Serious Moonlight(5)

“SARG?”

“Seattle Animal Rights Group,” she said, rounding the registration desk. “They brought signs and made a big scene here yesterday, claiming we are killing goldfish and abusing the octopus by keeping her in captivity.”

Melinda waved a hand toward a line of four round fishbowls that sat behind the desk. Each contained one orange goldfish that could be rented out by guests if they wanted a companion in their room. One of my duties included feeding any unrented fish at midnight and filling out the little standing cards in front of the bowls with goldfish names. When I found out about this, it was frosting on the proverbial cake, because I used to have fish at home.

“I thought the goldfish program was a big success,” I said. In training, I’d been told that families loved it. Kids could choose which goldfish they wanted upon check-in, and one of the porters would carry it up to their room.

“It is,” Melinda insisted. “No one’s killing fish. Sometimes they get diseases or an overeager child scoops one out of the bowl or dumps orange juice in the water . . . So, of course, we must dispose of them occasionally. But it’s not as if we kill them for pleasure. Goldfish don’t live long anyway.”

I knew for a fact that wasn’t true, but no way was I saying so.

“And Octavia has a custom-built, half-a-million-dollar tank,” Melinda said. “She’s adored by locals and tourists, and she’s perfectly happy living with her starfish friends. Every fall we release that year’s Octavia into the Sound and catch another one.”

“Wait, what?”

“They only live a year or so. We ‘retire’ them and catch a young one. But if guests press you about this, just say that this Octavia is the former Octavia’s baby. And if anyone has a problem with the way we run things, they can talk to me. Got it?”

“Absolutely,” I said, though I wasn’t liking any of this information. But it was obviously a sore topic for her, so I was thankful to leave the fish issues behind for now and head out the front door with her when she was ready to introduce me to the final three Bats.

The first was someone I’d already met earlier: Joseph. Turned out, he not only watched the door, but he was also the bellhop and the backup valet, if any guests needed their luggage carried or their car retrieved from the underground parking, until the Bat shift ended and the morning crew’s Roosters took our places.

At Joseph’s side was a blond, college-aged bruiser named Chuck, who was loud, obnoxious, and a guard working under the security manager, Mr. Kenneth. “What up, femme?”

“Please refrain from using that term,” Melinda scolded. “It doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“It’s French for female,” Chuck argued around the gum he was smacking. “It’s a term of endearment. And why does she get to use a nickname on her tag?”

I glanced down at my name tag. “It’s my real name.”

“Your mom named you Birdie? Is she some kind of hippie?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh shit!” Chuck says. “My bad.”

“Please refrain from using bad language on the property,” Melinda said wearily.

He wasn’t paying attention. “So, Birdie. Betcha didn’t know that Joseph here was descended from Chief Seattle,” Chuck informed me.

Joseph sighed heavily, pushing dark hair out of his eyes. “My family’s Puyallup, from Tacoma. Completely different tribe.”

“Who cares? Guests eat that shit up,” Chuck said, grinning. “Right, boss?”

Now Melinda ignored him. “And over there is our driver,” she told me.

The scent of her chocolate-scented lotion filled my nostrils when she waved her arm and shouted to get the attention of a boy about my age. He was lean and animated, standing on the other side of the hotel van, cheerfully chatting with a taxi driver and completely oblivious to Melinda.

“He’s half-deaf,” Chuck offered. “Must be nice. You can tune out whoever you want.”

“His hearing is impaired,” Melinda corrected in a low voice. “You need to be patient with him sometimes.”

Joseph whistled sharply with his teeth. The van driver waved good-bye to the taxi and hurried toward us, slender legs striding, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of the same sort of zipped-up green windbreaker that some of the staff wore. He had dark, short hair . . . Wait, no. Long hair. Really long hair, wound up into a samurai-style, hipster topknot at the crown of his head.

Huh.

My heart started hammering furiously.

When people say they have a “gut feeling” about something, it’s because our brains are constantly being fed information by our bodies. Our noses smell smoke, and then our brain tells us to get the heck out of the house. And at that moment, my body was telling me to stop, drop, and roll. It just took my slowpoke brain a few extra moments to realize why.

“This is the night-shift van driver,” Melinda informed me as he approached. “Daniel Aoki, meet Birdie. She’s the new night clerk.”

When the driver lifted his head, his eyes widened, and he murmured, “Oh, fuuuuuuuu . . .”

Every muscle in my body turned to stone.

I knew that face. And lots more of him too.

This was the boy I’d met in the diner.