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Chapter Five: Room Service - Part Four
Flax
Flax grinned from behind the large oak bar in the first floor lobby, polishing a glass with a suspiciously clean dish rag. Not because the glass necessarily needed polishing or that he particularly liked to polish them, but rather because it was simply something he felt good bartenders ought to do between serving drinks.
Not only did it promote the cleanliness of the establishment—real or just presumed—but Flax liked to think that it reminded passerbys that now was a truly excellent time for a drink.
And, if anyone needed a drink at that exact moment, it was the unlucky newbie. Flax had seen him, the Aussie, and the little snap dragon trailing Mei around for days now, each going about their duty differently.
The petunia liked to pretend that she were Nancy Drew in the Case of the Wandering Woman, slyly trailing her mistress through the hotel. Her eyes would peer and dart over spaces, in search of anything suspicious, taking it all deadly serious—or at least, as seriously as any child took any game that had caught their attention for an afternoon or two.
She would scamper back with news that Mei sure dropped a lot of stuff now—not just cookies and candy and treats, but keys and buttons and pens and the like—and that she seemed terribly tired all the time, frequently resting on benches and steps with her head heavy in her hands.
The Aussie simply railroaded her way into Mei’s day-to-day, shadowing the woman from room to room, task to task. She’d ask a million questions, often repeating the same ones several times over. If one weren’t paying close attention, they would have assumed that the little kookaburra was just a bit flighty.
But Flax knew that the clever little rosebud kept a long log of meticulous mental notes, always reporting back to the band of would-be detectives when Mei’s answers had changed or when segments of her stories had been omitted. If the sweet, little buttercup played at being Nancy Drew, Betty Crocker like to think she was Dick Tracy, connecting every clue to the next, sure the trail would lead to the answer.
Now the unfortunate, self-proclaimed jinx, he would blunder and plod through the hallways after Mei, trying both to be sneaky and silent—only to trip inexplicably, plum ruining the effect—and trying to engage Mei in conversation—only to stumble through that as well—without either girl’s finesse or charm.
Flax swore that, if there was a wrinkle in the carpet—no matter how slight—or a stray wet patch of tile—no matter how small—or a table with a somewhat askew vase at its edge—no matter how sturdy—that boy was bound to fall all over it. Flax wondered how Unlucky 113 had managed not to injure himself or break anything more significant than a few replaceable lamps and such.
Yet, at any rate.
Flax shook his head as the kid fumbled with a fallen curtain rod that had for some unknown reason come off of its hooks to smack the boy smartly on the head as he passed. Someone really ought to do something before the menace did any real damage. And, with no one else around, it was more than unfortunate that the task fell to him.
“Hey, kid, come over here,” he called, still polishing the glass in his hand. He plunked it down on the polished wood and reached below the counter to the familiar bottles beneath. Pouring the kid the last of the whiskey they’d shared only days before, he pushed the glass to him.
“I can’t,” the boy said sorrowfully, staring at the two fingers of fine Irish whiskey fondly.
“You already lost Mei during your great struggle with the curtain rod.” The boy winced. Flax chuckled. “Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re not unlucky, just clumsy?”
The boy sidled onto the leather barstool. “I’m fairly certain that the two go hand-in-hand, one feeding the other and making a right muck-up of my life.”
Flax grinned as the boy threw back the glass, swallowing the hard liquor lovingly. It was a fine thing indeed to see a person who could take pleasure in the small things. “So do tell,” Flax said as he tipped a newly opened bottle of whiskey over the now drained glass, pouring another finger or so in, “what have you learned today?”
“Not much.” The boy sighed. “Other than the fact that Marigold in Suite 216 had a mad affair with an Irishman in 1923 and Jonquil knows an absolutely superbe pub in West Waterford—that, I think, is now a Starbucks—didn’t learn a thing.” The boy sipped from his glass a bit more slowly this time. “I don’t think I make a very good investigator.”
Flax clucked his tongue softly. “So are you throwing in the towel?”
The kid tilted his head one way and then the other, his face twisted in a grimace—regret and obligation weighing down the corners of his lips. “I did make a promise to follow her. I’d feel wrong if I walked away now.”
The boy shrugged, his face relaxing again. “Mei’s been kind me. From the very start. And though I’m not entirely sure what—if anything—is wrong with her, I do want help in any way I can. If that means running around the Elysium like her shadow,” he shrugged again, “so be it.”
Flax shook his head at the boy. It had been a while since he’d met a man with such a sense of duty—not since the boss. It was refreshing—in a corny kind of way. “Then you’d best catch her, haven’t you?”
So the clumsy nightshade stood up reluctantly and muttered something disgruntled, and—if Flax wasn’t totally off his mark—vaguely dirty before heading off down the hall and away from the bar. Flax raised an arched eyebrow as he watched the kid go.
That was the thing about duty; right or wrong, you had to do it. It was a totally pointless exercise, following Mei around—the kid had already acknowledged that—but he’d do it anyway. Faithfully, too.
Flax clucked his tongue, trying to decide if he liked the boy more or less because of it. It was kind of sweet—naggingly and naïvely so, smacking of rather Lenten-esque behavior. Perseverance even in the face of practicality and all that.
Speaking of the man, where the hell had he been lately? It’d been days since Flax had seen the boss. Not since before the would-be detectives had taken over the place.
Not that he would be able to do anything about Mei’s present predicament—much as, Flax was sure, the man would like to—but he really ought to know about the rowdy rag-tags playing at being superheroes.
Under normal circumstances, Lenten would already and have done something about the trail of children behind the little missus.
Not that there was anything normal about all of this and Flax suspected that no one knew that better than the stiff-spined hotel manager.
Flax sighed.
Lenten loved Mei. Had almost from the beginning. Not that the two had ever much acted on it beyond the occasional affectionate touch made in—at least, what they thought was—private.
No, they were both from a time where a long courtship—even a thirty-year-long one—still didn’t constitute a marriage. Even so, there wasn’t a man anywhere who could have loved that woman better.
Yet now, when Mei was putting on one hell of a damsel in distress act, her dashing hero was nowhere to be found. Wasn’t even there to hold her hand.
So much for honor.
Flax shook his head and, with it, that last thought. He couldn’t very well blame the man for turning tail—not when, if he were in the other man’s shoes, he’d have done the very same thing.
But, then, he was a heartless bastard and the boss wasn’t. Like the kid, the Elysium’s manager was weighed down in responsibility and duty and the like.
Which made his own vanishing act that much more mysterious. Where the hell was he?
Flax furiously flicked up the bar’s pass through and marched up to the boss’s room. He knocked. Twice. Three times. “Boss, you there?” He knocked again. “Boss?” He turned the knob. “Lenten?”
But there was no one inside the room. In fact, it looked as if no one had been in the room for days. The hotel manager had always been a meticulous man, believing that, even if perfection couldn’t be actually be achieved, it ought to be strove for at all times and in all things. So the barely lived-in, starkly spotless state of the room didn’t shock Flax.
In fact, it was the small imperfections hidden among the pristine that proved most damning.
Beneath crisply folded bed corners, sunlight shone on the flecks of dust that danced in the filtered light.
A water glass, still half-drunk, sat flat and stale on the bedside nightstand, a ring starting to appear around its base.
A book was left lying open, abandoned before bed, with its spine bent and cracked from neglect.
Flax knew the man who lived in this room—or at least as well as one could know another person—and he’d have bet his father’s farm that the fastidious manager hadn’t seen his bed in days.
Lenten had always been a rather Spartan man, eschewing a normal man’s need for certain creature comforts, but this room was more than spare. It was empty.
So Flax left the almost immaculate suite and headed toward the only other place the missing man could be. He didn’t know why he hadn’t checked there first. It made sense. If he were in the other’s man’s place, where would he go?
He’d have gone to the one place he felt needed most. He’d have gone to the bar, which meant the boss would be in his office.
Flax opened the door and saw the man at his desk, bent over his ledgers. Flax had tried several times to get him to switch to computers, but trying to explain high-tech to the 1950s gentleman proved more difficult a task than Flax had energy to tackle. So the paper trail continued. Stubborn man.
“What are you doing here?” Flax arched his eyebrow at the bogged-down man.
“Scheduling,” he answered, barely looking up. He adjusted his glasses and made marks with his pen. “What does it look like?”
Flax grunted, leaning to rest his fists on the neat piles of papers and notebooks shuffled together on mahogany desk. He felt a not inconsiderable amount of pleasure as the piles slipped and mixed at the pressure. “Not what I meant and you know it.”
“I’m quite busy, as you can see. Please, shut the door on your way out. Thank you.”
Flax straightened, smiling when the other man reflexively fussed over his things before returning to his paperwork. “You been here all week?” Flax lounged in the arm chair in front of the desk.
The man sniffed and made more marks. “I can’t understand why hotel services keeps avoiding the east wing. Only the top floor, but still, it’s becoming a problem. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve work to do.”
“Do you know what your little girl and the rest of the children are doing right now?” Flax picked up one of the boss’s books, flipping through it casually.
“More garden parties?” The man licked his finger and turned a page, still staring at the neat rows of numbers on the paper.
“No,” Flax said, hearing the annoyance creeping into his voice. “No, they’ve decided to save Mei.”
“Save Mei.” He tone was passive, noncommittal, as if he weren’t really listening, but Flax noticed his grip on the pen had tightened almost imperceptibly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, please—”
Flax sat forward in his seat and arched an eyebrow. “The two newbies have got your little girl running around this hotel, scribbling notes about Mei’s fading. They’ve got her believing that they can stop it.” Flax saw the man’s jaw clench, could hear his teeth grind. He sat back and relaxed a bit. Finally. A little service. “Thought you should know.”
“Now I do,” the other man replied blandly, resuming his own scribbling. “Thank you. Now if you don’t mind.” He nodded to the door.
Flax leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his thighs. “You gonna do something about all of this?”
“What’s there to do?” the Elysium manager asked, still going through his notes. “Let them play their games. They won’t help anyone, but, as far as I can see, they won’t hurt anyone either.”
“So that’s it?” Flax scoffed. “That’s it? You’re just gonna let them run wild around this place.” He waved his hand aggressively, while the boss’s eyes blandly watched him and his arms crossed his chest. “You’re just gonna let little Olive play hide-and-seek around the Elysium. Let her tiny, little heart break when their plans don’t pan.”
For a few tense moments, the two just stared at each other, the boss’s blue eyes sharpening pointedly as the seconds passed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and soft, much calmer than either of them felt. “As I said, there’s nothing to be done. Now, please, I’ve work to do.”
“You can’t just—”
Lenten stood up, placing his hands flat atop his books. “I, like Rowan and Calla, may do exactly as I choose. And at the moment, I would like to deal with the problem in the east wing.” He shut his books and walked to face Flax, staring reproachfully down at the taller man still sitting in the straight-backed leather chair. “And since when has the running of the Elysium been any of your concern?”
“I just don’t want to see Olive—”
“Then do something about it,” he told the younger man, turning his back to him. “If this means so much to you, deal with it yourself.” He turned to face him again. “You’ve been here longer than I have—longer than anyone here left to tell about it—yet what do you do with yourself all day? Do you assist me with the running of the hotel? Do you help new guests settle? Do you deal with the concerns of anyone other than yourself? Or do you spend all your time dallying with your various mistresses and puttering about the kitchen and bar—”
“Hey, now,” Flax interrupted, standing to tower over the much shorter man. “I make certain every meal is there and ready on that table on-time and perfect.”
“A job hotel services could handle and you know it,” the boss snapped. “You don’t do anything unless it first and foremost serves you. So don’t pretend that either of us thinks you give a whit about me or Mei or Olive.” He paused, his breaths hard and strained with his jaw clenched tight. He sniffed stiffly as he headed to his office door, opening it wide. “So, as I said, if this serves your interests so much, I’ll leave you to your task.” When the other man continued to stand unmoving, Lenten nodded to the door. “Flax.”
The southern gentleman clucked his tongue at the terse dismissal and let out a humorless laugh. “Guess I should be leaving then.”
Flax turned to walk out of the boss’s office, but stopped at the doorway. He stared at Lenten. “You asked me what I do here, how I help out, and I’m the first to say I might not be much of any use at all. But, boss, what are you doing?”
He stepped closer, getting right up in the smaller man’s face.
He stared him down and hard.
“Your woman, your little girl, they’re hurting so bad even a useless bastard like me can bleed for it. And, you, you aren't doing a thing about it. Not a goddamn thing. So I’ll ask you again, Lenten,” Flax said with steel scraping his voice, “what the hell are you doing here?”
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