So what’s going on, Tess?”

  “Ugh, Robert, I just don’t know what do,” Tess’s shoulders sagged in frustration. “DJ Balldrop is upset because he’s playing in the Blue Velvet Room. It’s a smaller venue so he wants to switch with DJ Fat Noose. But there’s no way Fat Noose is going for that, so now Balldrop is refusing to play at all,” she shook her head in exasperation.

  “So this Fat Noose guy, he’s fine, right?”

  “Yes, he’s happy and ready to play. But I don’t know what to do about Balldrop.”

  “Tell you what, Tess. You go tell Fat Noose to get the party rolling in here. Tell security to start letting people in, but make sure they do it in a calm and orderly manner. I don’t want eight hundred people pouring in here all at once. And make sure they’re checking tickets. I definitely don’t want the people that have come to see Balldrop sneaking in here thinking he’s not going to play the Blue Velvet Room.”

  “Are you sure?” Tess eyed me. She looked almost fearful.

  “It’ll be fine,” I placated her concerns. “Now where is DJ Balldrop?”

  I was directed by one of the agents to a far corner of the ballroom where a small entourage of people clustered around someone. Kristen was a few steps behind me. After seeing the fear in Tess’s eyes regarding the situation, I expected to find an intimidating presence in this DJ Balldrop character.

  “Who here is Balldrop?” I barged into the center of the tiny crowd.

  A pasty looking kid eyed me from his throne – a banquet chair – centered amidst his subjects, several teenage looking girls. He couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

  “That’s me,” he stood up. He was maybe five foot four at best. “You here to fix my venue set up.”

  “Yes I am,” I nodded, holding out a hand for him to shake. He shook it limply. His hand was warm and moist, like holding a damp dishrag.

  I always tried to start off friendly in these types of situations, but I didn’t plan to stay that way for long. Sometimes it took a little “shock and awe” style campaign to rattle the cages of prima donnas like this.

  “Now what I want you to do…” he started, but I cut him off.

  “No, what I want you to do is get in the dj booth that was set up specifically for you in the Blue Velvet Room, one of the most famous ballrooms in Chicago I might add (I tried to stroke the pipsqueak’s ego just a little), and start your show.”

  He looked caught off guard by my direct approach, but he recovered quickly. “There isn’t going to be a show if I don’t get this ballroom right here,” he waved around him dramatically with a hand, putting on his own little show for the teen hangers-on clustered around him. Then he stood staring at me defiantly. The kid couldn’t have been older than 18 or 19-years-old at best.

  “Sorry, that’s not an option,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Well then, neither am I,” he retorted defiantly, a nasty little smirk on his face.

  “Listen,” I said, unfazed by his demeanor and sticking to the facts, “you’ve signed a contract with the hotel to play tonight.”

  “So what? Try telling that to all my fans when I refuse to play. Tell them that I ‘signed a contract’,” he said the last three words in the voice of a whiney child.

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying something I’d regret. I was quickly loosing my patience but retained my composure. “Okay,” I nodded. “I will.” Balldrop looked uncertain as I called his bluff. “I was a DJ in college,” I lied. “And this lovely young lady beside me,” I gestured to Kristen, “would love to be my assistant for the night. She starts breaking loose and ditching some of this baggy work attire, and I guarantee she’ll definitely be attracting a hell of a lot more attention than your scrawny little butt would.”

  “Nobody knows you,” Balldrop sneered.

  “Who cares,” I shrugged. “You think anybody’s really going to give a rat’
s behind who’s playing the music tonight? Half of those people out there are already so trashed I could put on an 80s mix tape and they wouldn’t know the difference. They just want to party. So, as I see it, you have a choice; you can do the job you were hired to do and get paid, or you can leave and I’ll do it for you and have the hotel pay me. The tickets have been sold, the hotel’s made their money either way, you want to piss off your fans and not get paid, well, that’s not my problem.” I started to turn around to leave, and then paused, “Oh, and by the way, if someone gets hurt out there should a couple of those people actually care that you’re not playing tonight and try to start something, not only will I have you arrested for public endangerment, but the hotel will be suing you for breach of contract.” And with that, I turned and walked away, calling over my shoulder as I left, “And I’d be careful what you do with those little girls you’ve got hanging around.”

  Kristen and Tess hurried to catch up as I left.

  “Think he’ll play?” Tess asked worriedly.

  “He’ll play,” I nodded. “I’ve dealt with self-indulgent entertainers like him before. I don’t like to be that way, but sometimes it’s the only way to get through to them. They’re so used to having everyone say ‘yes’ to them that they forget what the word ‘no’ sounds like. We have the safety and wellbeing of our guests to look out for…not to mention their New Year’s Eves would be ruined.”

  “Especially if you were the DJ,” Kristen nudged me.

  “What? I know good music,” I feigned insult.

  “Yeah, from the 1930s and 40s.”

  “I listen to the tunes of the day,” I defended myself. “Don’t really like them…but I listen.”

  “You weren’t really a DJ in college were you?” Kristen eyed me.

  “Ahh, yet another mystery to add to the Lanigan’s long list,” I gave her double-raised eyebrows.

  Ten minutes later people were filtering into ballrooms where both DJs had started their shows. For the next hour and a half, Kristen and I made the rounds roaming the busiest sections of the hotel that took us around the 4th floor ballrooms, down to the mezzanine overlooking the lobby, then on down to the lobby itself. From there, we continued our downward descent to the street level arcade and entrances, outside for a circuit around the building, back inside, and on down to 1B, and then back up to the fourth floor to start the route all over again. Along the way, we would often radio housekeeping regarding various messes we’d discovered or call security to report rowdy or incapacitated guests.

  As we finished our third such cycle, my M.O.D. phone vibrated its request for my attention.

  “Uh oh,” I said to Kristen. “What’s up now?”

  * * *

  The hotel’s pool was what was ‘up now’ according to the hotel operator on the other end of my M.O.D. phone. From what I could gather, a group of guests had somehow accessed our pool area after hours. I didn’t bother to ask why the operator was contacting me regarding this matter rather than security. It needed to be dealt with by someone, and apparently I was going to be that someone.

  The Lanigan’s Olympic-sized swimming pool was attached to our spa and fitness center facilities that contained tens of thousands of dollars worth of workout equipment, lotions, scrubs, oils, and related Lanigan-logoed items available for purchase. Having guests in the area unsupervised could not only leave the hotel liable for any accidents that might befall the guests while there, but result in significant loss due to damage or theft. Therefore, Kristen and I took the service elevator directly up to the 7th floor.

  The pool was situated halfway between the 6th and 7th floors so that one had to go down half a flight of stairs from the fitness center to reach it. Just to the left of the pool, and down another half flight of stairs, was a palm court area with tables and chairs where guests could sit, read, and otherwise relax after their swim, workout, massage, or spa treatment. This space opened up to the 6th floor through two sliding glass doors. At times, employees opened these doors for increased airflow during the day, but forgot to lock them or locked them improperly when leaving at night.

  Tonight, some inebriated and particularly wily guests had managed to discover this access to the pool area and had apparently called a bunch of their friends to assist them in exploiting the breach. There were at least 20 intoxicated and naked guests frolicking wildly in our pool. Several more were lounging in one of the hot tubs nearby. Socks, shoes and assorted other clothes were strewn haphazardly around the pool deck.

  “Well, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Kristen said as we stopped at the pool’s edge, casually observing the nude bathers. Our presence didn’t seem to disturb their enjoyment of the hotel’s pool facilities in the least. “What are we going to do?” she asked, staring around her in wonderment.

  I cupped my hands to my mouth. “May I have everyone’s attention?” I called.

  Nary an eye turned toward us at my request.

  “Ahem,” I cleared my throat loudly. “May I please have everyone’s attention!?” I called louder this time.

  The frolicking partiers didn’t miss a beat in their revelry.

  “That worked well,” Kristen said. “Any other ideas?”

  “We could join them,” I suggested smugly.

  “Be a heck of a lot more fun that working,” she considered.

  “Come on,” I said, walking over to a rack that held rows of clean pool towels. I grabbed a stack. “Hold out your arms,” I told Kristen as I began to load up her arms with towels. When I was done with her, she couldn’t even see over the top of the stack. I took a fresh towel in one hand and Kristen’s arm in the other so that I could guide her over to the edge of the pool where I scanned the waters, searching for the least inebriated guest I could find.

  Finally, I picked one still wearing his tighty-whities and singled him out. “Excuse me, sir?” I said, moving closer to where he was treading water in one corner of the pool.

  He looked up at me nervously. “Yes?” he said hesitantly. I could tell he was embarrassed. They were just having a good time, and I really didn’t want to ruin twenty-some guests’ good times at the hotel on New Year’s Eve.

  “Could I have a word?”

  “Sure,” he nodded.

  I waited as he climbed from the pool and then handed him a towel in which he could wrap himself since his white undies weren’t doing much to maintain his modesty.

  “These your friends?” I nodded to the pool full of partiers.

  “Most of them,” he stood shivering. The temperature of the pool’s water, as well as the ambient air in this part of the hotel, was lowered at night. This was one the hotel’s many energy-saving actions that had placed it at the top of the list among environmentally-friendly hotels nation wide. “We picked up a few people we don’t really know on the way here,” he added as he worked to dry himself with the towel I’d given him.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I know that you’re just having a good time, but I can’t allow you and your friends to be here after hours. It’s a liability issue. But I don’t really want to call security since they would likely remove you from the hotel, and that wouldn’t be a pleasant ending to your evening. So here’s what I’ll do,” I pulled a pen and a leather-bound flip-top notepad from my suit jacket pocket. It was my “comp” book. Taking a page from Las Vegas casinos, I’d convinced Tom shortly after my assuming the role of manager on duty, to allow such books to be distributed among department heads and managers, the hotel M.O.D., and anyone who might be serving as temporary M.O.D. on the rare occasion when I wasn’t on the hotel premises. The notepad was filled with tear-off coupons that things like complimentary appetizers, drinks, discounts on various hotel services, hotel logoed t-shirts and robes, and similar amenities could be distributed to guests when problems arose. It saved time and confusion about how to efficiently resolve guest service issues, and it provided management with a way not only to keep our guests happy but to market and direct more business to the
hotel’s various outlets. Sure, it cost the hotel money in the short run, but we more than made up for it with the free advertising and the additional purchases guests often made when they partook of their freebie. It was seldom that a guest showed up to one of our bars and only had their one free drink or appetizer. There was typically a follow-up drink or three, or an entrée and maybe a dessert ordered as well. Or they brought a spouse, friend or family with them.

  I scribbled on my pad, then ripped off the attached coupon and handed it to the man. “Our new establishment, the Triton Club down on 1B, is having their grand opening celebration tonight. This coupon is for one free drink of your choosing,” I explained. “Just tell them that Robert, the hotel manager on duty sent you, and they’ll take care of you, okay?”

  “Oookay!” the man perked up.

  “Now round up your friends and I’ll write one of these for each of them. I’ll let you hand them out. You can be the go-to guy for free drinks tonight. How’s that sound?”

  He was back to the poolside gathering his cohorts in seconds, waving the coupon I’d written him in his hand and yelling, “Hey! Free drinks! Free drinks everybody!”

  Kristen and I stood nearby, me writing free drink coupons and her handing out pool towels, and within ten minutes, all the naughty nudists were dried, dressed and on their way downstairs. I was sure that the Triton Club would welcome the additional traffic, even if the patrons were still a little damp and smelled strongly of chlorine.

  “Guess you know what you’re doing after all,” Kristen grinned at me as the last few guests made their way back out the way they’d come through the 6th floor sliding doors that I made sure were secured behind them.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” I smiled.