The Chosen

dressed in a tailored crisp brown suit. “Right this way, sir,” Kyle was saying, and picked up the man’s suitcase. “Your suite’s ready now.”

Vera tried not to appear obvious; this was the first upper floor room guest she’d seen, and as she watched from the corner of her eye, all she could be reminded of was what Mulligan had implied. Money laundering, mafia, drug lords? Some people had a look—you could tell, just by looking at them, what they were into, and this guest that Kyle was checking in—he had it. The man’s face reflected a darkness, even an ominousness, which clashed with his fine suit. He looked like a thug.

Select clientele, huh? Vera mused, then went up the stairs to her room.

Whoever that guy is, he’s bad news.

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO}

Lee off-loaded the last dish-rack from the Hobart’s big chain conveyor, then began to automatically stack the hot dry plates. The shift had passed like sludge in a gutter, and that was about how Lee had felt lately—sluggish in dark questions and dread.

“Get rollin’, Lee,” Dan B. happily remarked. He was whistling as he polished up the range and the line table. “Looks like we’re going to be out of here by midnight, still plenty of time to go into town, huh?”

Lee merely nodded, carrying more plates to their metal shelving.

“And guess what, dishman? Vera’s letting us take her car. Ain’t that slick?”

“Yeah, man. Slick.”

Dan B. frowned across the kitchen, his big white chef’s hat jiggling. “What’s the matter with you? You still want to go, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Lee said.

Dan B. easily sensed his friend’s sullenness. “Come on, man. What’s wrong? You’ve barely said a word all night.”

“I’m fine,” Lee responded. Yeah, right, fine. But even if he’d wanted to talk about it, what could he possibly say?

“This place looks good enough. Let’s roll.” Dan B. slapped Lee on the back. “Aren’t we going to change?” Lee asked, indicating their sneakers and smudged kitchen tunics. “We’re going to The Waterin’ Hole, not the Kennedy Center. Quit stalling, let’s get out of here and have a couple beers,” Dan B. said.

They donned their coats and went out the side exit. Lee cast a glance over his shoulder; Kyle wouldn’t like this at all—most nights, for weeks now, Lee had finished the roomservice dishes after he’d finished up at The Carriage House. He didn’t much care now, though; he was too confused and depressed. Kiss my fat ass, Kyle. Clean up your own mess. Brisk strides took them across the darkened parking lot; the bitter cold slapped them in the face. Lee glanced up, at The Inn. He was thinking about the woman, as he did now almost constantly. Grim images weaved in and out of his mind.

“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.”