CHAPTER 13

Why wasn’t the vending machine stocked with cans of tonic water? That would have made life so very simple.

Before I met Jan, I dated a girl a few times and she drank vodka, mixed it with tonic. I’ve heard the Russians have a saying, something like “There are no ugly women, only not enough vodka!” Well, it turned out the same held true for tall, geeky guys. The more vodka and tonics the girl drank, the wittier, interesting, and, dare I think it, desirable I became. Maybe lightning would strike twice.

Tonight, however, no tonic, so while Tina waited for me in my bed back in the room, I stood in front of the damned machine completely at a loss as to what soda she would like to mix with her vodka. So many choices and I wanted to get this right.

Jan drank wine, white wine, and very little of it. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw her tipsy, let alone drunk. She always seemed to have studying to do, an early class the next morning or was on call at the hospital. She drank so little, in fact, that I had no idea how such a beautiful woman ever found me attractive enough to want to sleep with me.

The hell with it! I fed dollar after dollar into the machine and worked my way down from the top of the choices. One of the reasons this all seemed to be taking so long was my need to stop at the front desk and get change for my twenty. The machine only accepted one dollar bills. I found out Tina was right though. The young guy at the front desk was much nicer than Peter the manager. First he asked me if my visitor had found my room and after he handed me my change, he gave me a knowing look and wished me a good night. I told him I wished me a good night too. He laughed.

So now I was making my choices--7-Up, of course, Mug Root Beer, sure. Pepsi, sure. Mountain Dew, sure, Iced Tea, sure, why not? I was bound to be right with one of them. Once down the column, and then--spare no expense--another round.

I looked down at the collection of ten soda cans at my feet and realized I now had to carry them back to the room. There were no bags in sight. Of course, I could make a couple of trips but there was no way I wanted to leave that hotel room once I returned. There was, it seemed, no other option for me but to put my faith in the work quality of a Sri Lankan sweatshop worker and carry my load in my newly purchased “Property of Hastings University” T-shirt.

I pulled the bottom of my shirt out and began piling the cans into the pouch I created. I had to keep pulling the bottom up more and more with each can I deposited, so that by the time I had them all loaded, the shirt bottom was up to my chin. I realized I probably looked pretty silly, but no one was going to see me. I just hoped the shirt would hold out.

I had forgotten about the ice, so I had to slowly lower into a crouch to pick the ice bucket up off the floor. The cans shifted and slid toward the outer edges of my pouch, but I managed to keep any cans from falling out while I grabbed the bucket, placed it under the ice dispenser, and pushed the button that released ice a few times until the bucket was full. Life shouldn’t be this hard. Then I thought of Tina. It was all worth it. In a matter of moments, I would drop the brightly colored cans at her feet like some kind of pirate’s booty of sparkling gems.

I left the beverage nook and turned to return to the room.

“You there. Hold on a minute. I want a word.”

I recognized the voice right away--Peter the manager. I sped up as much as I could. The weight of the cans forced me to bend forward a bit and I couldn’t move too fast without having them swing out and then back against my chest. I couldn’t let him catch me. Paradise lay just around the turn at the end of the corridor.

“Mr. Byrne. Stop.” I did. He came up alongside me. He was breathing like he’d just run a fifty-yard dash. “Didn’t you--” He gulped some air. “--didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“You were calling me? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes. You didn’t finish filling out your reservation sheet. I need a phone number and license...what the hell is that?”

He eyed my pouch suspiciously. This wasn’t turning out well at all.

“This? Ah, well...um...you see, I’m not supposed to tell anyone. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“A secret, huh? Know what I think? I think you’re some kind of junkie--heard junkies get massive sugar cravings. Why else would someone be carrying...what have you got there?...a dozen cans of soda?”

My room was only a few doors away down the hall. I couldn’t let him stop me now. Time for a little creativity.

“Well...um...you see...um...I could get fired for telling you.” The look on his face didn’t show much concern. I had to come up with something and it had to be good. “Have you ever heard of Zagats?”

“Zagats, the restaurant reviewer? Sure. What’s that got to do with anything? We don’t have a restaurant here, just a lounge.”

“Well...um...you see, there hasn’t been any sort of announcement yet, People at corporate are keeping things pretty hush-hush, you know how they can be.”

If he did, old Peter wasn’t sharing his knowledge with me. The skepticism was clear on his face. I’d never been a good liar and expected to break out in a beady sweat at any moment, in spite of having cold soda cans pressed against my body in the air conditioned hallway.

“So--now you promise not to say anything, right?--well, we’re branching out, you see, going to start rating hotels the way we do restaurants. I’m one of the reviewers.”

“You?” he asked, “You don’t look like any hotel reviewer I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, ah, that’s the point. My bosses wanted me to base my experience at the hotel from the average joe’s perspective--”

Peter frowned.

“Not that that’s the type of clientele this hotel attracts,” I quickly added to avoid any perceived insult and pander a bit to his pride. “It’s just that if a hotel treats someone looking like me with great service, well then...you get the point.”

It seemed to be working. He was listening, appeared to be mulling it over. “So what are all the soda cans for?”

“The cans...well, um, I’m checking for dust.”

“Dust?”

“Yeah, we’re very thorough. You’d be surprised how often the finest hotels have vending machines stocked with stale chips, candy with expired sell-by dates or dirty soda cans--really quite appalling. It’s going to cost more than one hotel a five star rating when we launch our service later this year, I can tell you.”

His face showed the slightest hint of concern. He seemed to be buying it. No doubt that first thing in the morning he’d be directing his staff to check every vending machine in the place. I saw my opening to get away.

“Well, if that’s all, then I really should get back to my room and finish my work, although I must say at first glance these cans look just fine. Sure, they’ll be no problem,” I said, starting off to my room.

I was almost away when the manager caught up to me once again. This time he was all charm.

“I’m terribly sorry if there was any inconvenience. I mean we do have to be careful--the welfare of our guests and all. I want you to know that should you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. Not because of the Zagat review, of course, but just because that’s how we treat all our guests. No request is too great. And I do want to apologize, if there was any perceived abruptness on my part, it’s just that when you showed up without any luggage or a car, well that’s very unusual.”

“Oh yeah, about the car. I’m afraid that was part of the undercover bit. I do have a car, my assistant brought it here and parked it in the back, outside my room--a red Toyota Camry--just in case you get suspicious. Massachusetts plates.” Last thing I needed was him calling the cops to report a strange car sitting in the parking lot all night. As far as they knew, it was still stolen.

“Glad you told me. We do have a man who patrols the grounds, checking for anything unusual, security you see. After all, the hotel does everything it can to make sure our guests are safe and sound,” he said with an ingratiating smile.

We’d just about reached my room and I realized that, with Peter standing next to me, it might be better to use my key than to knock and have a scantily-clad Tina open the door. Problem was, my hands were tied up holding the soda cans and ice bucket. I turned to him.

“Would you mind taking these cans for a moment while I fish for my room key?”

“Not at all. I’d be glad to.”

He probably would have washed and waxed my car if I’d asked. He held out his arms as I poured the cans into them. Amazingly, he didn’t drop one of them.

We reached my door just as I pulled my key from my back pocket. Turned out it wasn’t needed. The door was slightly ajar.

Damn, I thought. Tina must have given up on me. I pushed the door open and entered the room. I didn’t know it at the time, but Peter was following close behind me.

“Tina?” I called out, moving farther into the room. I heard the sound of soda cans hitting the floor behind me. I turned and saw Peter dashing to the bathroom and then heard the sound of him retching into the toilet. I turned back and looked at my bed. Tina lay on her back, eyes vacantly looking up at the ceiling, a stain of bright red blood growing larger on the negligee she had put on for her special occasion.