Dr. Stud

“Good morning, Fernando,” I smile.

I know Royce has a point. That kind of thing—the doorman—there’s not a lot left of that sort of thing in the world, is there? It’s a really simple kind of business. We provide a hospitality for travelers. A place to stay, a comfortable bath to relax in, a restaurant, and outstanding customer service. That’s all. We do it better than almost anyone else, but it’s really just like staying at your grandmother’s house, all at four hundred dollars a night.

Do we need to add more? No. By all accounts, being the most recognized name in luxury hotels in the world is a hell of an accomplishment. But what’s our endgame? Is this hotel going to go the same way as Uber and Lyft? Will our prices continue to be eroded by Priceline.com and others? Or perhaps taken over by Airbnb?

Just like any business, we have to ask: will progress make us irrelevant?

It goes without saying, we would not know how to live if we weren’t stupidly wealthy. This is a lifestyle we definitely need to maintain. Being flexible and innovative will keep us in the game.

I should remember that Uber metaphor. I wonder if that argument would convince Royce to reconsider casino operations in any way.

As I cross the foyer, I notice Brock and Royce in the bar. Royce raises a hand over his head and gestures to me to come over.

“It’s a little early for drinking, isn’t it, guys?” I ask as I approach, irritated to be pushed off course like this.

“Just coffee, boss,” Brock replies. “You want some?”

“Yeah… actually, that would be terrific,” I admit.

Royce gestures to the bartender and then points to a table for us to occupy. There are only a few people across the lobby, staring at their cell phones, shifting from foot to foot as they wait for someone.

The bar is deserted, but it’s not partitioned off. It’s merely an elevated platform to one side of the lobby, separate from the more formal bar in the restaurant and jazz club on the other side of the building. But we do spend a considerable amount of time here, observing our staff and their interactions with guests. Sometimes we greet dignitaries and celebrities here. We can watch everything from this vantage.

“What’s all this about?” I ask as the cappuccino is set in front of me. The smell is already wafting through my sinuses, reminding me how good our coffee is.

“How was Detroit?” Royce asks.

“Detroit was... fine. Ultimately fine,” I answer. “We got everything sorted out with no cost overruns.”

Royce raises his eyebrows, obviously pleased. He and I look a lot alike, favoring our father most of all. Spencer does too. We all have the same dark, wavy hair. Square jaws. Thick eyebrows. Until stubble came back in style, we all had to shave twice a day.

Not like Brock and Trey; they look like our mother. When we were younger, Mom called them her “golden boys.” They had the light hair, the light eyes. Not quite as broad, though still athletic and quick. They ran track, while Royce and I stuck to wrestling. They’re a few inches shorter than the rest of us, but still close to six feet.

Golden boys. Nobody’s used that nickname since she passed away. It went right to their heads.

“So that’s good?” Royce continues.

I take a drink of the cappuccino. I can feel it warming me all the way down to my stomach.

“Yes. It was good,” I repeat. “The casino guys would like to talk to us more. We can worry about that some other time.”

Royce and Brock look at each other.

“Okay… what is going on here? You guys didn’t invite me to drink coffee with you, did you?”

“It’s… Bunny,” Brock finally says, glancing at me and then away. “Do you think you could get around to interviewing her today?”

“The nanny? From August’s recommendation?”

“Nanny. Yes,” Royce repeats.

“And also… you know. More than that,” Brock adds.

They glance at each other again.

“Yes… I had some time to think about that too,” I confess. “Can we talk about this later? After I have had a chance to decompress a little bit?”

Brock leans forward. He places one hand, palm down on the table.