Security(3)

The Killer is in Room 717, sitting on the edge of the king--sized bed. A walkie--talkie crackles by his hip and says, “Okay, guys, you heard the lady. Pack it in and make sure you’re not leaving crap in the carpet. We’re outta here in twenty.” The Killer looks at the clock radio on the cherrywood night table. It’s difficult to tell where he’s looking, as he’s wearing a mask. It’s the same mask from the Halloween movies, the ones with Jamie Lee Curtis. He’s also wearing navy blue coveralls. He is an amazingly large man, and, one could tell even without firsthand experience, incredibly strong.

Tessa does not exit the elevator on the second floor. When the doors slide open, familiar sniffs and squeaks reach her from the direction of the housekeeping storage area. There, among shelves of supplies, Delores, the head of housekeeping, is counting toilet paper and crying. Tessa stands in the yawning elevator, her right foot arrested in a step forward, her expression torn, then pitying, then decisive. She reverses and presses the button for the foyer. Tessa likes Delores, but Delores cries at pet food commercials, spilled all--purpose cleaner, surprise homemade birthday cupcakes—the list is endless. Delores is inconsolable for at least ninety minutes after a profanity--laden tirade from Charles Destin.

Tessa never cries. She hardly ever lets herself look exhausted—at least, not in front of people. She frequently looks exhausted when she is alone—or, when she thinks she is alone.

She leans against the elevator’s back wall and lets her neck go slack. Her head bonks against the glass, once. Twice, three times, while the first floor swells around her. In the morning, sunlight makes the glass elevator into a prism as it arrives in the foyer, but not now. Tessa shakes her head at the chandelier, a piece of modern art with white sconces in the shape of a pinecone. It cost seven million dollars. Even if it were lit, it would not prevent the foyer—which boasts east--facing windows every bit as long and impressive as the ballroom’s facing west—from looking like a gargantuan, vaulted tomb in the late afternoon, with its white counters, white sofas, and white marble floors. Tessa’s apartment is a one--bedroom in Anaheim—the good part of Anaheim, but still. Her apartment has indoor--outdoor carpet and a stove on which only three out of four burners work, and her savings account surpassed six figures long ago.

As the main elevator slows still further to settle at its terminus, Tessa’s chin lifts. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Shoulders back, she walks to the manager’s office, where the lone person on the first floor sits behind a desk, holding his head in his hands. Destin really let Franklin have it. Franklin leaves his head in his hands, though he must hear Tessa’s boots clacking on the foyer’s Italian marble. She arrives at his office, leans in the doorway—clipboard held parallel to the crease in her black skirt—and waits.

“Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it, Tessie,” Franklin says.

Tessa doesn’t like being called “Tessie”—or anything other than “Tessa”—but she’s never told Franklin that.

“I won’t,” Tessa says. “But I will tell you he barked at everybody in the hotel. Everybody. Including apprentice electricians he’d never met before.”

Franklin raises his head, but keeps a hand over his face. He does this to look silly. It is effective, but not in an endearing way. “He told me I’m not fit to manage a McDonald’s.”

“Aw, Frank,” says Tessa. Her mouth twitches. “Of course you’re not.”

Franklin reclines in his ergonomic office chair. He is short, muscular, hairy, and gay. “Shit on that.” Now he’s grinning. “I could manage the shit out of a McDonald’s.”

Tessa said once that the trick to managing Franklin is to feign amusement at his moods and support his own bouts of insecurity so that his narcissism comes to the fore to galvanize his tenuous sense of self. She didn’t use these exact words. She said, “Tell an * he’s an * nicely and he’ll fight you.” But she also feels sorry for Franklin. She once said, “He has all the backbone of a jellyfish on a clothesline.” Her expression softens as he reaches to the bottom drawer of his desk and extracts a bottle of scotch and two cut crystal glasses.

“Frank,” she says with a tone.

He pours an inch of scotch. Tessa takes the glass he hands her, but she dumps the liquor in a potted banana tree by the door. Franklin knocks his back.

Tessa says, “Charles thinks he understands people, but he doesn’t. Makes him dangerous.” She sets her glass on Franklin’s desk blotter.

“Dangerous.” Franklin laughs, lightened by Tessa’s confession. “It surprises me you would use the word ‘dangerous.’ ”

Tessa makes a mark on her clipboard. “It’s the right word.”

“How are we doing? For real?”

“We’re in great shape. We’re two days ahead on the ballroom setup, and housekeeping can’t do anything but stock counts until electric’s done on three through twelve—”

“That’s not my fault.”

Tessa’s posture stiffens, so slightly that only a knowing eye would see it. “It’s no one’s fault. Charles didn’t allow for overtime, Pat didn’t notify him the timeline got wonky because of it, nobody told me any of that, so how could I tell you?” She tucks a hair into the twist at the nape of her neck and doesn’t wait for Franklin’s answer. “I have to catch Sid before he leaves. I doubt Charles trekked all the way into the maze, but he might’ve.”