THE FOUR WINDS hotel was a pricey boutique hotel near Union Station in downtown Toronto. Owned by an international hotel chain, the ten-floor establishment boasted some of the finer amenities near the transportation hub, with quick access to the downtown shops and restaurants. It was something I could see King staying in, at least for a couple of days, providing someone was footing the bill for him.
I asked at the front desk for King’s room, but they wouldn’t give out that information, obviously. I then told them I had something for him, some of his property, that I wanted to return to him immediately. Again, they wouldn’t give out any information to just anyone off the street. I figured I’d have to get crafty about it, so I told the woman behind the counter with the overly-enthusiastic fake smile that I was a close associate of his, and that this was some really important sheet music that he needed for a jazz performance this evening. I also gave her a hundred dollars (basically my pay from the previous night). She said she was sorry she couldn’t help me, but here was her card if I need any further help. On the card was written, “815.” Also, her phone number. Cute.
I took the elevator up to the eighth floor and walked halfway to the end of the hallway before I realized I was heading in the wrong direction. The hallway was like most hotel hallways: nondescript with over-zealous, indirect lighting and garish, low pile carpeting. There was a maid-service cart outside one room, and when I passed, I could see the cleaner making the bed.
I paused for a moment at 815. What was I going to say? “Here’s your sheet music, sorry about punching you in the gut,” or something less weird? How was he going to take this? Why was I even here?
But I knew why. My dad lived in Toronto. I was just procrastinating by following up on a lead before going to ask him in person. But I really didn’t want to talk to him right now. Not even on the phone. Maybe the phone would be better.
But I was here now. Standing right in front of King’s room. Spent a hundred bucks to get up here, not to mention how much I had to pay in parking. So why didn’t I want to knock? Suck it up, Virtue. Get on with it.
I knocked and was greeted by a loud crash and a shriek. I started banging on the door, trying to get in, but the room went silent.
“Hello?” I called out, but there were no further signs of life.
I ran back to the maid-service cart and called for the cleaner. She approached from the room, and I snagged the key card attached to her belt.
“Sorry!” I yelled, “No time to explain!” And I ran back to the room to let myself in.
Spread out on the floor by the bed was King. He was frothing at the mouth, and it looked like he’d been in a struggle, but there was no one else in the room. I quickly checked his pulse; it was erratic, so I started CPR and shouted to the maid, who had run after me, to call an ambulance.
“Tell them to bring a Naloxone kit! I think he’s overdosed!”
The cleaner ran off to get help, while I pumped the jazz player’s chest to the tempo of “Stayin’ Alive.” After a minute of CPR, King coughed and sputtered up some more foam, then gasped for breath. He looked like he was stabilizing, but I didn’t really know much beyond my basic First Aid class. I wrapped him up in a blanket to keep him warm while the paramedics took their time.
The cleaner returned to report that the ambulance was on its way. As she approached the door, a dark figure emerged from the bathroom and shoved her to the floor. I spun around and caught only the briefest glimpse of black clothing as the figure sprinted away, but I couldn’t leave. I wanted more than anything to chase down the person who did this, but needed to wait for the paramedics.
And probably the police as well.