“You forget your brain?” Dan B. asked. He was already in the Lamborghini, starting it up. “Get in unless you want to freeze.”
Lee climbed in and idly closed the door. Snap out of it, he urged himself. Dan B. would be thinking he was weirding out. “Hey, Dan B., you ever seen the serial number on a rubber?”
Dan B.’s brow knit as he pulled out of the lot. “What are you talking about? Rubbers don’t have serial numbers.”
“Sure they do, I guess you’ve just never rolled one down far enough to see it.”
“Funny. Put a potato in your pants and keep dreaming.”
“On the way back, how about letting me drive?”
Dan B. laughed. “You? This? Shit, you probably don’t even know how to drive.”
“I admit, it’s been a while since I’ve driven a car, but I drive your sister crazy every night.”
“Yeah, crazy with laughter. Besides, you couldn’t squeeze between the seat and wheel.”
“Yeah, you may be right. So I guess I better just settle for squeezing between the ceiling and your mom.”
“You’re on a roll tonight. I was beginning to think you’d lost your terrible sense of humor.”
But it was all a fake; joking around didn’t help. Lee could only wonder the darkest things. The housemaid continued to come to him, every night, in her silent gratitude, in her passion—perhaps even in her love. Yet Lee wondered repeatedly: What did they do to her? Who did all those awful things? It could be a cold world sometimes, and an ugly one. What made it all worse was that Lee was beginning to really like her…
The sleek car glided gracefully along the old, weaving roads. The cold sky beyond the ridge looked like black murk. The winter, and its bitter cold, its stillness and lifelessness, made Lee feel more isolated than ever.
Only a few other cars were parked in the drab little lot before the bar. A neon open sign blinked in the window, advertising Bud. “Class joint,” Dan B. whispered when they entered. Lee expected as much. He was a bit of a beer snob, and he groaned when he spotted the sign on the bar walclass="underline" don’t ask for imports, ’cos we ain’t got ’em! Great. I’ll have to drink Carling. Several old-timers sat up at the bar, drinking Kessler’s straight and complaining about “the goddamn recession.” Some other patrons occupied several cheaply upholstered booths in back, too dark to be seen. Two women in their fifties sat closer up, smoking Salems and yakking away. One laughed drunkenly, showing bad teeth.
“Is that your mom?” Lee asked.
“No,” Dan B. said, “but your dad’s here.” He pointed to the end of the bar, where one of the old-timers passed out and went face down into a bowl of peanuts.
Dan B. ordered two Buds, draft. “All right, no more fooling around,” he asserted. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“You can’t bullshit Dan B.,” Dan B. said. “You haven’t been yourself all week. What’s bugging you?”
I can’t tell him, Lee reminded himself. No way. He’d sound absurd, he’d sound like an idiot. First off, Dan B. would go apeshit if he knew Lee was sexually involved with an employee, especially one of Kyle’s employees. And what could he say that wouldn’t sound absolutely demented? Well, you see, Dan B., I’ve sort of become, uh, involved with that pudgy housemaid, you know, the one who never talks to anyone. She comes into my room and gives me head every night, see? And there’s this slight problem, like, uh, she’s got all these scars and burn-marks all over her body. Oh, and one other thing. She’s got stitches in her vagina…
“I guess I just haven’t been feeling too hot.” But there was one thing he could mention, wasn’t there? “You been hearing weird things at night? Like real late?”
Dan B. plowed half his beer in the first gulp, contemplating the question. “Come to think of it, yeah. Like people talking out in the hall and walking around. And a lot of ruckus too, but it sounds like it’s coming from downstairs, not upstairs.”
“Me too.” Lee winced when he sipped his Bud. But he’d heard more than that, or at least he thought he had. Things thumping around; thunking, laughter. A couple of times he was sure he’d heard someone shriek. Just dreams, he tried to convince himself. Who would be shrieking at a high-class private resort like The Inn?
“In fact,” Dan B. continued, “one night last week I woke up to hang a piss, and I thought I heard someone shriek.”
Lee looked at him.
“And a few nights ago I thought I heard someone walking around the hall. So I looked out, and saw someone going down the stairs, walking away from our rooms.”
“Maybe it was Feldspar,” Lee suggested. “Vera told me his room’s on the end.”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s funny. I’ve only seen him once or twice since we got here. And that Kyle motherfucker. Where’s his room?”
“I don’t know. On the upper floors, I guess.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. The upper floors are all the higher priced suites. Why give one of those to an employee when there’re still several unused rooms on our floor?’’
Lee shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe it was your mom, looking for a fresh doorknob.”
“No, no. Now I remember. It was your sister. She got lost on her way to the smokehouse.”
Lee tried to think of a suitable derogatory comeback, but in the next instant, Dan B. gently poked him with his elbow and said under his breath: “Check this out. These old sticks over here are eyeballing us like we got no heads.”
Lee discreetly took another wincing sip of his Bud, taking a quick glance right. It was true. The old, rustic-looking men at the other side of the bar were staring at them.
“They probably got the hots for you, buddy,” Dan B. suggested and got up off his wobbly stool. “A cute gal like you, shit. Excuse me while I go contribute to the Waynesville reservoir.”
Dan B. walked off for the men’s room, while Lee smirked. What he needed after a long shift was a good beer, like a Maibock or a Blue Herren Ale, not this limp, fizzy domestic swill. And one thing he definitely didn’t need was being stared at by a bunch of drunk old codgers.
Then he nearly jumped off his stool at the surprise slap to his back. “If it’s not my favorite fat boy,” greeted Kyle, who’d been sitting in the opposite corner. “How goes it, slim? I didn’t know they had an all-you-can-eat pasta bar here.”
Kiss my fat ass, Lee wished he had the gall to reply. Kyle slapped him on the back again, downed a shot of Jack, and smacked his lips. “How come you’re sittin’ here bending this bar stool when you’re supposed to cleaning up room service?”
“Kiss my fat ass, Kyle,” Lee finally summoned the courage to suggest. “I’m not doing that anymore; it’s not my job. And you can go ahead and fire me if you don’t like it. I don’t give a shit.”
“Relax, Oprah, relax. I got my own crew squared away so I won’t be needing you back there breaking the floor tile anymore.” Kyle raised his hand. “Hey, keep, get my buddy here a beer on my tab. A light beer.” Then he laughed and went on, “And of course I realize you’re pretty busy these days after hours.”