Dastardly Bastard(6)
“Shit.”
He turned off the clippers and followed the trill of the phone into the main living area, where the handset lay on a bar in the kitchen nook. A red light blinked in tandem with the tone. Donald pressed the answer button and screwed the speaker to his ear, holding it with his shoulder as he returned to the bathroom.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Adams?”
“Yes?”
“This is Robert from the front desk. How are you doing today?”
“Fine. What can I do for you, Robert-From-The-Front-Desk?”
“I have that information you requested. It will be waiting for you at the front desk.”
“Information?”
“On Waverly Chasm, sir.”
Trying to remember where he’d heard that name before, Donald thought back to the evening before. After dinner at a popular restaurant in downtown Pointvilla, he had taken a taxi back to the hotel and was met by a sexy chick in a hotel maid uniform. Her name was Candice, and her black hair shone in the bright lights of the lobby chandelier. He normally would have ignored the giantess, but there was something in her eyes—a faint attraction. Donald felt drawn to her, to her beauty, to the possibility he might get laid by someone over four feet tall.
“Are you in town long?” she asked.
“Just for two days. I leave the day after tomorrow.”
“You should check out Waverly Chasm, might give you something to write about.” She winked.
“Sorry, I don’t write. The guy I’m here with does all the writing. H.R. Chatmon. Ever heard of him?”
“Everyone needs an avatar, Donald.” Another wink.
Donald hadn’t liked where the conversation was going. He left it at that and went upstairs to confront Jeff, sure that his friend must have dropped the ball. Candice had certainly caught Jeff in a lie. Donald could think of no other reason why Jeff would chance losing his meal ticket over a piece of ass. Plus, Jeff’s role as H.R. Chatmon got the man plenty of tail. The man had no reason to admit to anyone that he wasn’t actually the author, never mind telling someone the actual writer was a dwarf named Donald Adams.
Jeff didn’t answer when Donald knocked. Confused and mentally tired from a long day, Donald had gone back to his room and gotten ready for bed.
“Sir?” Robert-From-The-Front-Desk broke in.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Was there anything else?”
Donald thanked Robert-From-The-Front-Desk and hung up the phone. Before putting the handset down and continuing his daily clean-up session, he dialed Jeff’s room number. While the line rang in his ear, he paced from the toilet to the door, door to toilet, then stopped in the middle of the bathroom, breathing hard. Something was wrong. He was suddenly very sure of that fact.
Jeff stayed in his room on book signing tours. Even when he got lucky, he would always bring the woman back to the hotel room for the fling. Jeff always did as he was told. The last thing Donald or Scribner needed was H.R. Chatmon’s model running around strange towns making a fool of himself in public. Chatmon, the persona, was a recluse. He needed to be. If too much was learned, Donald would turn into Lucy Ricardo with some serious ‘splainin’ to do.
The phone continued to ring in Donald’s ear, until Robert-From-The-Front-Desk answered, “I’m sorry, but your call doesn’t seem to be going through.”
“Mr. Chatmon might be asleep,” Donald said. “Could you send someone by to—”
Someone knocked on the door. “Never mind. Someone’s at the door. It’s probably him. Thanks, Bob.”
“It’s Rob—”
Donald hung up and moved to open the door.
A red-cheeked girl stood on the other side with her face downcast. The front of her shirt showed a laptop with a soft S&M scene on its screen. Above the picture, in bold italics was eMurder.
“I think you have the wrong room.” He was closing the door when the girl placed her palm on the wood. He could have shut it if he tried hard enough. She didn’t appear to be very strong, but her confidence was palpable, or maybe her anger.
“We respected you,” she said, her eyes still on the floor. Her auburn hair cascaded down in front of her face. The girl couldn’t be more than sixteen.
“I don’t—”
“You fucking lied to us!” She snapped her head up and gave him a nail-studded glare. “You’re a goddamn midget?”
He put his shoulder into the door, slamming it in the girl’s face. He backed away slowly as she pounded for entrance. Luckily, hotel doors locked automatically from the outside when shut. He said a silent thank you for that one.
After a moment, Donald heard other voices out there, new ones, male and female. The girl had brought an entire brood with her. Donald wondered, distantly, if they were carrying torches and pitchforks.
“Shit.”
Jeff. He needed to find Jeff. And quite possibly castrate the bastard.
Donald moved as fast as his small legs could carry him. He ran through the foyer into the great room and on toward the bath, where he snatched up his cell from the area next to the sink. He’d forgotten all about the vibrating he’d heard while showering.
1 Missed Call
3 New Messages
The call was from Lars Stillstead, and in the subsequent voicemail he only said something had gone terribly wrong. The other two were text messages—one from Lars telling Donald to call him as soon as possible, the other from Jeff.