Room 1805

A Short Story

The young couple stumbled out of the elevator into the hallway—the kind with plush carpets and soft lighting radiating from the floor in variegated colors that mimicked the rainbow. It was the kind one finds in high-class boutique hotels in large, cosmopolitan cities, catering to the one percent, high-paid artists, and rock-and-roll musicians, the type who destroy their rooms before escaping town, leaving the bill to be settled by their minions.

They held onto each other—he whispering in her ear, she giggling uncontrollably—as they passed by the buzzing, darkened ice-machine vestibule and a battery of doors, until they reached the end of the hall, where the man instinctively looked back.

He searched his pockets. “I can’t find the key.”

The woman slipped her hand down his pants. “We’ll have to do it in the hall,” she said.

“Why don’t we do it in the road,” he said.

“Someone will be watching us,” she said. Then, with her hand still down his pants, she reached up on her toes and licked the side of his face.

He held up the card key. “Found it!” He tapped the key against the lock, and the couple, still in their respective grasp, leaned on the door and fell into room 1805.

The man reached for the light switch and shut the door. The suite was immersed in an amber glow, better for the couple to avoid the couch and the chaise lounge and the chairs and the coffee table and the breakfast nook as they passionately kissed and groped their way to the adjoining room where the king size bed awaited them. They slowed their momentum as they passed the floor to ceiling window, exposing the lights of the city that never sleeps below them, the Empire State building illuminated in blue and orange and white, visible across the park.

The man paused to stare at the lights in the distance.

The woman caressed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Joe.”

He continued staring.

The woman pushed the man onto the bed. She ripped off his shirt, pulled off his pants, stripped to her panties, and jumped on him. “Come on, babe,” she said. They found their way under the sheets and started to explore each other’s bodies.

After a minute she untangled herself and rolled off him. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where am I gonna go?” he said.

She winked at him, made her way the bathroom, and shut the door.

Joe sat up, opened the bedside table drawer, and pulled out a mirror with coke lines already drawn. He snorted two, rubbed the remains on his teeth, shut the drawer, and got back under the covers.

That’s when the two men burst into the room, guns drawn.

The younger one was tall, thin, with perfectly parted black hair and a symmetrical, well-proportioned nose. The other was older, squat, and had thinning hair covering a pale, bald pate. They wore matching gray suits, white starched shirts, a thin black tie, and black loafers. Both guns were pointed at Joe.

“Where’s the girl?” the tall man growled.

“What?”

“Paulie, check the bathroom,” the tall man said to the short one.

“Sure thing, Sal.” Paulie turned and ambled across the room.

“What the—”

“Shut up!” Sal said.

Paulie reached for the handle and opened the door. The bathroom was dark. As he stepped in he stumbled, his foot hitting the raised edge of the bathroom floor, and as he fell his gun clattered loudly against the door.

“Wake up the neighbors while you’re at it, numnuts,” Sal said, annoyed.

“Sorry boss,” Paulie said. He picked himself up and turned on the light, a faint night light, just enough to see the surroundings: a bathtub big enough for a hippopotamus, a shower the size of a one bedroom in Alphabet City, and two sinks. He checked the toilet vestibule and then walked up to the doors of what looked like a linen closet. He raised his gun and slowly opened the doors. He saw two hanging bathrobes and a stack of towels on the closet floor. He nudged the bathrobes aside. Nothing. Paulie carefully stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door. He was panting and sweating, as if he’d just run a marathon. “Nothing in there,” he said, wiping his forehead.

Sal leaned in toward Joe. “Where’s the girl?”

“She’s. . . she went downstairs,” he stammered. “Getting some drinks.”

“We just saw her come in here with you, fuckwad.” Sal let out a grunt. “Paulie, check under the bed.”

Paulie pocketed the gun, wiped his forehead again, and labored onto his hands and knees. He sighed heavily as he got low to the ground and scanned the underside of the bed. “Nothing here either, boss.”

Joe motioned toward the door at the far end of the master suite. “She went out that way, just before you came in.”

“Fine. We’ll wait for your girly to get back,” Sal said.

“What’s the hell is this about?”

Sal raised his gun and pointed it at Joe’s head. “You know exactly what this is about.”

“I. . . I don’t know—”

“Where’s my fucking money!” he yelled.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Joe screamed back.

Sal smirked as he turned and said to Paulie, “The nerve of this guy.”

“Yeah. The nerve,” Paulie said.

“Boss ain’t gonna like it one bit, Paulie. Not one bit.” As Sal turned back to face Joe, he caught a glimpse of himself in the floor to ceiling mirror next to the bed. He stopped, adjusted his tie, and grinned, confidently, his pearl-white teeth glinting in the glow of the low light.

“Listen, buddy boy,” Sal then said to Joe. “The hundred grand was due this morning. You didn’t show. The boss is pissed. Now we’re here to collect.”

Joe stammered, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s either you and the girl. Or the dough. Take your pick.”

“Renée doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t what?”

“Can I sit up?”

Sal scooped the boxers lying on the floor with the barrel of his gun and flung them toward Joe. Joe fumbled nervously, slipped them on, and sat up against the headboard.

“Look. My name is Joe. Joe Jacobson. I’m from San Francisco. I’m here on vacation with—”

“Shut up! Paulie, what the fuck is wrong with this guy? Huh? Does he not understand what I’m saying?”

“Nah, don’t think so, boss.”

“The hundred grand, pal. Where is it?”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Joe said.

“Paulie, what’s the room we’re supposed to be in?” Sal asked.

Paulie reached in his left jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and stared at it for a beat. Then he squinted, moved the paper further from his eyes, and said, “Eighteen-oh-five.” He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

“That’s right. Eighteen-oh-five. And what room are we in now, Joe Jackoff or whatever your fucking name is?”

“Eight. . . Eighteen-oh-five.”

“Right, this is the room. Just like one plus one equals two.”

“But I have no idea what. . . look, sir—”

“Don’t you fucking call me sir, you fuck!”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” Joe said, holding out his hands.

Sal sighed and lowered his gun. “Stand up.”

“What?”

“Get the fuck out of bed and stand the fuck up!”

Joe stepped out from under the covers and stood next to the bed.

“Hands up.”

Joe complied.

“He’s tall, and young,” Sal said as he scanned Joe from head to toe. “And he’s an athlete. Look. At. Those. Abs. Hmm, hmm. Your girlfriend must like that. Maybe when she gets back, she’ll enjoy watching us go to work on you. And you know what else, Paulie?”

“What’s that boss?”

“He’s very white.”

“Yeah. Pasty white.”

“Chalky.”

“Like a glass of milk,” Paulie said.

“Red hair, like the boss described him.”

“Yep.”

“Staying in the Splendora Hotel. Room eighteen-oh-five. Just like it says on the paper. Right, Paulie?”

“That’s right, Sal.”

“I’m sure it’s a mistake,” Joe said. “It has to be. We both work in Silicon Valley, for chrissake. We don’t need to borrow one hundred grand. In fact, we’ll loan you one hundred grand. And we won’t charge you interest.”

“What are you, a comedian?” Sal said as he paced the room. He looked over at Paulie, who was now rocking slowly to and fro. And burping loudly.

“What the fuck, Paulie?”

“Sorry, boss. The tacos—”

“I told you not to eat those fucking tacos.”

“I was hungry,” Paulie said.

“You’re always fucking hungry.” Sal turned his attention back at Joe. “The boss said you’d be here. You look just like he described you.”

“Fine. I look like him. But I’m not the guy you’re looking for. They gave you the wrong hotel. Or the wrong room number.”

Paulie burped and said, “No, no, Splendora Hotel. Room eighteen-oh-five. I have it right here.” He patted his jacket pocket. Then he held his stomach and grimaced.

“Wait, I know what’s going on!” Joe said. “When we checked in they gave us a room on a lower floor, twelve, or thirteen, I can’t remember, and the view was obstructed by scaffolding. So Renée, you know how women are, she had to have a room with a view of the Empire State building on our anniversary, and so she made this big stink, and they did some juggling, and moved us up here. So you see? We’re NOT supposed to be here! I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”

“What do you think, Paulie? I think this wise guy’s full of shit—"

“Why would I need to borrow one hundred grand if I can afford to stay in a place like this? Do you know how much this room costs? Two grand a night, excluding taxes and service fees.”

“Yeah, they tack those on at check out, really messes with your budget,” Sal said.

Joe lowered his hands. “Right. And by the way, why would I be hanging around here if I owed you money. Wouldn’t I get the hell out of town?”

“Yeah, that would be fucking stupid. . . maybe you’re just fucking stupid.” He glanced over at Paulie, who was still rocking back and forth.

And then Sal raised his gun and pointed it at Joe’s face. “You have exactly one minute to get the money.”

Joe felt the sweat forming on the back of his neck.

“Say, boss, while he’s getting the dough, I. . . I gotta take a dump.” Paulie burped and held his stomach.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Paulie. Now?”

“Yeah, now, boss.” Then he farted.

“Alright, make it quick. And watch out for that step.”

“Wait!” Joe said. “I can get one hundred grand to you first thing tomorrow morning. I bank with JPMorgan Chase! Wire, certified check, cash, anyway you want. Just give me till tomorrow!”

Paulie scurried toward the bathroom and when he reached the door, he grabbed the handle and looked down. Then he pushed the door open.

A loud crash exploded from the bathroom.

Paulie yelped, like a wounded kitten, and collapsed to the ground.

Sal turned toward the commotion.

Paulie tried to get up. There was another crash, like splintering plastic, and Paulie stopped moving.

Before Sal could refocus on his prey, Joe lunged at Sal, and swiftly and expertly swiped at the gun. The gun went off as it flew through the air. The mirror next to the bed shattered. They wrestled to the ground and rolled on the floor, each clawing and gouging and swiping at the other. But Joe was the more agile, and he managed to land a solid punch to Sal’s nose. His perfectly symmetrical nose. There was a loud crack, like a snapped twig. Blood flowed down the man’s face. Joe threw all his weight on Sal, sat on his chest, and pinned him down.

“My nose! You broke my nose! You motherfucking—”

“Tell your boss this is what happens to pretty boys!” Joe slammed his fist down hard into Sal’s face. This time it sounded like he was cracking walnuts. Sal lay there, immobile, blood pooling next to his head.

Joe grimaced, shook his hand a few times, and leapt toward the bathroom, where Renée stood over Paulie’s prostrate body, a shattered hairdryer in her hand.

“You alright?” Joe asked her.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” she said, dropping the hairdryer.

Joe knelt next to Paulie and swiped the gun away. A pair of bifocals with lenses thicker than four stacked quarters had fallen out of his pockets, alongside the piece of paper. Joe turned the eyeglasses over in his hand and cast them aside. He unfolded the paper and stared at it for some time. And then he laughed—a high-pitched, crazy laugh, something Renée had never heard him do before.

“What’s your fucking problem?” Renée asked.

He gave her the paper. It was in an uneven, almost illegible script—the kind that would require a first grader to repeat the year. The kind etched into prison walls. Like ancient hieroglyphics, open for interpretation.

SPLENDORA HOTEL ROOM 1305.