Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

“That will be twenty dollars, sir.”

I tear up the parking tag and drop the pieces on the ground.

“I’ve got a better idea. Keep the car.”

“Sir?”

He wants to come after me, but other cars are arriving, so he drives the Bugatti into the garage.

Inside, I go the front desk and it hits me that I don’t have a room number or any idea who to ask for. Point for Kasabian.

“Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

The desk clerk looks like Montgomery Clift and is better dressed than the president. He’s smiling at me, but his pupils are dilating like he thinks I’m going to start stealing furniture from the lobby. I stashed the leather jacket in the Room of Thirteen Doors before coming over and am wearing the rifle coat. I thought it looked classier and more formal, but maybe I was wrong.

“A friend of mine is staying here, but I don’t have his room number.”

“Of course. What’s your friend’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s not going to give his real name and I don’t know what name he’s using. He has a lot of them.”

The clerk raises his eyebrows a little. Now he has an excuse to release his inner snotty creep.

“Well, I’m not sure what I can do about that. You and your friend should probably have dealt with that in advance. Are you even sure he’s here? We specialize in a fairly exclusive clientele.”

“He’ll be in your penthouse. The biggest one you have.”

The clerk smiles like I’m a bug and he’s deciding whether to step on me or hose me down with Raid.

“Unless your friend is a Saudi prince with an entourage of thirty-five, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“Check your register again. I know he’s here, Maybe the prince checked out.”

“The prince’s rooms are booked through the summer, so, no, there’s no mistake.”

I get out my phone and dial the direct line to my room above Max Overload. I know Kasabian is there, but he doesn’t answer. He knows what time it is and he’s probably dancing a centipede jig and laughing at me as the phone rings and rings. I put the phone back in my pocket. The clerk is looking at me. His expression hasn’t changed. What I want to do is punch a hole in the front of the desk, reach through, grab his balls, and make him sing The Mickey Mouse Club song. But these days, I’m working on the theory that killing everyone I don’t like might be counterproductive. I’m learning to use my indoor voice like a big boy, so I smile back at the clerk.

“Are you sure you don’t have another penthouse lying around here somewhere? Some off-the-books place you keep for special guests?”

“No, I’m sure we don’t have anything like that. And without a name or a room number, I need to ask you to leave the hotel.”

“Is needing to ask me to leave the same as telling me to leave? That’s a really confusing sentence.”

“Please, sir. I don’t want to have to call security.”

No, you don’t want to call them because then I’d have to make you into a sock puppet.

“Would you like me to tell your fortune?”

“Excuse me?”

I pick up a pen from the counter.

“Give me your hand a minute.”