Here Comes the Sun(44)

The next few days are more bearable in the office for Margot—not because the hotel has installed new air-conditioning to ward off the unbearable heat, but because of Kensington. Kensington’s budding suspicion of Miss Novia Scott-Henry keeps her so occupied that she’s not able to focus on anything else—like the reservations being made to certain rooms on the sixteenth floor under fake names, the local businessmen who check in, then check out hours later, the girls who prance solo in a diagonal line across the marbled lobby straight to the elevator.

When Miss Novia Scott-Henry comes to the front desk to request the receipts and vouchers, Margot pretends to be busy with reservations, so she directs her question to Kensington. “I’m not sure what is going on here. Can you please explain what these ‘special services’ are on some of the bills? And why there are astronomical charges to rooms that were only reserved for two hours?”

Kensington has a genuine look of confusion on her face. She’s mouthing words that aren’t coming out.

“Am I speaking to myself here?” Miss Novia Scott-Henry asks.

Margot thinks fast. “We—well—Kensington and I are still working on the other vouchers. There might have been a slight mix-up in booking. But when we’re done sorting things out we’ll get to you right away.” She is a bit concerned that Alphonso hasn’t shared his underground business with his hotel general manager. Shouldn’t she be the first to know what’s really happening and where the extra revenue’s coming from? This just proves her incompetence. Or is it Blacka who is feeding her these figures, forgetting to eliminate the miscellaneous profits? Alphonso should fire that pompous pest of an accountant. But when Margot clicks on an unopened file, she realizes that it was her error. She gave the woman the wrong file. What if she calls them to inquire about the charges? What if she finds out and reports it to the authorities?

“Please have everything to me by the end of the day,” Miss Novia Scott-Henry says. She glances at Kensington, who is sitting stiff and mute at the desk. “Is everything all right, Kensington?”

The girl nods, her eyes sliding into her lap, where Margot notices a small Bible tucked discreetly between her palms.

“She’s jus’ a likkle undah the weather,” Margot says.

“I see.”

Miss Novia Scott-Henry glances at Kensington. “You may go home, if that’s the case. Wouldn’t want our guests to get sick on their vacation. Margot, has a Mr. Georgio McCarthy checked in as yet? We have a meeting at four.” Margot pulls up her reservations files on the new computer, though she doesn’t have to. “Yes, checked him in at two.”

“Perfect. Also, can you please remind the guests not to leave towels that they only used once for laundry. Remind them that we’re in a drought and our goal is to conserve water.”

“I sure will.”

When Miss Novia Scott-Henry walks away, Margot waits until the woman is out of earshot before she turns to Kensington. “What’s di mattah with you? You lost yuh tongue?”

“No.” Kensington begins to put her Bible away. “But if yuh say she is what she is, then it’s a sin. An abomination. I don’t want to be around it.”

“So what yuh g’wan do? Quit? Because she’ll be here fah a very long time. You said so yuhself.”

“Maybe ah should mention it to him,” Kensington says, her eyes getting big.

“Who?” Margot asks.

“Alphonso.”

Kensington’s eyes are crazed like old Miss Gracie’s whenever she preaches on her soapbox in the square. Or when she stops people to give them a prophecy. (“Yuh g’wan conceive t’day in di name of Jeezas!” “Yuh g’wan win di lotto!” “Yuh g’wan haffi prepare fah di third funeral tomorrow.”)

Margot leans forward in her chair. “You don’t have access to the owner of the hotel like dat. None of us do. And besides, the man is very busy.”

Kensington stares at her for a while, blinking rapidly like she’s trying to regain focus, one hand clutching the strap of her handbag. “Him need fi know what going on undah him nose. Yuh nuh notice anyt’ing else funny ’roun here?” Kensington asks.

“No. What yuh talkin’ ’bout?”

“Di girl dem.”

“What girls?” Margot shifts her attention to the computer.

“Di young, naked one dem prancing in an’ out like dem own di place. And not ah soul seh one t’ing to dem. Dat neva use to happen before. Dat woman bringing in some bad energy. Alphonso need fi know ’bout it.”

Just as Kensington says this, a call comes in from room 1601, the penthouse suite. Margot picks up, her eyes on Kensington’s back.

“Guest services, how may I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to get a sundae.”

Click.



She smells money as soon as she walks into Georgio’s room, where the shutters are open to a picturesque view of the sunset. It leaves a trail of red and violet in the sky; and a half-moon sits a couple feet away, patiently waiting its turn.

“Smoke?” Georgio offers Margot. He’s a man of a few words. She met him at the last gathering held at Alphonso’s villa.

“Shame on you for asking. Yuh know why I’m here.”

Though fresh from his meeting with Miss Novia Scott-Henry, he’s already dressed down in a white Palm Star Resort terry-cloth robe that swallows his small, sickly frame. He looks like a skeleton with flesh—his green eyes peering at Margot from dark hollow holes, so powerful they seem to burn away the lashes. She imagines the old naked body underneath that awaits her strokes and kneading; the flaccid penis that hangs between his legs. She didn’t send one of her other girls because Georgio is the biggest fish in the pond. It’s his money that Alphonso needs to close the deal on the new resort. She undresses.