Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Forty--Room Service

[To start from the beginning, click on Chapter One in the archives to the right.]

There came a knock at the hotel door, just as Pertman and Quincy came to realize, by listening to Piotr's horribad rap album on his iphone, that the Quincy's young Russian agent, manager, and accountant was in the midst of an evil plot to steal Quincy's money, to re-kidnap his kidnapped girlfriend, and to leave Quincy brokenhearted and busto.

In a daze, Pertman walked to the door and asked, "Who is it?"

"Room service."

She gave Quincy a glance.  He shrugged, shook his head.

"We didn't order anything," she replied.

"Room service!" the voice responded, louder than before.

"No thanks."

"Free food.  Yum yum."  A whisper now.

The persistence of the voice was beginning to tilt the shit out of Quincy.  He got up from the bed and started moving toward the door.

Pertman was also aggravated.  She ordered, "Leave it by the door!"

She tried to peek through the peephole but saw only darkness.  Were the lights off in the hallway?  Or was someone's thumb blocking her view?

After a long moment of silence from the other side of the door, the voice queried softly, "Leave it by the door?  No yum yums?  No tip?"

Pertman and Quincy exchanged a quizzical look.  What kind of delivery man had ever requested a gratuity before?  Was this guy new?  A new hire from a country where tip-demanding was a cultural norm?  And which country would that be?

Matching the stranger's voice, Pertman whispered, "No tip."

The voice whispered slightly louder, "No tip?"

"No tip."


She frowned.  "What's baksheesh?"


"No baksheesh."

"No tip?"




"Room service.  Yum yums."

"Back to square one," Natalia muttered.  "Fuck."

Quincy gave it a try.  "Do you speak English?" he asked the door.

"Mocha soy caramel no whip with fries," the voice answered.


"Whopper cheese no onion no mustard no mayo no lettuce no tomato.  No bun."

"Dude, just leave the food by the door."

"No tip, no food, no bun."

Pertman put a finger over her lips, and Quincy obliged by falling silent.  They put their ears to the door.  After another silence, they heard footsteps approaching.  The footsteps stopped, and an urgent whispered conversation ensued.  It appeared to be in a foreign language.  

Then there was a firm, professional tap on the door.  Pertman glance at Quincy; he nodded.

"Yes?" Pertman asked.

"Pardon the intrusion," a polished voice with a British accent responded, "but the Rio management wanted to offer a complimentary meal  for Mr. Capers and his guests.  We shall be content to leave the trays at the door, but a bottle of wine is included with the meal, and we take great pride in ensuring that our spirits meet the approval of our guests before departing.  If you would be so kind as to open the door, I can prepare a glass for Mr. Capers to taste."

Nothing spells authority and sophistication to an American teenager like a British accent.  Quincy turned the knob and opened the door . . . and immediately felt the cool metal of a gun barrel against his forehead, pushing him backward into his room.

"Yum," said a familiar voice.