Sanchez, you didn’t call her a bitch, didja?’
‘Uh – I guess I may have.’
Elvis slapped Sanchez across the back of the head. ‘Well, ya’d better dam’ well apologize, an’ if you’re lucky Stephie might just find ya a room.’
Sanchez ventured what he thought was an apologetic smile at the receptionist. The effect was of a corpse suddenly grimacing. ‘I’m sorry I called you a bitch,’ he offered in a surly mumble.
Stephie faked a smile back. ‘Don’t mention it. Okay, there is one room. A guy called Claude Balls was due yesterday, but he hasn’t shown up yet. You can have that one.’
‘Uh, thanks. Thank you very much.’ Aware that he had just been reprieved from a night with Annabel de Frugyn, his gratitude was at least sincere.
While Stephie began completing the paperwork and locating a room key for him, Sanchez turned back to his friend. ‘Thanks, Elvis. Really appreciate it.’
‘Don’ worry about it.’
‘Well, I’m definitely in your corner for the singin’ contest. What time are you onstage?’
Elvis appeared not to hear him. ‘Hold up. See that guy?’ he said, pointing at a man in his early forties, wearing a white suit. ‘That’s the hotel owner, Nigel Powell. Chief judge in the competition. An’ a multi-millionaire, too.’
Powell strode confidently over towards the reception desk, with two heavily built security guards following closely behind. Beneath his bright white suit jacket, he wore a black T-shirt, which succeeded in giving off the rather outdated Don Johnson, Miami Vice look. He had slicked-back black hair, improbably white and even teeth, and a fake orange tan that positively glowed against his white suit. The two security guards wore identical black suits with black T-shirts beneath. Both had short military flat-top haircuts, and both looked to be the kind that follows orders without question. Everyone in the lobby watched in a kind of awe as the trio made their way up to the second desk at reception and came to a stop behind Annabel.
‘Miss de Frugyn?’ Powell asked politely, his voice, deep and resonant.
Annabel’s body language suggested that she thought she’d been caught checking in with a stolen credit card (which was not altogether unlikely). She turned slowly to face the manager and his two heavies.
‘Yes,’ she trilled nervously. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Miss de Frugyn, my name is Nigel Powell. I have the honour to be the owner and manager of this hotel. Might I have a word with you?’
‘Why – certainly.’ Her body language spoke now of the startled jackrabbit.
Reaching out, Powell took a hold of Annabel’s hand and politely shook it. ‘My colleagues here will take your things to your room for you. Please, come this way.’
Sanchez and Elvis watched as the multi-millionaire led Annabel away through a set of glass double doors on the right-hand side of the circular lobby. Although they didn’t know it, he was taking her to a private area of the hotel.
‘Was that the Mystic Lady?’ Elvis asked Sanchez.
‘Yeah. Been sat next to her on the plane and the goddam bus. Fuckin’ useless annoyin’ old hag,’ Sanchez muttered.
‘Hear she’s kinda good at foreseein’ shit.’
‘Nope. She’s kinda good at talkin’ shit.’
‘No, man. I reckon she could probably predict who’s gonna win this show.’
‘You sure got high hopes,’ said Sanchez sarcastically.
Elvis smiled. ‘You like a gamble, don’tcha, Sanchez?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, there’s more’n just the singin’ contest goin’ on this weekend. They also gotta casino on the lower ground floor here. Reckon ol’ Mystic could be a useful friend to have in a place like that.’
Sanchez contemplated what the legendary hitman was saying. The Mystic Lady might actually be a useful ally in a casino. Except that, if the management knew of her alleged skills, they might not want her around.
Maybe that’s why she had been escorted elsewhere by the hotel’s
‘Uh – I guess I may have.’
Elvis slapped Sanchez across the back of the head. ‘Well, ya’d better dam’ well apologize, an’ if you’re lucky Stephie might just find ya a room.’
Sanchez ventured what he thought was an apologetic smile at the receptionist. The effect was of a corpse suddenly grimacing. ‘I’m sorry I called you a bitch,’ he offered in a surly mumble.
Stephie faked a smile back. ‘Don’t mention it. Okay, there is one room. A guy called Claude Balls was due yesterday, but he hasn’t shown up yet. You can have that one.’
‘Uh, thanks. Thank you very much.’ Aware that he had just been reprieved from a night with Annabel de Frugyn, his gratitude was at least sincere.
While Stephie began completing the paperwork and locating a room key for him, Sanchez turned back to his friend. ‘Thanks, Elvis. Really appreciate it.’
‘Don’ worry about it.’
‘Well, I’m definitely in your corner for the singin’ contest. What time are you onstage?’
Elvis appeared not to hear him. ‘Hold up. See that guy?’ he said, pointing at a man in his early forties, wearing a white suit. ‘That’s the hotel owner, Nigel Powell. Chief judge in the competition. An’ a multi-millionaire, too.’
Powell strode confidently over towards the reception desk, with two heavily built security guards following closely behind. Beneath his bright white suit jacket, he wore a black T-shirt, which succeeded in giving off the rather outdated Don Johnson, Miami Vice look. He had slicked-back black hair, improbably white and even teeth, and a fake orange tan that positively glowed against his white suit. The two security guards wore identical black suits with black T-shirts beneath. Both had short military flat-top haircuts, and both looked to be the kind that follows orders without question. Everyone in the lobby watched in a kind of awe as the trio made their way up to the second desk at reception and came to a stop behind Annabel.
‘Miss de Frugyn?’ Powell asked politely, his voice, deep and resonant.
Annabel’s body language suggested that she thought she’d been caught checking in with a stolen credit card (which was not altogether unlikely). She turned slowly to face the manager and his two heavies.
‘Yes,’ she trilled nervously. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Miss de Frugyn, my name is Nigel Powell. I have the honour to be the owner and manager of this hotel. Might I have a word with you?’
‘Why – certainly.’ Her body language spoke now of the startled jackrabbit.
Reaching out, Powell took a hold of Annabel’s hand and politely shook it. ‘My colleagues here will take your things to your room for you. Please, come this way.’
Sanchez and Elvis watched as the multi-millionaire led Annabel away through a set of glass double doors on the right-hand side of the circular lobby. Although they didn’t know it, he was taking her to a private area of the hotel.
‘Was that the Mystic Lady?’ Elvis asked Sanchez.
‘Yeah. Been sat next to her on the plane and the goddam bus. Fuckin’ useless annoyin’ old hag,’ Sanchez muttered.
‘Hear she’s kinda good at foreseein’ shit.’
‘Nope. She’s kinda good at talkin’ shit.’
‘No, man. I reckon she could probably predict who’s gonna win this show.’
‘You sure got high hopes,’ said Sanchez sarcastically.
Elvis smiled. ‘You like a gamble, don’tcha, Sanchez?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, there’s more’n just the singin’ contest goin’ on this weekend. They also gotta casino on the lower ground floor here. Reckon ol’ Mystic could be a useful friend to have in a place like that.’
Sanchez contemplated what the legendary hitman was saying. The Mystic Lady might actually be a useful ally in a casino. Except that, if the management knew of her alleged skills, they might not want her around.
Maybe that’s why she had been escorted elsewhere by the hotel’s
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