One side of his mouth lifts, showing me his right dimple. “I like that you care, Rosie, but I’m careful. Listen now, I’m not doing anything dangerous. I am nought but a delivery boy, and nobody’s gonna kill the messenger.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.”
I stop walking and fold my arms, unconvinced.
“Nobody’s gonna kill me. I promise.” He reaches for my hands. “But let me tell you, the man I work for pays ten times what the hotel does. Being a waiter, I’ll never be able to give you what I want to give you. ’Tis a second job, that’s all, and it means we’ll have a home someday, and I’ll buy you all the jewellery you want.”
“I don’t want jewellery,” I insist, leaning into his arm as we start walking again. I feel closer to him now that we spoke of it, but I am not certain that what he said is fully true. The pressure of his body against mine feels familiar, though we’ve done no more than kiss. I feel like I’ve always belonged right here. “I love my necklace, but most of all, I want you safe. So please, please mind yourself well.”
At work, I go directly to the room with the broken glass, needing to besure it is safe for guests. I’m lucky, because it was vacant last night, so no one could have stepped on anything sharp. I go down to my hands and knees anyway, examining the whole carpet, and I’m satisfied I got every last bit, except for the invisible one still in my skin. I’ll soak my hand later and it’ll pull out, I’m sure.
My second room of the day is 16-115, the Legacy Suite. ’Tis one of the grandest suites in the hotel, with all its brass and fine furniture. I like cleaning this room.
Today, though, the place is in a bad state. Like there was a party well into the night. Half-burned cigars spill over the two large ashtrays in the room, and someone has dropped a glass of whisky on the carpet. Once again, I am on my knees, scrubbing. At one end of the room there is a proper big desk, and it seems the guest has been using it for business, because there are papers everywhere. I’m tempted to gather them neatly together, but I don’t want to mess with any system he might have. Instead, I neaten the stacks and place them beside each other. I spot another page on the floor and stoop to reach it, then straighten so fast I almost crack my head.
Under the desk is a white brassiere, delicate as lace. I pinch one of the straps and hold the lovely garment up to the sunlight to admire it. I had no idea brassieres could be so dainty. I can’t stop myself; I go to the washroom and examine myself in the mirror, pressing the brassiere against the front of my uniform. A quare flutter wriggles through my belly as I wonder who wore this brassiere last night, then dropped it on the floor. Why would she do that? What was she doing? I stare a moment longer at my reflection, trying to imagine me wearing it, but the lace is too fancy, too foreign for me.
I lower the pretty thing, envying those lovely women with their sparkly lives, then I stop short. I hear men’s voices in the room. Mind you, I shouldn’t, since I am alone in here. I stay perfectly still and listen hard, and don’t I figure out sure enough that the voices are coming from the drain in the sink! I cannot make out what the men are saying, but I hear them clear as day. They sound close, but far away at the same time, bouncing up the pipe. I wonder where they are.
I get back to work, cleaning everything in the suite until it shines, then moving on to the next room and the next. Just after eleven o’clock, I go downstairs and post myself outside of Mrs. Evans’s office, on edge for Bianca. She exits shortly after I arrive, and when she sees me there, her whole face turns into a smile.
“I got the job!” she cries, rushing to hug me. “I’ll be working with you starting tomorrow! Mrs. Evans thinks the best thing would be for you to teach me the ropes before I’m on my own.”
I grin back, happy for her, only now that it’s me showing her the ropes, I’m afraid she’ll make me out to be a fool. At least I can show her what I’ve been going on about. What is expected here.
“Good for you, Bianca.”
She twirls happily. “I gotta go tell the mamas I can’t watch their babies no more!”
Almost as soon as she’s gone, Mrs. Evans’s door opens again. “Oh, Rosie. I’m glad I caught you. Mr. Carboni in 16-115 has asked that you return to his suite and do a second cleaning when he’s out for supper, at five thirty.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, seeing again the large desk with the tidy piles of paper and the brassiere on the floor, now neatly folded on the washroom counter, beside the sink. I feel a vague sense of worry that this guest, Mr. Carboni, might question me about the brassiere, but I didn’t know where else to put it.
Mrs. Evans stares me down almost as hard as Granny does, making sure I understand what she’s saying. “Be extra attentive in that suite, Rosie. Mr. Carboni is a very special guest of the hotel, and he must be treated well. He stays in that suite quite often, sometimes for extended lengths of time, while he carries on his business activities. We must ensure he is comfortable and has all he needs.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
She hesitates, then she spots my necklace. I curse my mistake. Once again, I should have tucked it away, out of sight.
“Can I assume that is a gift from Mr. Walsh?”
“Yes, ma’am.” ’Tis a pity she doesn’t care for him. I truly like Mrs. Evans, and I want her to like him.
“The last time we spoke, I mentioned that he might be involved with criminal activities.” She exhales, clearly uncomfortable, then steadies herself and says what’s on her mind. “In fact, I have been informed that Mr. Walsh is working for Mr. Carboni.”
The idea weaves through my head, and I’m confused by its direction. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Carboni in 16-115, whose room I’m to clean at five thirty? He is the criminal that Damien works for?”
’Tis plain hard for her to say it to me, isn’t it? She’s no lover of gossip, and yet that’s what this sounds like.
She clears her throat. “Yes. Mr. Carboni is a very powerful man, and he must always be treated as such.” Her cheeks redden. “However, it is imperative that you understand that his business is to do with the less savoury, more criminal aspects of the city. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
’Tis coming together for me, and I’ll say I’m a bit shook over it. This is heavy news. No surprise that Mrs. Evans knows this, for sure she has eyes and ears all over this hotel, despite not liking gossip. Now my nerves are at me. The suite I must clean, the one with the cigar ashes and the lacy brassiere, is the suite of a criminal. I trust Mrs. Evans would never put me in danger, and yet I am troubled.
Now I really do worry about Damien.
“I spoke with Mr. Walsh about my concerns, ma’am,” I tell her, “and he promises that what he is doing is not risky.”
