Cameo stands at the desk, checking their nails. They’re now responsible for pretty much everything at all times, but wasn’t that always the case? They look terribly bored and yet comfortably content, presiding over their own little fiefdom.
Brandon refills the coffee urn, his pockets stuffed with candy wrappers, but carefully compressed so they don’t fall out. Chris looks bothered as he paces across the lobby, like there’s too much to fix and not enough time to do it. Tamworth stands at the railing outside his office, looking down into the lobby, not much for him to do at this point, now that his office has been converted to a general practice and he sees patients from the nearby towns, which are mostly empty anyway.
Next to Reg’s office there’s a framed picture of him, taken at a staff party in the Tick Tock. A drink in his hand, an arm around his shoulder. The woman he’s standing with is cut off but it’s a long, slender arm with a nude painted nail.
He’s still watching over the lobby. Because in the end, there are some things that are better to set down than to carry.
Most of the shops are closed. The ramps need cleaning too, but they still lead up, up, all the way up, to that spot at the top floor, where if you stand at the railing and you squint, you almost can’t tell that things are different. It could just be a quiet day.
The Tick Tock still shines. There are only two guests in the entirety of the restaurant: a young white couple, sitting at the bar, dressed for the summer heat in shorts and T-shirts and sandals. The kind of outfit that once would have disqualified them from entry. They are looking around the cavernous space with wonder and awe.
Mbaye comes out from the kitchen, hefting a pair of heavy plates. He places them down, and they clack against the expensive marble bar top. Basic burgers and fries, each flanked by an oversoaked pickle. The kind of meal you’d find in a diner that was all neon and chrome. Not something that would have been in regular rotation when Mbaye had his way—and an unlimited budget—but at this point he probably can’t afford the jamón ibérico anymore, and neither can the clientele.
“So,” the boy says, leaning forward, like any second him and Mbaye are going to be best friends. “Is this place really haunted?”
Mbaye smiles. His hard muscles have softened a bit, and there’s more gray in his hair. But his eyes still shine with that bottomless well of patience.
“You could say that.”
“What happened?” the girl asks. “When they shut down Einstein. Didn’t a couple of people get”—she looks around and drops her voice—“killed here awhile back? And that senator got arrested? It was a big scandal. Were you here for that?”
As a response, Mbaye shrugs, picks up a sweating metal container of water, and tops off their glasses.
The girl looks worried, like she might have offended him. “If I could go anywhere,” she says, “I’d want to see Johnny Cash in concert. Just once.”
“I’d go back to when they were building Stonehenge,” the boy says. “And ask them why.” He turns to Mbaye and asks, “Where would you go?”
“I like it here just fine,” he says. “Turns out, there are things people are not meant to meddle with. Time travel being one of them.”
“We tried to go over to Einstein,” the boy says, his voice rising. “You can’t even get near it before security is on you. I know they supposedly dismantled everything, but still, it’s wild. Have you ever been?”
“No,” Mbaye says. “Above my pay grade.”
“But, back to the hauntings…” the girl says.
Mbaye raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You saw them? On the fifth floor?”
The couple freezes. They look at each other.
“That’s exactly right,” the girl says, nodding. “It was the craziest thing. Two women. One of them was bleeding.” She touches her side as she says this. “But she was smiling? We only saw them for a second.”
Mbaye nods. “There are many ghosts here. But those two are my favorites. We call them the Lovers.”
The boy and the girl look at each other very seriously when he says this.
“Who are they?” the boy asks.
Mbaye picks up a clean glass, pulls a towel off his belt, and polishes it. “They were two people who passed through this place a long time ago and found something special together.” He puts the glass back down. “This is the thing, about places like this. There’s something about enclosed spaces that hold on to energy. And a place like this receives so much energy, with all the people who pass through here. Because it doesn’t matter if you’re here for a night, or a week, or you work here and spend most of your time here.” He points toward the lobby. “Everyone who comes through those doors is looking for the same thing. Do you know what that is?”
The boy and girl look at each other and shake their heads, entranced more than stumped.
“Comfort,” Mbaye says. “That’s all. A little comfort. A little feel of home. With home comes family. With family comes emotion. That is the energy a place like this absorbs. Our emotions are the way our hearts call out to each other, and those echoes remain after we’re gone. And a place like this”—he gestures toward the ceiling, hands spread, almost as if in prayer—“a place like this holds so many different kinds of energy. It’s up to us, to choose which of those energies we respond to.”
They wait for more, like Mbaye has something else to say, but he doesn’t. He asks them if they need anything else, and they say no, chewing slowly on their burgers and more slowly on his words. Mbaye gives a little nod and continues to tidy the already tidy bar, and when they’re done eating, they sign their tab and leave, eyes darting around the restaurant, like if they’re quick they might see a shimmer out of the corners of their eyes.
Or maybe they do see the shimmer.
When they’re gone Mbaye comes over, picks up their plates, and places them in the wash bin under the bar. He looks around to make sure there’s no one around, then goes back into the kitchen. He comes out with a steaming bowl of thieboudienne, and places it on the top of the bar. Next to it he puts down a napkin and utensils, then a glass of water. After the arrangement is set he puts his hands on the bar, on either side of the bowl, and closes his eyes, breathes in slowly through his nose and exhales through his mouth.
When he opens his eyes, he smiles.
Then he returns to the kitchen.
From my seat at the other end of the bar, I reach over and take Mena’s hand.
For Tom Spanbauer
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Alina Boyden, Emma Johnson, Blake Crouch, Elizabeth Little, Chantelle Aimee Osman, Alex Segura, John Vercher, Amanda Straniere, and Todd Robinson. Also: Chris Betz at the TWA Hotel at JFK; Tim Bevan, Eric Fellner, Katy Rozelle, Dylan Harris, Jordan Gustafon, and Jacob Chase; Lucy Stille; Josh Getzler, along with Jon Cobb, Soumeya Roberts, Ellen Goff, and the whole team at HG Literary; Julian Pavia, along with Caroline Weishuhn and the whole team at Ballantine/PRH.
BY ROB HART
The Paradox Hotel
The Warehouse
New Yorked
City of Rose
South Village
The Woman from Prague
Potter’s Field
Take-Out: And OtherTales of Culinary Crime