“The summit.”
I breathe out a large portion of my soul. The summit. A logistical nightmare that’d been keeping me from sleeping restfully the past few nights, but at least I had until next week to prepare for it. Anger shoots through me like an electric current and I consider digging my thumb into his eye to make myself feel better, but there’s no point taking this out on Reg. The poor guy is just the hotel manager. And clearly, he’s no happier about the change than I am.
This was a TEA call, so I know who to be mad at.
“Does Danbridge know?” I ask.
“He said to take five minutes to calm down before calling him.”
“I’m giving him two, and that’s generous.”
Reg leans back in his seat. “I need a drink. Is it too early for a drink?”
I spot a lottery ticket on the corner of the desk. Reg likes to bet on horses, though he doesn’t do a very good job of it. I give the ticket a tap and say, “You know, you’d be better off putting your money in a pile and burning it. At least it’ll keep you warm.”
He snatches the ticket with one hand, and with the other reaches for the tape dispenser, then affixes it to the bottom of his monitor. “You gotta have dreams, kid. This is the one that’s gonna change my luck. I know it.” He glances from side to side. “Big jackpot. If I win, I’m going to retire. Someplace down in Mexico. Beautiful women, colorful drinks. Never putting on a pair of full-length pants again.” He laughs to himself. “You should come with.”
That earns a laugh in return. “You think a few drinks with umbrellas in them are going to improve my disposition?”
“I expect you to have the personality of a battle-ax until the day you die. But you can’t stay here forever, you know.”
“I can try,” I tell him.
* * *
—
Leather daddy is gone. The lines at the desks seem longer than they were before. Still plenty of blue bloods, but now flight staff too, in their sparkling red and green and purple uniforms. Which means we’re going to hit capacity real quick. At least staff tends to be polite. Hooray for class solidarity. I slide up to Cameo, who as per usual, looks like a sculpture come to life, with their sharp, angular features, bald head atop a nearly seven-foot frame, and heavy jade earrings.
“How do we look?” I ask, craning my neck to look up at them.
Cameo smiles at the elderly woman they’re helping. “I’ll be with you in one moment, dear.” To me, they say, “We’re a little over half full already, but I’m hearing flights are grounded for at least the day, so it won’t be long until these people resort to cannibalism.”
“Excuse me,” the elderly woman says.
We both turn to her, and her pearl necklace and designer luggage and pink velour tracksuit.
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry, as I’ve said, these are not normal circumstances…” Cameo starts.
Her voice is like a squeaky toy shoved into a garbage disposal. “I’ve already been told that the trip I planned more than a year ago has been postponed and they can’t tell me until when, and now you’re saying I can’t have the room I booked either. I reserved a superluxury room and I want a superluxury room.”
“I understand that,” Cameo says, with the patience of a saint, which is impressive because I already want to kick over this lady’s expensive bag. “I’m deeply sorry for the inconvenience. I can comp your room as well as your meals for the duration of your stay.”
“I’d like to speak to your manager.”
Cameo touches their ear. “Reg? A Miss Steubens would like to speak to you. Send her over? Right away.” They raise a delicate hand, palm flat and unthreatening, toward Reg’s office. The woman huffs, takes her bag, and trudges over.
“Did Reg really say to send her over?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Cameo says, offering a sly smile.
And then their face drops, like they were digging around their teeth with their tongue and came across the squished remains of a bug. I turn again to find an old white man in a linen tunic, a gold-woven band around the neck and a gold-colored rope holding it together at his waist. Probably prepped for that grounded trip to Ancient Egypt.
To see people in period garb around here is not uncommon.
The problem is the bronzer he’s used to darken his skin.
The costume designer, Fumiko, has a hard-and-fast rule about not doing any kind of skin alteration. The “no blackface” policy, she calls it.
The worst part is he seems so proud, smiling like a kid who drew on a wall. Even with the way the makeup cakes and cracks around his wrinkles, the way he missed some spots on his neck, highlighting pale patches of skin.
I glance at Cameo. With their aquiline features and almond skin, they could be from that region of the world. Or, like me, they’re just wildly offended at a sight like this in the year twenty-goddamn-seventy-two.
The old man seems to detect our discomfort, which isn’t surprising because the two of us are frozen still as statues. He gives a little shrug and says, “When in Rome, right? Or, Thebes I guess will be the case.”
I can see Cameo’s jaw working as they chew on the words they want to say, before forcing a smile onto their face and nodding. The trouble with the clientele here is, push back too hard and they remind you that they “know someone,” and the worst part is, none of them are lying.
“Yes, sir,” Cameo says, pushing the words out. “How can I be of service?”
“Well, it says my trip is delayed, and I’m hoping you might be able to give me an update, or at least call up to my room when something changes…”
I turn to Cameo, give a big I’m sorry shrug, and leave them to suffer. Not much else I can do. The withering look I get in return, it could be for the old man or it could be for me. Makes no difference.
I wave to Ruby and don’t have to ask—a little compartment in its side opens and my earpiece sticks out. I place it in my ear, then twist to ensure a tight fit. “Danbridge.”
He picks up almost immediately. “Was that five minutes?”
I make my way toward the coffee urn. “What in the hypotenuse fuck is going on, Allyn?”
“That’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“That you think I have any say in this.”
I grab a paper cup and hold it under the urn, my reflection in the gleaming surface distorted and pencil-thin. When I pull the lever nothing comes out. I tilt the urn toward me, and not even a drip. As I’m putting it back in place, a sconce on the wall gives a little flicker. God, this place is falling apart. “You run the TEA,” I tell him.
“Right,” he says. “And Vince Teller cares about that. So does the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. You know all those groups that were planning to protest? They found out the date and were organizing a demonstration, so we had to pivot.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sending someone over to help.”
“Okay, I guess we never were friends…”
“Jan, you need a right hand.”