Read Online Double Whammy (A Davis Way Crime Caper) by Gretchen Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gretchen Archer
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checked in, threw their bags inside the door and hit the casino, never to return.
I’d had one room for three consecutive days, nineteen thirty-seven, whose occupant had yet to get near the bathroom sink, tub, shower, or, for all I could tell, their suitcase. Down the hall, I had adjoining rooms that made up for that one; the occupants and the preschool they brought with them had moved in. Stuffed animals, gummy worms, hills and mountains of discarded clothing, bowl after bowl of liquefied ice cream, tubs used as toy storage, and half-full juice boxes everywhere. In another room, it had rained shiny black condom wrappers, and in yet another guest room, the ravenous occupants had ordered one of everything on the room service menu, taking a single bite out of each dish, leaving all the uneaten food and enough tableware to set a table for ten for me to deal with. The room safes today, like almost every day, hadn’t been touched. The best part? Eddie Crawford had checked out of his room. A guy named Millard Martin had checked in it. I had no beef with Millard.
My coworkers didn’t take lunch breaks so much as they took extended smoke breaks. As the clock inched toward noon, and I said job-well-done to myself about guest room nineteen-thirteen, Santiago, my work buddy, exiting nineteen-fourteen and in the throes of severe nicotine withdrawal, asked, “We lunch?”
“Sure.” I couldn’t see him through the king-sized bed roll of laundry I was hefting. I tipped it into my bin. The muffled music of broken glass filled the space between us. It sounded like I’d dropped a chandelier.
“Oh!” Santiago’s eyes were saucers.
We both cut our eyes up and down the hall, and seeing no one, I shrugged. Santiago shrugged. Whatever I’d just rolled up in the dirty sheets was now Coast Laundry Services’ problem.
I had the small break room behind our supply room all to myself; everyone else had made their way to the employee smoking patio on the sixth floor.
I dialed the Casino Host’s office extension. “Heidi Dupree, please.” I studied my ravaged cuticles and listened for the door. I remembered that I forgot to look under beds all morning. No telling what I’d missed.
“Casino Marketing,” a soft voice said. “This is Heidi.”
She didn’t sound like a safe cracker.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m in housekeeping and one of the guests is complaining they didn’t get a fruit basket.”
“Who is this?”
“Housekeeping.”
“We order the amenities,” she said, soft voice gone. “Room service fills the orders. Call them.” And she hung up on me.
* * *
“I need a hardware store, George.” I dropped the day’s treasures over the seat: two paperback books, a three-pack of disposable razors, and four Snickers bars, one smashed flat.
“No, you don’t.”
I reached over the seat, took the loot back, lowered the window, and tossed it to the traffic.
(No, I didn’t).
“What makes you think you know what I need and what I don’t?” I demanded.
“I just do. Because you can’t get in those safes with a tool.”
My jaw unhinged. How in the world did George know what I was doing?
“Those are S700 Protectaguards,” he went on, “and you can’t hack in. You’ve got to use the code or the electronic pass key. That’s the only way. Whoever you’re looking for has the code or the passkey.”
“I’ll tell you what, George. You take me to a hardware store and we’ll talk about it some other time.” This guy could get on my last nerve. More than that, he was just about to scare me.
“It’s your money.”
Soon enough he was backing into the loneliest parking space Center City Hardware offered.
“George,” I whined, “come on. It’s raining. It’s raining ice . Let me off at the door.”
He ripped into one of the candy bars. “If you’re going to waste your time and mine, you can waste some of it walking.”
I could reach up and smack the back of his head so
I’d had one room for three consecutive days, nineteen thirty-seven, whose occupant had yet to get near the bathroom sink, tub, shower, or, for all I could tell, their suitcase. Down the hall, I had adjoining rooms that made up for that one; the occupants and the preschool they brought with them had moved in. Stuffed animals, gummy worms, hills and mountains of discarded clothing, bowl after bowl of liquefied ice cream, tubs used as toy storage, and half-full juice boxes everywhere. In another room, it had rained shiny black condom wrappers, and in yet another guest room, the ravenous occupants had ordered one of everything on the room service menu, taking a single bite out of each dish, leaving all the uneaten food and enough tableware to set a table for ten for me to deal with. The room safes today, like almost every day, hadn’t been touched. The best part? Eddie Crawford had checked out of his room. A guy named Millard Martin had checked in it. I had no beef with Millard.
My coworkers didn’t take lunch breaks so much as they took extended smoke breaks. As the clock inched toward noon, and I said job-well-done to myself about guest room nineteen-thirteen, Santiago, my work buddy, exiting nineteen-fourteen and in the throes of severe nicotine withdrawal, asked, “We lunch?”
“Sure.” I couldn’t see him through the king-sized bed roll of laundry I was hefting. I tipped it into my bin. The muffled music of broken glass filled the space between us. It sounded like I’d dropped a chandelier.
“Oh!” Santiago’s eyes were saucers.
We both cut our eyes up and down the hall, and seeing no one, I shrugged. Santiago shrugged. Whatever I’d just rolled up in the dirty sheets was now Coast Laundry Services’ problem.
I had the small break room behind our supply room all to myself; everyone else had made their way to the employee smoking patio on the sixth floor.
I dialed the Casino Host’s office extension. “Heidi Dupree, please.” I studied my ravaged cuticles and listened for the door. I remembered that I forgot to look under beds all morning. No telling what I’d missed.
“Casino Marketing,” a soft voice said. “This is Heidi.”
She didn’t sound like a safe cracker.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m in housekeeping and one of the guests is complaining they didn’t get a fruit basket.”
“Who is this?”
“Housekeeping.”
“We order the amenities,” she said, soft voice gone. “Room service fills the orders. Call them.” And she hung up on me.
* * *
“I need a hardware store, George.” I dropped the day’s treasures over the seat: two paperback books, a three-pack of disposable razors, and four Snickers bars, one smashed flat.
“No, you don’t.”
I reached over the seat, took the loot back, lowered the window, and tossed it to the traffic.
(No, I didn’t).
“What makes you think you know what I need and what I don’t?” I demanded.
“I just do. Because you can’t get in those safes with a tool.”
My jaw unhinged. How in the world did George know what I was doing?
“Those are S700 Protectaguards,” he went on, “and you can’t hack in. You’ve got to use the code or the electronic pass key. That’s the only way. Whoever you’re looking for has the code or the passkey.”
“I’ll tell you what, George. You take me to a hardware store and we’ll talk about it some other time.” This guy could get on my last nerve. More than that, he was just about to scare me.
“It’s your money.”
Soon enough he was backing into the loneliest parking space Center City Hardware offered.
“George,” I whined, “come on. It’s raining. It’s raining ice . Let me off at the door.”
He ripped into one of the candy bars. “If you’re going to waste your time and mine, you can waste some of it walking.”
I could reach up and smack the back of his head so
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