Chapter Two: He’s Dead, Jim

Monday, August 9th
8:00 PM


I’ve been in the Ambassador only a few times before. It’s just across the street from KA’s so that might seem a bit weird. The first time was back in high school for a job interview. They made me feel unworthy even to be spoken too. The other times were to celebrate Sam making partner and to rescue Robert. All of them had been total disasters so I don’t really have great associations with this place. If I want to have a bad time there are cheaper places I can go. Its only saving grace is that they have a bar rather than a full restaurant. That means the upscale guests come to KA’s when they want the whole eating out experience instead of squirreling away with the room service menu. The majority of them tip big just to show they can. That contingent is usually one hundred percent asshole but they’re money is green so who cares?

“Sir.” It takes me a few more steps toward the elevators to realize the employee at the desk means me. Damn, but these guys are thorough. They’re probably trained to spot people who can’t afford their prices. I turn to face her reluctantly. “Your aunt has called four times in the last hour. She said it was important you call her back.” Now Dara and Robert have gone too far. Aunt Bobbie is such a bitch. I want contact with my family but not that bad.

“If she calls again tell her I’m dead.”

“Sir?” The hotel mannequin looks at me oddly. It’s like she knew me and expected a different response.

“Did I stutter? If you have a problem with my message, maybe your supervisor cam deliver it.” I’ve waited on enough of this place’s patrons to imitate the way they treat the help for short bursts. ‘Harriet Futterman, Customer Service Specialist’ is all acquiescence. I swallow my apology. I guess Robert’s mood rubbed off on me, even if mine is more anger. I’ll find some way to apologize to Harriet later. For now I just let this wave of negativity carry me through to the elevators.

Room 314 is easy to find. It has to be. Even in an upscale joint like this has to follow hotel rules. If a place is hard to navigate, people won’t want to come back. I know this because working too many years in food service has to teach you some things about handling the public. Despite being easy to get around, the Ambassador is pretty amazing. There aren’t many four star hotels in a twenty mile radius but the lack of competition didn’t make them scrimp any.

The room itself is awesome. It’s bigger than my apartment just in the main part as you walk in the door. There’s a sectional couch, two armchairs, coffee table, monstrous TV, a DVD-VCR combo, and a very nice desk. One door leads to a sinfully large bathroom and the other to a bedroom twenty people could probably mill about in without touching. The bed could fit the cast of Friends. The mind boggles at how Dara and Robert are paying for this. The mints on the pillows are even imported!

The message light is discretely blinking and a cell phone is quietly playing in the corner. That reminds me that mine is in my car still. I only hope that whoever steals it jimmies the lock instead of breaking the window. Or maybe they’ll just use the keys in the puddle nearby. I’d head back out but thunder and lightning arrive simultaneously. Hoping car thieves also fear being struck by lightning I decide to wait before leaving shelter.

Before I turn off whoever’s cell phone I see the caller ID says ‘Margate’. The only Margate I know of is a small town south of here. Leave it to Robert to date someone who is intimate with a whole municipality. The oddest thing is that the tune it’s playing is the same one mine does. That is the final proof the phone couldn’t be Robert’s. He hates Barbie Girl. Some of his most scathing remarks have been made whenever I get a call in his presence.

TV may be off-limits but Robert never said anything about radio. Following the letter of instructions while ignoring the spirit is a specialty of mine. Everyone who knows me well carefully words any promises they have me make. Robert really was distracted. Tuning in to a station that’s not so bad this late after as I do as commanded about changing clothes, I settle down on the couch. Stuck in the cushions is an Simon Conlan book I’ve been meaning to reread lately. The guy wrote two series I liked and they were even carried on by his son when he died. No matter how much I love the book, I don’t get too far tonight. Working a busy shift today followed by this stressed out hour or so is taking its toll on me. The hero has barely been whisked into another dimension before I’ve fallen asleep.


10:00 PM

I had the most wonderful dream. Not one bit of it really remained with me when I woke. That’s how it goes with me. Unless the dream is intensely horrific or sexual the images just don’t stay with me. All I can recall for sure is that there was a voiceover distracting me at the end.

The man’s voice turns out to have been from the real world. I must have rolled over onto the remote in my sleep. I’m told I move a lot after I drop off but I obviously have no firsthand knowledge of that. The only other option is that a poltergeist changed the station, because I’m listening to an all news channel. It’s not the most pleasant of wake up calls. Looking across the room I see it’s two AM. Where are Dara and Robert? It’s been hours. Is it time for the other shoe to drop?

“...and a story comes out of Mount Laurel, NJ, which may impact Derwillion Foods, a major employer in the Philadelphia area.” As I light up my post-nap cigarette the mention of the town I’m in catches my attention. “A waiter found slain outside a local restaurant turns out to be a lookalike for Simon Douglas, the CEO of Derwillion Foods.” Local waiter. My blood runs cold. Mount Laurel’s work force isn’t that big. I’ve worked with two-thirds of the waiters in town myself and if you include Dara, Dieter, Michael, and Robert we know just about everyone. I was positive the dead man wouldn’t be a stranger. He had to be someone we knew well for Dara and Robert to be so upset and AWOL. I just had no way to prepare for just how intimately I would know the murder victim. “There’s no word yet on what connection this man had with Douglas beyond looking identical to him.” Who is he already! This the reason why I don’t like thrillers. The suspense always has me too worked up to enjoy myself. “Little is known of the deceased, Simon Carpenter...” I know the radio voice had to have said more. He had to have. Time wouldn’t be standing still for him. It wouldn’t have for anyone else. After all, none of them had just heard their own obituary!