Criminal Karma Read Online Free
Author: Steven M. Thomas
unhappily, glancing around the lobby again.
The clerk ran two key cards through the coding machine and inserted them in a paper folder. “You go left when you come out of the elevator on the fifth floor, left again and then follow the hallway to your suite. A bellman will be right up with your luggage.”
“Can’t someone bring it now?” the lady said.
“We’re very busy,” the clerk said. “It will be just a few minutes.”
“Please,” the lady said. “I’d much rather have the luggage go up with me.”
Her words caught my heart like the toe of a punter’s shoe, sending it soaring into the blue sky above the stadium. She didn’t want that Samsonite out of her sight.
“Let me see what I can do,” the Latina said, and walked away to theend of the counter, where there was a traffic jam of laden luggage carts and harried bellboys. She spoke to a plump black man with a goatee, who nodded and pointed to the red suitcases. As the clerk came back, the goatee maneuvered the cart into the clear.
“John will take you to your room, Mrs. Evermore.”
“Thank you so much. What is your name, dear?”
“Loretta, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Loretta.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
You don’t get that kind of service at Motel 6.
As the lady and the black bellman moved toward the elevators on the far side of the lobby, a hulking matron in a green tweed outfit more suitable for wintertime Chicago than Indian Wells charged past them in the opposite direction, bearing down on the front desk as if it were a buffet. Barging through the resentful crowd, she leaned her bosom across the counter to address the clerk next to the one who had waited on Evermore.
“Where are my bags?” she screeched in a falsetto that was comical coming from her pro lineman’s body. She was six feet tall, probably 275 pounds, with a big fry cook’s head and what looked like size-twelve feet squeezed into size-ten brown leather traveling shoes. “We’ve been waiting half an hour and we can’t even change our clothes to go out to dinner. What kind of hotel is this? My husband isn’t paying four hundred dollars a night to be treated like this. We’ve been on a plane for six hours and we’re starving to death!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the clerk, flustered by the onslaught. “Where are you—what room are you in?”
“I’m in room 569, and I want my luggage now!”
While all eyes were fixed on the drama of the bitchy snowbird and the beleaguered desk clerk, I reached over the counter and took a blank key card from the stack beside the coding machine and murmured my way through the crowd to sit on a tan leather couch against the wall.
After about ten minutes, the Latina who had waited on Evermore disappeared through a doorway behind the front desk. I made my way back to the counter.
“Excuse me,” I said to a woman arguing with two children at the front of one of the lines, then spoke to the clerk, holding out the stolen card: “There’s something wrong with this card. My wife forgot her medication in our room and when we tried to get back in the door wouldn’t open.”
The clerk glanced from the woman to me and back.
“Go ahead and help him,” the woman panted, trying to wrestle into submission a freckle-faced demon who was squealing and kicking a suitcase.
“What room are you in?” the clerk asked me.
“Room 589, Evermore,” I said.
She looked at her computer screen, nodded, pressed a couple of keys, and ran the blank card through the machine. “Here you go, Mr. Evermore. Sometimes if you put them next to a credit card in your wallet, it messes them up. It should work now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I found Reggie sitting in a green plaid easy chair in the bar, finishing his second Budweiser. The bag was on the floor beside him.
“No sign of the punk,” he said after I sat down in the plaid chair next to him. “How’d it go?”
I held up the key card. “We’re in.”
A cocktail waitress stopped at my
The clerk ran two key cards through the coding machine and inserted them in a paper folder. “You go left when you come out of the elevator on the fifth floor, left again and then follow the hallway to your suite. A bellman will be right up with your luggage.”
“Can’t someone bring it now?” the lady said.
“We’re very busy,” the clerk said. “It will be just a few minutes.”
“Please,” the lady said. “I’d much rather have the luggage go up with me.”
Her words caught my heart like the toe of a punter’s shoe, sending it soaring into the blue sky above the stadium. She didn’t want that Samsonite out of her sight.
“Let me see what I can do,” the Latina said, and walked away to theend of the counter, where there was a traffic jam of laden luggage carts and harried bellboys. She spoke to a plump black man with a goatee, who nodded and pointed to the red suitcases. As the clerk came back, the goatee maneuvered the cart into the clear.
“John will take you to your room, Mrs. Evermore.”
“Thank you so much. What is your name, dear?”
“Loretta, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Loretta.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
You don’t get that kind of service at Motel 6.
As the lady and the black bellman moved toward the elevators on the far side of the lobby, a hulking matron in a green tweed outfit more suitable for wintertime Chicago than Indian Wells charged past them in the opposite direction, bearing down on the front desk as if it were a buffet. Barging through the resentful crowd, she leaned her bosom across the counter to address the clerk next to the one who had waited on Evermore.
“Where are my bags?” she screeched in a falsetto that was comical coming from her pro lineman’s body. She was six feet tall, probably 275 pounds, with a big fry cook’s head and what looked like size-twelve feet squeezed into size-ten brown leather traveling shoes. “We’ve been waiting half an hour and we can’t even change our clothes to go out to dinner. What kind of hotel is this? My husband isn’t paying four hundred dollars a night to be treated like this. We’ve been on a plane for six hours and we’re starving to death!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the clerk, flustered by the onslaught. “Where are you—what room are you in?”
“I’m in room 569, and I want my luggage now!”
While all eyes were fixed on the drama of the bitchy snowbird and the beleaguered desk clerk, I reached over the counter and took a blank key card from the stack beside the coding machine and murmured my way through the crowd to sit on a tan leather couch against the wall.
After about ten minutes, the Latina who had waited on Evermore disappeared through a doorway behind the front desk. I made my way back to the counter.
“Excuse me,” I said to a woman arguing with two children at the front of one of the lines, then spoke to the clerk, holding out the stolen card: “There’s something wrong with this card. My wife forgot her medication in our room and when we tried to get back in the door wouldn’t open.”
The clerk glanced from the woman to me and back.
“Go ahead and help him,” the woman panted, trying to wrestle into submission a freckle-faced demon who was squealing and kicking a suitcase.
“What room are you in?” the clerk asked me.
“Room 589, Evermore,” I said.
She looked at her computer screen, nodded, pressed a couple of keys, and ran the blank card through the machine. “Here you go, Mr. Evermore. Sometimes if you put them next to a credit card in your wallet, it messes them up. It should work now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I found Reggie sitting in a green plaid easy chair in the bar, finishing his second Budweiser. The bag was on the floor beside him.
“No sign of the punk,” he said after I sat down in the plaid chair next to him. “How’d it go?”
I held up the key card. “We’re in.”
A cocktail waitress stopped at my
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