The clerk grunted, sat up with the dull, listless energy of a vampire rising from a coffin.Check-in,said the flashing pink sign behind him. Jack approached slowly, shaking the water from his hat, hoping that the clerk didn’t hear him gulp down the last of his hot dog.
“Um, hello,” he said, voice thick. “I think I have a reservation?—”
The clerk stared at him, unmoving and unimpressed. A deep green polo, wrinkled and stained, stretched across his broad chest. Tight, short sleeves threatened to strangle the massive biceps beneath, wrapped in veins thick as vines. A crown of messy, overgrown curls scraped his shoulders, framing a face that wouldn’t look out of place on a movie poster. His nametag was upside down and faded.Boris,it read.
“You think or you know you have a reservation?” rasped Boris.
“I amfairly certainI have a reservation,” said Jack, hoping to ease the tension. His satchel bumped against his hip as he adjusted his stance to something more assertive. “It should be under Jack Hazel.”
Boris made no move to leaf through the guest ledger. Jack waited nearly thirty seconds before blurting, “I am quite certain I have a reservation here, made for me by my place of business, and I’d appreciate you checking me in.”
“Alright, don’t get all proper on me. Checking you into ye olde hotel now.” Boris gave a snort of laughter and finally reached for the ledger. A smirk shifted his five o’clock shadow. Jack hated that he noticed the way it accentuated his jawline. No one so rude should be so attractive.
“Thank you,” he huffed. “That’s Jack Hazel?—”
The clerk jabbed a finger at the page. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right here. Relax. Didn’t you see the sign outside? We have vacancies. Je-sus!”
“Um,” said Jack, embarrassed. “No, I didn’t. It’s, um, raining. I ran here.”
“Huh,” said Boris, craning his neck. “Guess the windowsarea little cleaner.”
Jack glanced around, hoping there might be someone else he could speak to, but the lobby was empty. Not even a bellhop.
He sighed.
“You’re in room three-oh-nine,” said Boris, plucking a key from the rack behind him. “Room service closes at nine. No long-distance calls. If you smoke, open a window or old lady Barnaby will come down and shout at you until we have to call the police. We can’t evict her, so just… don’t do that. Alright?”
“Alright,” said Jack slowly. “I don’t smoke, but if I did, an old lady would come intimidate me?”
“Yup,” said Boris. “Any other questions, or are you gonna fuck off and let me get on with my night?”
Jack inclined his head. Sure enough, he glimpsed the corner of a magazine hidden beneath the ledger, which Boris shoved away with an annoyed grumble. “I need a seven a.m. wake up call.”
“Ofcourseyou do,” Boris grumbled. The room key dangled from his fingertips, tarnished and dull. “Fine, yeah. Bright and early. Got it.”
Jack stomped all the way up the stairs.
Room 309 greeted him with a shock of vomit-colored shag carpet, peeling yellow wallpaper, and a lavender duvet stained with what he hoped was only wine. On the bedside table, a green telephone sat beside a digital clock. The numbers blinked an ominous red. Pale lamplight flickered. The edges of the dresser mirror were speckled black. A single armchair faced the window, which faced the brick building next door. Dead leaves piled in the fire escape like bodies in a battlefield. When he went to pull the heavy, velvet curtains, he was met with a spray of dust.
“Spared no expense, I see,” Jack muttered. Dan probably thought this was funny. Put the new guy on a train, send him to the oceanalonefor his first audit, buy him a night at a hotel clearly meant for hourly appointments.
At least the toilet looked clean.
Intent on going to sleep before hunger could set in again, Jack turned on the television set and set about unpacking his pajamas. Twice, he was interrupted by static.
There would be no entertainment tonight, he decided, turning off both the light and the television before sliding between the mercifully clean (if somewhat musty) sheets. He’d get a good night’s rest, perform the audit tomorrow, and leave the following morning.
Everything would be just fine.
CHAPTER
TWO
The phone rangat 7:03 am. Boris’s voice boomed through the receiver. “Wake up, motherfucker!”
Jack slammed the phone down and rolled out of bed.
There was no free breakfast, so he shoveled down the muffin meant for lunch as he scrambled into his suit. Navy, pinstriped, outdated, and ill-fitting, it was made more repulsive by the splotch of shaving cream he’d somehow gotten on his elbow.
