Royal Flush Read Online Free Page B
Author: Stephanie Caffrey
me, but even the fall fashion issue of InStyle wasn't going to make the stakeout that much more tolerable. My Audi TT was cramped, and if I wanted a view of Kent's apartment I needed to crane my neck to look in my rearview mirror.
After twenty minutes of drudgery, punctuated only by a couple of choice fashion tips from my magazine, I gave up on the idea of sitting in my car all day. Melanie had resources, and she could afford to get me a more comfortable setup. Plus, I had to pee. I climbed out of the car and, with a little bit of trepidation, approached the door marked Office and pulled it open. A little bell rang as I walked in, then nothing happened.
It was almost noon, so I figured the receptionist could be on break. There were no little bells on the desk to ring, so after a minute or two of surveying the disgusting wallpaper and inhaling secondhand smoke that was probably a remnant from the 1980s, I yelped out a little "Hello!"
It was a pathetic attempt, really, so I didn't bother waiting for a response. " Hello !" I yelled out again. My second effort produced the unmistakable sound of glass smashing on the floor, and then an "Aww, shit" from whoever had just committed the deed.
"Coming!" the voice said, annoyed.
I wasn't expecting much, but the guy who shuffled through the door was even more of a mess than I'd expected. He was only in his thirties, but had the puffy and glazed-over appearance of one of the original members of the band KISS. He was fumbling with his cigarette lighter and uttering more choice words under his breath. First things first, I supposed.
Once he got the cigarette lit and took a deep drag, he finally addressed me. "Sorry, man, you woke me up."
I wasn't sure how to respond, either to the "man" appellation or to the fact that he seemed a little ticked that I'd had the nerve to come into the office during business hours. I decided to let it slide.
"Can I get a room?" I asked.
He seemed a little surprised by the question. "Uhh, yeah. Just let me check a minute. Okay. You want an hour, a day, a week, or what?" He winked his left eye at me.
"Let's just start with a day," I said. "Cash okay?" I had no intentions of giving this slimeball my credit card information.
"You bet."
"You have anything around room sixty-two? Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, something like that?" These were the rooms directly across the parking lot from Kent's apartment.
He shrugged, looked behind him on a board covered by hanging keys, and reached for number sixty-four. I handed over the thirty-nine bucks, which seemed expensive, took the key, and got the hell out of there.
"Check out's 11 a.m.," he mumbled.
I hoped to be long gone by eleven. Best-case scenario, I could see Kent leaving his apartment and follow him around for a while, getting a sense for what he was up to. It could be something as boring as going to the Laundromat, or something a lot more telling. There was no way to know in advance.
I found my room and opened the door, unable to remember the last time I'd used an old-fashioned metal key to open a hotel room. The room itself wasn't as bad as I'd feared. The bed looked old. The pinkish sheets were frayed, and the bathroom had tiled floors straight out of 1964, but all in all it could have been worse. I peeked out the curtain and located Kent's apartment across the parking lot. It was a straight shot across, so I left the curtain open a crack and arranged a chair so I could face it. And then I settled in for what I hoped would not be a long wait.
Boy, was I wrong. One-thirty came and went, and with it the last vestiges of my ability to ignore the ravenous hunger that was roiling inside me. Murphy's Law said that if I left to pick up lunch, that would be the time Kent would appear, so I decided to order Chinese food, or at least what we Americans called Chinese food. A Chinese friend of mine, who danced under the name Princess Asia, always laughed at our ideas of their cuisine, most of which was
After twenty minutes of drudgery, punctuated only by a couple of choice fashion tips from my magazine, I gave up on the idea of sitting in my car all day. Melanie had resources, and she could afford to get me a more comfortable setup. Plus, I had to pee. I climbed out of the car and, with a little bit of trepidation, approached the door marked Office and pulled it open. A little bell rang as I walked in, then nothing happened.
It was almost noon, so I figured the receptionist could be on break. There were no little bells on the desk to ring, so after a minute or two of surveying the disgusting wallpaper and inhaling secondhand smoke that was probably a remnant from the 1980s, I yelped out a little "Hello!"
It was a pathetic attempt, really, so I didn't bother waiting for a response. " Hello !" I yelled out again. My second effort produced the unmistakable sound of glass smashing on the floor, and then an "Aww, shit" from whoever had just committed the deed.
"Coming!" the voice said, annoyed.
I wasn't expecting much, but the guy who shuffled through the door was even more of a mess than I'd expected. He was only in his thirties, but had the puffy and glazed-over appearance of one of the original members of the band KISS. He was fumbling with his cigarette lighter and uttering more choice words under his breath. First things first, I supposed.
Once he got the cigarette lit and took a deep drag, he finally addressed me. "Sorry, man, you woke me up."
I wasn't sure how to respond, either to the "man" appellation or to the fact that he seemed a little ticked that I'd had the nerve to come into the office during business hours. I decided to let it slide.
"Can I get a room?" I asked.
He seemed a little surprised by the question. "Uhh, yeah. Just let me check a minute. Okay. You want an hour, a day, a week, or what?" He winked his left eye at me.
"Let's just start with a day," I said. "Cash okay?" I had no intentions of giving this slimeball my credit card information.
"You bet."
"You have anything around room sixty-two? Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, something like that?" These were the rooms directly across the parking lot from Kent's apartment.
He shrugged, looked behind him on a board covered by hanging keys, and reached for number sixty-four. I handed over the thirty-nine bucks, which seemed expensive, took the key, and got the hell out of there.
"Check out's 11 a.m.," he mumbled.
I hoped to be long gone by eleven. Best-case scenario, I could see Kent leaving his apartment and follow him around for a while, getting a sense for what he was up to. It could be something as boring as going to the Laundromat, or something a lot more telling. There was no way to know in advance.
I found my room and opened the door, unable to remember the last time I'd used an old-fashioned metal key to open a hotel room. The room itself wasn't as bad as I'd feared. The bed looked old. The pinkish sheets were frayed, and the bathroom had tiled floors straight out of 1964, but all in all it could have been worse. I peeked out the curtain and located Kent's apartment across the parking lot. It was a straight shot across, so I left the curtain open a crack and arranged a chair so I could face it. And then I settled in for what I hoped would not be a long wait.
Boy, was I wrong. One-thirty came and went, and with it the last vestiges of my ability to ignore the ravenous hunger that was roiling inside me. Murphy's Law said that if I left to pick up lunch, that would be the time Kent would appear, so I decided to order Chinese food, or at least what we Americans called Chinese food. A Chinese friend of mine, who danced under the name Princess Asia, always laughed at our ideas of their cuisine, most of which was
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