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Liz just rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not walking into the Sandor soaking wet and iced over.”
“Wasn’t serious,” I say. “Because I wouldn’t let you back into this car like that anyway. You’ve done enough damage to her.”
“‘She’ll’ survive,” Liz says.
“Additionally,” I say, “I’ve stayed at the Sandor before and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t let you through the front door.”
“Geez, is it that nice?”
“You’ll see in about twenty minutes.”
Persistent city traffic means it’s closer to forty minutes before Liz and I pull up in front of the Sandor. The tech seminar is taking place at the hotel, in a separate wing of conference rooms set off from the main floor.
The Sandor is a five-star joint, one I’ve stayed in many times and never cared for. My main issue with places like the Sandor? Assholes up your asshole every other minute. First a valet, then a doorman, then a bellhop, and all before we’ve made it through the vestibule. We’ve barely stepped into the sweeping lobby before we’re accosted yet again by a uniformed attendant who grins oily from beneath a pencil-thin mustache.
“Mr. Westing,” he drolls with a deep nod about three inches from a bow. “And guest,” he adds with a glance at Liz. “We’ve been expecting you. My name is Alonzo Farquette, and I’d like you to bring any trouble you have directly to me.”
I don’t respond at first, to mesmerized by his mustache. It looks drawn on. It’s too thin to be actual hair, right? And, if it is, I can’t tell if it’s hundreds of tiny hairs trimmed in a row or just two very long hairs slicked horizontally over his lip.
Liz nudges me not-so-subtly as I peer closer at his face.
“Uh, sure. Whatever. I’ll need our room key,” I say.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Farquette,” Liz says over me, dripping politeness.
It’s fake as hell and another reason I hate fancy hotels. Everything is a song and dance. Can’t I just pay, get my key, and crack open the minibar without having to make half a dozen new friends? What’s the point of exchanging pleasantries with a guy who’s just going to talk shit about me the moment my back is turned?
Alonzo is good at his job though; neither hair of his mustache is ruffled by my rudeness. “I will see to your bags. Please go talk to Wilson at the desk and he’ll give you your key.” He gestures across the lobby to the check-in desk. And the line.
“Wait a minute—” I start to protest, but Alonzo is already off to talk to the bellhops.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?” Liz asks.
“We shouldn’t have to stand in line! This is the Sandor Hotel, not Soviet Russia.”
Liz gives a deeply exaggerated roll of her gray eyes before heading over to get in line, seemingly not caring if I join or stay. I briefly consider ditching her for the bar, but then relent and follow with a groan.
“Are you really that pissed about standing in a line for five minutes?” Liz asks as I join her, my hands stuffed in my suit pockets and a scowl on my face.
“It’s the principle of the matter!” I say. “Do you know how much this room costs?”
“In a moment you’re going to ask if they ‘know who you are’,” Liz says dryly.
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying it’s never happened before.”
“Well,” she says, “you’re gonna have to get used to this if you want to tank this weekend. I’ve never been escorted to a room before. Believe it or not, this is how normal people live.”
“I’m not sure how you get by,” I mutter, annoyed she’s brought up Mother’s threats again.
“And I’m not sure—” What’s definitely about to be a very cutting remark gets sliced in half by the angry bark of a man who’s just gotten in line behind us.
“Don’t they know who I am?!”
My eyes meet with Liz’s and we turn in unison to see who’s managing to be a bigger piece of shit than me. When I see him, my stomach drops along with any plans of this being maybe not such an awful weekend.
Paul Morgan was once tall and wide, but he must have gotten a personal trainer since the last time I saw him. Now any excess weight has been molded into muscle, into a powerfully built body that still expands his perfectly tailored dark blue suit. His hair is salt and peppered and appears to have been trimmed this morning, and his green eyes are as sharp as ever, despite recently celebrating his sixty-fifth birthday. I was invited to that party, but didn’t attend. He hadn’t expected me too. Nor had he expected my mother. The invitation was taunting, as they are every year. As are the ones Mother sends him for her own.
