Read Online To Kill a Matzo Ball (A Deadly Deli Mystery) by Delia Rosen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Delia Rosen
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6
Banko Juarez was staying in the relatively new, inexpensive Page One Hotel on Commerce Street. The name had nothing to do with newspapers—I wasn’t sure how many of the clients would’ve gotten the reference anyway. It was all about making sure guests were reachable via all media “24/7 and beyond,” which, of course, made no sense. The gimmick was, if someone came to see you, even if you were out, the front desk texted you. That included vice cops, I guessed, given the girls I saw parked in the bar and the alter kakers bellying up to chat with them. There were also young people who had rented the multi-bed specials I saw advertised on a little billboard out front: a no-frills room with up to six cots.
I had called the etheric cleanser and made a $150-an-hour appointment to stop by the Page One at six. I also checked his website. Banko appeared to be a serious student of all things astral and beyond. He had posted videos and essays and financed his studies by going around the country by public transportation—vehicles that were also labs, I deduced—and doing his number on peoples’ energy centers. It sounded like a lot of Sanskrit-cum-Buddhist mumbo jumbo to me, but then, I’m sure that a stranger observing an Orthodox Jewish service would feel exactly the same, seeing the men swaying, speaking aloud, and then whispering, all of them turned out in their finest Hebraic wardrobe with tallit over their shoulders and stringy tzitzis under their shirts and tefillin draped on their arms and heads.
There were no house phones at the Page One. The desk announced all visitors. Banko told the buxom concierge with pale skin and straight black hair that reached her shoulders and screamed “wig” to send me up to 816, on the top floor.
“Ah, the penthouse suite,” I said to the young woman, whose name tag said Bananas.
“They are all penthouses with the lights out,” she said, with a deep southern drawl that surprised me. I wondered if that was part of their advertising campaign.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
“If you would ever like to—” she began seductively.
“Not my inclination,” I said.
She smiled politely. “Nor mine, honey. I was going to say if you would ever like to visit our other spiritual guests, let me know. We have a group discount.”
“Clever. Who would these others be?” I asked because I was really, really curious who the other parts of this package deal would be.
“There is an acupuncturist who specializes in opening the libido and a hypnotist whose field is sexual inhibition and past-life regressions.”
“I didn’t know the two were linked,” I remarked.
“Everything is linked to sex,” Bananas suggested.
“Even your name,” I said.
She smiled overly sweetly. “That is my name. I was born to a poor mom who earned her living making banana fritters. Grew it into a nice business.”
“I see. Well, that’s quite a team upstairs,” I admitted, getting out of that little faux pas. “Do you punch a card or something?”
“No,” she smiled. “I remember faces.”
I stopped by the convenient ATM machine in the corner before going up. My face was red and my neck flushed from having inadvertently insulted the concierge. I couldn’t wait to get out of the lobby, but I had to wait for a well-dressed, chunky older man to finish pulling five hundred bucks in twenties from the machine. I wondered what he was getting for that. It seemed high just for an hour of sex, low for a night’s worth. But as a sixty-minute time machine? Maybe it was a bargain.
This guy, in his fifties, gets to feel like he did when he was in his twenties, only the girl has no hard-stops. It’s not just a time machine but an alternate universe machine, where Mr. Three Piece Suit is an irresistible young stud.
That could be an ad campaign for a new credit card: MasterCardAndSubmissive or BangOfAmerica. “We give you credit for studliness . ” If only the law would get out of my
Banko Juarez was staying in the relatively new, inexpensive Page One Hotel on Commerce Street. The name had nothing to do with newspapers—I wasn’t sure how many of the clients would’ve gotten the reference anyway. It was all about making sure guests were reachable via all media “24/7 and beyond,” which, of course, made no sense. The gimmick was, if someone came to see you, even if you were out, the front desk texted you. That included vice cops, I guessed, given the girls I saw parked in the bar and the alter kakers bellying up to chat with them. There were also young people who had rented the multi-bed specials I saw advertised on a little billboard out front: a no-frills room with up to six cots.
I had called the etheric cleanser and made a $150-an-hour appointment to stop by the Page One at six. I also checked his website. Banko appeared to be a serious student of all things astral and beyond. He had posted videos and essays and financed his studies by going around the country by public transportation—vehicles that were also labs, I deduced—and doing his number on peoples’ energy centers. It sounded like a lot of Sanskrit-cum-Buddhist mumbo jumbo to me, but then, I’m sure that a stranger observing an Orthodox Jewish service would feel exactly the same, seeing the men swaying, speaking aloud, and then whispering, all of them turned out in their finest Hebraic wardrobe with tallit over their shoulders and stringy tzitzis under their shirts and tefillin draped on their arms and heads.
There were no house phones at the Page One. The desk announced all visitors. Banko told the buxom concierge with pale skin and straight black hair that reached her shoulders and screamed “wig” to send me up to 816, on the top floor.
“Ah, the penthouse suite,” I said to the young woman, whose name tag said Bananas.
“They are all penthouses with the lights out,” she said, with a deep southern drawl that surprised me. I wondered if that was part of their advertising campaign.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
“If you would ever like to—” she began seductively.
“Not my inclination,” I said.
She smiled politely. “Nor mine, honey. I was going to say if you would ever like to visit our other spiritual guests, let me know. We have a group discount.”
“Clever. Who would these others be?” I asked because I was really, really curious who the other parts of this package deal would be.
“There is an acupuncturist who specializes in opening the libido and a hypnotist whose field is sexual inhibition and past-life regressions.”
“I didn’t know the two were linked,” I remarked.
“Everything is linked to sex,” Bananas suggested.
“Even your name,” I said.
She smiled overly sweetly. “That is my name. I was born to a poor mom who earned her living making banana fritters. Grew it into a nice business.”
“I see. Well, that’s quite a team upstairs,” I admitted, getting out of that little faux pas. “Do you punch a card or something?”
“No,” she smiled. “I remember faces.”
I stopped by the convenient ATM machine in the corner before going up. My face was red and my neck flushed from having inadvertently insulted the concierge. I couldn’t wait to get out of the lobby, but I had to wait for a well-dressed, chunky older man to finish pulling five hundred bucks in twenties from the machine. I wondered what he was getting for that. It seemed high just for an hour of sex, low for a night’s worth. But as a sixty-minute time machine? Maybe it was a bargain.
This guy, in his fifties, gets to feel like he did when he was in his twenties, only the girl has no hard-stops. It’s not just a time machine but an alternate universe machine, where Mr. Three Piece Suit is an irresistible young stud.
That could be an ad campaign for a new credit card: MasterCardAndSubmissive or BangOfAmerica. “We give you credit for studliness . ” If only the law would get out of my
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