The loss marked the downturn of the hotel – and this particular area of downtown Chicago – during a period that spanned the 70s, 80s, and part of the early 1990s. That was when Shared Resorts, an international hotel corporation specializing in larger urban and resort-style properties, came in and saved the Lanigan.
In 1996, Shared Resorts pumped nearly 35 million dollars into the Lanigan. They upgraded public spaces, re-installed some of the opulent features of yesteryear that they had found stashed away in the dark storage areas scattered throughout the hotel’s massive layout, and hired restoration services to perk up some of the remaining historical features of the hotel that had not been removed during the previous renovation. They even had furniture custom designed and produced based upon photos of the furnishings that had been used to outfit the hotel’s guest rooms during its prime.
The company had put another hefty chunk of cash into the hotel again last year, upgrading rooms, adding new super-soft mattresses, changing out all the bedding, and putting flat-screen televisions into every room while still maintaining – and even heightening – the elegance they had returned to the hotel during their first renovation.
While the Lanigan would never again be what it once was, Shared Resorts had done one hell of a job bringing it into the 21st century in a stylishly classy, yet modern way that preserved a sense of history, elegance, and grace.
The Polynesian Restaurant – with its slew of hanging tiki-masks, navigational charts, brass nautical instruments, and south Pacific themed décor – was on 1B. The now defunct Triton Club was down here as well, closed in the early-70s after a string of drug-related incidents. The space now sat empty, dark, and dusty; the bar and many booths still remained as if expecting the staff to come back and wipe them down at any moment in preparation to open for the night.
The old beauty salon was also down here. I had no idea how it managed to turn a profit in this odd location, and made me wonder if for many years it hadn’t been a front for the drug supply that led to the Triton Club incidents.
The halls were wide in this area of the hotel. Their carpets were a bright lime green, accented with pink and gold in a jungle print of plants and birds that I guessed was chosen to accompany the island feel of the Polynesian.
I loved to walk the space late at night when it was deserted. As I wandered, I let the Lanigan’s essence swirl around me, trying hard to envision how it used to be down here in its heyday when the Triton Club was still thriving.
It gave me shivers every time.
This time those shivers were a combination of reverence for the hotel’s storied past and anticipation of what new stories lay in wait for a future yet unwritten.
CHAPTER FIVE
To: [email protected]
Subject: 10/28 M.O.D. Report
THE LANIGAN HOTEL
CHICAGO, IL
MANAGER ON DUTY REPORT
Saturday, October 28th
Weather: 52/39 Cloudy
Occupancy: 98%
Arrivals: 126
Departures: 53
Event Resume:
Lake Ballroom (8 a.m. - 4 p.m.) – Acorn Electric convention
6th Floor Meeting Rooms – Oak, Elm, Sycamore, Maple (8 a.m. - 3 p.m.) – Acorn Electric meetings
Sky Ballroom (5 p.m. - 8 p.m.) – Acorn Electric dinner
3rd Floor Vista Rooms III, IV, V (all day) – R & T staff presentations
Grand Ballroom (7 p.m. - mid) – R & T employee party
Notes:
A big thank you to M.O.D. Robert as well as Doug and his security staff for their help last night in handling the wedding situation and keeping everything under control with parking! Also, thanks to housekeeping for keeping the ballroom restrooms maintained even with the events running a little over schedule.
Kristen Sparks (Front Desk Supervisor)
***
After I left 1B and made it up to my room, I nabbed a beer from my room’s mini-bar, watched a little television, and was asleep on my sofa by four.
I actually ended up sleeping almost until noon. It was great. I hadn’t slept that well in months largely due to the third shift constantly calling and waking me up.
As I stumbled around my room doing a few quick calisthenics and stretches to relieve the soreness in my back after a night spent on the couch, there was a knock on my door. I yawned, gave one last stretch, cracked my neck, and walked over and opened the door.
Jonathon – one of the hotel maintenance staff – was there with his rolling work cart.
“Hi, Robert. Didn’t mean to bother you, but I have a work order to install some blackout curtains in your room. Thought you’d be at work by now.”
“No biggy,” I said, “come on in.” I stepped back to let him push his work cart into the room.
“What’s up with the curtains…if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Switching over to third shift for a while. Figured the curtains would help me sleep.”
“Good thinking,” Jonathon said as he began measuring my window-lined wall. “I worked third shift for about a year. Best and worst year of my life. Loved the freedom, hated the hours.”
“I can understand that,” I nodded.
“No bosses around to jump on your back every time something goes wrong. Place is actually pretty quite at that time of night for property operations staff.” He looked over at me, “Wouldn’t trade places with you for the world though. Not with all the crap you have thrown your way.”
I shrugged, “Just part of the job.”
“Not any job I would want,” he said, shaking his head as he marked off a few spots on my wall in pencil and pulled out a power drill. “Gonna get a little noisy here.”
“No problem. Do whatever you need to do. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
***
By the time I was done with my shower, Jonathon had finished with his work and was gone. I wiped my face with a towel, wrapped it around me, and walked out of the bathroom and over to the windows where I pulled the shades closed across in front of me.
I had to admit, the curtains did one heck of a job. Only a few slivers of light managed to peek their way between the fabric.
“Ought to do the trick,” I muttered to myself, yanking them back open to let the sludgy light of a typical Chicago October day seep its way through the gray clouds and into my room. “Good luck,” I wished it.
In all honesty though, I liked days like this – cold, gray, maybe even on the verge of some good rain or a thunderstorm. Weather like this made me feel like I wasn’t missing much by living in a hotel. I rarely felt like I was missing out on anything anyway, because I really couldn’t imagine a better living/work arrangement. Free food, free rent, free housekeeping service, free dry cleaning, no commute. How could I complain?
Of course, how could the Lanigan complain either? They were getting a full-time, live-in manager who was at the beck and call of guests and employees 24-hours a day, seven days a week. In fact, if anyone was getting a good deal, it was Tom Hanson and the rest of the Lanigan’s upper-level management. Since I had started at the hotel almost a year ago, they had done away with their previous M.O.D. program that would rotate the role on weekends among the various department heads. They had also been able to cut out a full-time hotel manager position in the process by way of my living in the hotel.
As I dressed, this train of thought resulted in an epiphany. I deserved a treat for all the extra work I was doing for the Lanigan. I was certainly going above and beyond my required duties, and I wanted something special. Tonight being Saturday night, I felt it was time to indulge a little before work.
I picked up my M.O.D. phone and scanned its call list before punching the number I wanted. As I stood waiting, I stared through my windows out over the Wescott building’s rooftop that had been repaired since the fire a year ago. Past the rooftop and between the skyscrapers of Chicago’s skyline, I could see the cold gray of Lake Michigan where its waters melted into th
e sky in one flat sheet of steel.
“Hello, this is Kristen.”
She sounded tired. Probably sleeping.
“Hey Kristen, Robert at the hotel. Sorry if I woke you.”
“Oh, hi Robert. No, that’s fine. I was actually just getting ready to go to bed.” She paused, “What’s up?” her voice suddenly sounded concerned. She was probably wondering what she’d done wrong or forgotten to do last night after I left.
“Actually, I wanted to see if you’d like to meet tonight for a bite to eat before work?”
“Oh,” she said, sounding relieved. “Sure, that would be great. Where and when?”
“How does the Polynesian sound? Around seven?”
“Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes! I’ve always wanted to eat there but haven’t had the chance.”
“Then let me be the first to treat you. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Fantastic! I’ll see you then.”
She really sounded excited.
“Bye,” she said happily.
“Bye,” I said, hanging up the phone.
People would talk, but that was okay; I was used to it. If you don’t become accustomed to gossip while working in a hotel – and especially when living in one – it can be a little aggravating. Hotel work almost demanded gossip. True or not, rumors swirled, whispers were exchanged, knowing stares floated across tables, and ribs bore bruises where they had been nudged just a few too many times. That was life in the hotel business. Being talked about – especially as a manager – was just something you got used to, and eventually it became so customary that you started to wonder if something was wrong if your name wasn’t making the rounds.
Kristen had sounded genuinely excited, and that made me excited as well. I hadn’t been to the Polynesian in almost two months, and I had to admit that it was a delight to eat there. Not only was the food mouth-wateringly delicious and equaled only in quality by its quantity, but the drinks were divinely flavored liquid ambrosia. The entertainment was truly remarkable as well; but it was the ambiance of the restaurant that took me away to another place each and every time I dined there. It was like a two-hour vacation…at work.
***
I sat in the lobby watching from afar the lucky patrons crowded along the bar inside Carlisle’s Whiskey Lounge. I wouldn’t have minded a nice stiff shot of something myself, but I had a long night of work ahead of me and I wanted to imbibe in one – just one – of those delectable, tropically hewn grogs for which the Polynesian was so famous.
A World Series game involving a local club – I won’t say which one, but it was the better of the two (and any true Chicago sport fan would easily be able to discern which one it was) was currently in progress on Carlisle’s televisions. I didn’t have to see the game to be able to tell how fate was treating the local club’s bat by the cheers or boos that would occasionally emanate from the crowd. Mid-inning breaks and pitching changes were obvious by the clearing of the bar by patrons heading to the restrooms, renewed conversations, and by a rush to send text messages or make phone calls in the brief interim.
I was vegging out completely. I loved people watching, and there were few better places to have my fill than in the Lanigan’s lobby.
I turned my attention to a couple sitting in one corner of the lounge who were paying absolutely no attention to the ballgame. That was why they were so conspicuous and what had drawn me to watch them. Surrounded by throngs of cheering, beer spilling, and team logo-adorned fans, they stood out like a sore thumb. They looked to be in their mid to late-20s and were holding hands across the table. She sipped a colorful martini of some sort. He had a glass of beer set before him. Their eyes were filled with passion, yearning, but with a twinge of nervous apprehension.
I had it narrowed down to either fresh participants in the game of love or old hands of the sport sharing a new and possibly forbidden romance.
A hand on my shoulder pulled me away from my amorous deductions. I looked up to see Kristen’s beaming face staring down at me as if an angel from on high. Her golden locks fell down around her smooth white cheeks, framing her cherub face.
“Hey there short stuff,” I said, standing. “Looking forward to your big dinner date tonight with one of the most eligible managers in the hotel?”
“That’s not saying much,” she grinned. “Most of the other male managers are either gay or married.”
“Well, that certainly puts the odds in my favor, doesn’t it?”
“The odds of what?” She gave me a flirty, sidelong glance.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I smirked.
She laughed. “I’m starving. I didn’t eat anything after you told me we were going to the Polynesian. I wanted to make sure I was good and hungry. Hope your wallet can handle it.”
“Wallet my eye! This is going straight on the Lanigan’s tab.”
“Then I’m definitely going all out,” she clapped her hands in anticipation.
“Then there’s not a minute to spare. To the bat cave!” I jumped up, grabbing her hand and pulling her along behind me as I ran toward the stairs.
We stopped running just outside the Polynesian’s entrance to catch our breath and prepare for the onslaught of sights, sounds, smells, and tastes we were about to encounter.
“You ready to stuff your gullet?” I asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Kristen nodded.
“Then lead on McDuff,” I allowed her to pass ahead of me and into the darkened interior that beckoned to us with twanging hula music.
***
The Hawaiian shirt clad restaurant host guided us between the tightly packed tables that jammed the floor of the famed restaurant’s main dining room. As we dodged diners in the dim light, I caught glimpses of the lime green jungle print carpet, emblazoned with tree-perched Toucans and fluorescent parrots soaring beneath our feet. It was similar to 1B’s corridor carpeting but more active.
I had reserved a table on the elevated perimeter of the room to provide a better view of the stage. I got a kick out of the Polynesian’s weekend show and thought Kristen needed to have a great view of the performance since it was her first experience.
We sat at a small table for two. A tiny candle sitting in a faux coconut shell struggled in vain to light its center. The soft rumble of numerous incomprehensible conversations swam around us in the tightly packed space.
“What time’s the show start?” Kristen nodded toward the stage.
“Quarter after seven.”
“Is it good?”
“You’ll see.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll SEE,” I grinned, not wanting to give anything away.
Our water glasses were filled and we were presented with drink menus by a floral-patterned muumuu-wearing waitress.
Kristen leaned over the table toward me. “Should we be drinking if we have to work tonight?” she whispered.
“That my dear, is up to you. You’re a big girl, a supervisor at the famed Lanigan Hotel. I can’t be telling you what to do. What I can tell you is that their Cocaroon-colada frozen cocktail is to die for, and I will be partaking. It’s a macaroon, pina colada combination.”
“Uh,” she moaned, rolling her eyes. “Sounds delish.”
“Believe me; it is.”
“Well then, on your recommendation, I will try one. But just one.”
Moments later, the muumuu-clad matron took our drink orders and left us with our dinner menus.
After studying our culinary options in silence for several minutes, we looked up at one another.
“I can’t decide,” Kristen said, looking slightly embarrassed. “It all sounds so good. Do you have any recommendations?”
I shook my head. “It’s all delicious, that’s what makes it so hard.”
She bit the corner of her lip and plunged her shock of blonde hair back behind the menu.
Another minute passed.
“Tell you what,” I finally said, br
eaking the deadlock, “let’s just order several appetizers so that you can try a slew of different things. Then, next time you come here with a hot date, you can look like you’re a seasoned pro. Sound good?”
Kristen smiled. “It’s a deal!”
We decided upon crab rangoon with a tangy ginger dipping sauce, egg rolls with sweet and sour sauce, bacon-wrapped sea scallops, jumbo skewered grilled prawns with mango chutney, and sides of the house special “Poly-Poly Fried Rice” which had it all – beef, pork, chicken, shrimp, bits of lobster…the works. It was a spread fit for a Polynesian king. And speaking of Polynesian king, that was exactly who was taking the stage as we finished our order. Well, actually it was Larry Mozuma, the Polynesian’s long-time dinner show host. He always came out in authentic garb, pounding a fist against his bare meaty chest, and announcing loudly, “Me, King Drinky-Drinky.” And as he pointed out toward the crowd, he would call, “You my tribe. I call you, You-Drinky-Lotsy.” He was of course accompanied by several scantily clad native girls, complete with coconut brassieres and grass skirts.
Then a show that revolved around the marriage of King Drinky-Drinky’s daughter to a shipwrecked (and mostly drunken) sailor would ensue, complete with plenty of drum beating, native songs, dancing, fire twirling, and a rousing limbo contest involving participants from the crowd. It was a ton of fun, and a full two-hour meal experience that I loved to enjoy even though the show never changed.
As the spotlights finally faded to black and the stage was cleared, along with our array of empty dinner plates, Kristen began to order her third Cocaroon-colada.
The Case of the Guest Who Stayed Over (The M.O.D. Files Book 1) Page 4