I mean, laws can be changed. That’s the point of having a democracy, and from what I gather after some quick Google searches on the state of New Jersey, many people don’t like the Governor, Chris Christie – or the Turd of Trenton as he is commonly called. I don’t really know the guy, but when in Rome …
A few hours go by. It’s closing in on 1 AM, and we’re almost at our destination, The Grand Regency. I’m dog tired, and my companions are all snoring away. I flip on the radio to catch any news that might be important: a shootout at the airport, a warrant calling for my capture (with dead or alive a possible option), etc. Instead, I find some blowhard talking about this and that regarding the political fallout of some new bill that might not pass the House or Senate. If it does get through, half the population gets screwed, and if it doesn’t, the other half gets the shaft instead. I push the button, killing the transmission of news and sync my iPhone to the stereo instead.
This is the reason I don’t follow politics much anymore. My parents are very into the goings-on of Washington, D.C., and I became in tune myself over Sunday lunches when family and friends would visit when I was younger. Lately, politics just drives me nuts. I’ve drawn one conclusion over the last few administrations: they all seem obsessed with holes in general. Obama keeps going to the golf course to get a hole in one. Bush Jr. was looking for terrorists in hidey-holes. Clinton was trying to fill any womanly hole, and Bush Sr. … well, he just looked like an asshole after that ‘No new taxes’ business. Rant over.
Alright, so where am I? Oh yeah. Still driving. You know, I do love Taylor’s car but I’m getting kinda bored with it lately. I’m sick of driving, and I want to be back at my dorm, binge-watching Season 2 of House of Cards.
As I continue steering the vehicle down the freeway and falling asleep at the wheel, my thoughts drift again to Liz. There’s something about her that I just can’t shake. Whether it’s because she’s not like most girls at the university who talk constantly about 50 Shades of Rape or feministic glowing vampires, I’m not sure. But to me, that makes her special.
Subconsciously, my brain focuses on the current song that’s playing: Stank Factory Six’s ballad, “Covered in Thorns”. Who comes up with these band names? But anyway, this happens to be my favorite song of theirs (followed by their instrumental, “The Wanderer’s Curse”). The acoustics sound phenomenal in T’s car:
Now you’ve got my heart covered in thorns,
You can’t take my lies anymore.
Now you’ve got my face torn up with shame,
I can’t hide this guilt, showered in pain.
This is the main chorus and it touches a little too close to home. I shuffle my music library and instantly hear the lead vocals of Brian Card from Dump 116 pour from the speakers. This was a local high school band I used to listen to when I was in middle school; they’re no longer around, but I’ve always had a soft spot for them.
Next on my homemade playlist is The Tempered Machine, and I tap my hands against the wheel in harmony with the monstrous bassline performed by Brent Beardsley.
I try to get lost in the song, but even this timeless classic can’t unchain my thoughts. I’m stuck so deep in the muck of my emotions I’m almost tempted to dial Liz, even at this late hour. But then I see the sign for The Grand Regency and that idea vanishes like cigarette smoke in a night breeze.
“Hey, wake up, fellas. We’re here.”
I circumnavigate the parking lot a few times just to get the lay of the land, and on my second pass through I spot what looks like Kline’s car. I hadn’t thought it would be so easy; I figured he would have ditched one vehicle for another. That’s when I notice he has New York plates on his vehicle. Although the chances are good it could just be a similar model and color, I feel sure it’s his. Another signal it’s his car is that I can make out the detective’s police lights through the back windshield. Seems like a dead ringer.
When I park where I can keep my eyes on the hotel entrance, Chester, Taylor, and Sam rouse. Sam wipes at his eyes, and Taylor yawns. Chester’s ass does some yawning of its own and a horrid smell shoots from his britches, nearly suffocating all of us.
“Geez, what the hell did you eat?” I say, covering my mouth … which to be honest, doesn’t help.
“Pork rinds, Cheetos, and one of those Hot Mama pickled sausages.”
“Well, your stomach is rejecting one or all of them,” Taylor says through the neck of his shirt, pulled up over his nose.
“This kid is a mess. Why do I have to sit in the back with him?” Sam has a look of pure revulsion on his face.
As gross as the circumstances are in Taylor’s car, I have to get us back on course. “Okay, I’m pretty sure that is Kline’s car.” I point toward the unmarked cruiser, then look at the clock on the dashboard. “It’s 1:13 now. When is Kline’s flight supposed to leave?”
Taylor flips through some pages, scanning the itinerary we’d printed out. “He’s catching an early Delta flight at 5:25. That would mean he could be leaving any minute.”
“We need to make sure he gets held up,” I say. “If he leaves and makes it to the airport, it’ll be really hard for us to find him and stop him before his plane takes off.”
“What about your cop friend?” Sam asks. “You should give him a call.”
“You’re right,” I agree. An extra body would be useful, especially one that’s proficient in firing a weapon. I pull out my cell and dial Reed’s number. Two rings later he answers.
“Hey Ellis, how’s it going? By the way, guess what we found at the Kline lake house?” His voice is laced with heavy sarcasm. “No fucking drugs. That’s what!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I’ve been keeping my eyes glued to the hotel’s front doors since I parked. Now, the doors open and my heart skips a beat. But it’s just some lady coming out with a Dachshund.
“Do you also know your mistrust of the police is going to get you into more trouble? Dammit –”
“Look, you need to hurry. Kline may be leaving any second for the airport.”
There’s a short pause. “Where are you?”
“The Grand Regency.”
“Okay, I’ve already alerted security at JFK to be on the lookout. I gave them all the info I had on him. I’ll update my GPS; I should be there in about an hour.”
“Great. We’ll be waiting,” I say, and end the connection.
Now, that is exactly what we should do. But suffice it to say, we don’t. After ten minutes, Chester begins freaking out about possible scenarios … ones that range from Kline being armed with automatic shotguns to having people within the airport’s security who will tip him off to Reed’s plan.
It’s funny how something like paranoia can spread like overgrown kudzu or a vicious cancer. Given my tired state of mind, in the span of five more minutes I, too, am convinced Kline knows what we are up to and is making a run for it.* (I should mention that when I am tired I become easily swayed, like a Storm Trooper under the mind control of Obi Wan Kenobi. Once, at around four in the morning, I was watching late night infomercials and was strongly persuaded by not one, but two advertisements. For some unknown reason I needed a Tiger Shark vacuum that had enough suction to lift two 16-pound bowling balls, and a Japanese-fashioned steak blade of awesomeness that could cut into a concrete block and instantly afterward slice tomatoes like it was brand new. The why-on-earth question of: for what purpose would I be cutting a cinder block followed by vegetables, was not a concern. I just had to have it. And of course I was able to get not one, not two, but three for the price of one if I ordered in the next thirty minutes.)
So back to our discussion regarding Kline. Two minutes later, it’s decided that we should slash his tires just in case.
“I got this, guys. I won’t let you down,” Chester says. “I’m so good at stuff like this. Remember how you could never find me when we played hide-and-seek? I’m gonna blend.” His fingers pyramid and tap together in quick succession.
/> I glance at Taylor, whose eyebrows raise, a silent code passing between us that now isn’t the time to tell Chester we’d never bothered searching for him during hide-and-seek. I’m lost in those fond childhood memories when I hear the back door open and shut, and Chester leaves us behind.
You may be wondering why Chester is going on another one of our missions. Well, there is a method to our madness. It may not make too much sense, but mainly its roots lead back to: I’m so tired and the plan seems flawless. I think I just mentioned that to you a few seconds ago.
The other reason might be that it seems the longer we hang around Chester, the dumber we’re all getting, which could be why Chester’s ideas are sounding more and more like plausible – or at least workable – solutions. But for now I’m gonna stick with: I’m tired.
We can see Chester round the vehicle and then he disappears from our view as he squats down to go to work on the tires. Then we hear a muted commotion of dialogue.
Taylor points in Chester’s direction. “Wait. He’s coming back already.” And I see Chester hoofing it toward our car.
The door opens and he plops inside. “Go, go, go!”
“Did you get them all?” I ask.
“No, just got one; I got caught by that lady with the wiener dog and she is flipping out. Just go, Ellis!”
My foot pounds the accelerator and we leave The Grand Regency parking lot in our tail lights. We park the Lexus around the corner and walk cautiously back to the hotel on high alert. Kline’s car is still there, but once again Chester is spitting out tales and theories that play tricks with my brain.
“Man, I know Kline heard that woman, bro,” Chester says. “He’s probably packing his shit right now. He’ll just order a cab or an Uber car. He’s leaving, man. Matter of fact, he’s probably gone already.”
It makes so much sense to me at the moment. Kline never meant to take his car to the airport all along; his plan was to just call for a taxi or something. And he might even be going through security this very second.
“We have to get into his room,” I say as we enter the hotel lobby. There’s a bar off to the right of the receptionist’s desk. “I need a drink first.”
The bar is pretty empty except for three other souls loading up at this ungodly hour – perhaps due to a fear of flying, or maybe they’re just alcoholics.
The barkeep walks to our side of the bar. “What will you gentlemen be having?”
“Three Old Fashioneds, and what do you want, Sam?” I glance over my shoulder at him.
“Just a water for me,” he says.
The bartender looks a bit sad for a moment. “I’m sorry, I’m a little new here. I don’t know how to make one of those. Do you know what goes in it?”
To be honest, I’ve never made one. I only know they’re delicious. “Ummmm … just three shots of whiskey then.” I hope he can pull that off, at least.
“What kind?”
“Johnny Walker, black label if you got it,” I say.
“I do.”
Sam takes his water and the three shots are loaded up. I hand one to Taylor and offer the other to Chester.
“I can’t drink the strong stuff, you know that. I have a delicate palette,” Chester says, waving his hands that he won’t take it.
Says the guy who routinely consumes fast food. But the truth is, I do know that Chester hates hard liquor by itself, but being exhausted and the fact that I’m anxious are getting the better of me.
I down both and cough as the liquid fire burns my esophagus and stomach. After the fire settles, I catch sight of the attractive front desk clerk across the lobby. At last, someone decent looking, and I’m scared as hell to talk to her. Mainly because I know I’ll be spinning yarns trying to get access to Kline’s room, and I figure I won’t be able to pull it off.
“What’s it gonna be, Ellis?” Taylor asks. “Another Pop Pop emergency?”
“Nah, I think I’m going to wing it.” And I leave my friends and Sam at the bar.
I walk straight up to the girl and say it’s extremely important that I find out which room Jeffrey Douglas* is in. (If I haven’t mentioned yet, according to Kline’s itinerary he’s using an alias, and we assume he has a fallacious passport to match. This information was also given to Reed. We do have those bases covered.)
The clerk is an angel pie. She says it’s no problem, tells me the room number, and says she’s happy to help.
That is most definitely not what happens. First I say I’m a taxi driver, here to pick up Jeffrey Douglas. She asks to see my credentials (she saw me walking in with my three friends and doesn’t believe me). Then I say I was just joking a second ago and that Mr. Douglas is my uncle, and I’m here to pick him up. She tells me she can’t give out that information. Then I switch gears. I break down into a fit of forced tears and tell her my Pop Pop is Jeffrey’s brother, and he’s dying in the hospital. She asks me to leave and says if I don’t, she’ll call security.
I walk back to the bar in desperate need of another double shot.
“What happened?” Taylor asks.
“No luck, man. We may just have to wait outside and hope we see him leave. Reed should be here soon anyway.”
Taylor takes the final swig from his shot glass and sets it on the table. “Give me a second.” And he leaves us standing at the bar.
Taylor walks with his normal saunter, full of confidence, and slides up to the desk. We watch from a distance as the serious-faced receptionist exchanges words with Taylor. Slowly, her face changes from serious and stern to a softer expression that accentuates her beautiful features. I see a bright row of shining teeth. Taylor is still talking and even looks in our direction, points at us, and laughs. To our surprise, she giggles too, holding a hand to her mouth as her laughter echoes in the lobby. She stops and pulls out something we can’t see, sliding it across the counter to Taylor, who doesn’t take it. He just lays his hand on it and taps his fingers. Then she begins writing something down on a piece of paper and slides that in his direction as well. They exchange a few more words before Taylor pushes away from the desk and walks back to us.
“What happened? Did you get the room number?” I ask.
“Not only that, she gave me a card to get in.” He pulls the card from his pocket and taps it against his knuckles.
My mind is confused. “What was she writing down, then?”
“Oh, she gave me her phone number and wants to go out sometime.”
I’m amazed at the ease with which Taylor operates. “What did you say to her?”
He lets out a laugh, looks at us, and leans in. With a hushed voice he says, “I don’t give away my trade secrets.”
We all exchange glances. Sam shrugs and takes a final sip of his water. “Your boy is smooth, I’ll give him that.” Then he sets it down on the bar before saying, “Let’s go pay Kline a visit.”
33 Maid Service
We go back to the car and grab the gun. After listening to Sam’s step by step instructions, we’re sure we’ve chambered a round, and the safety is off. Plus, what I did to the weapon looks an awful lot like what I saw in The Transporter movie. And that flick was legit.
Back to the hotel we go, through the lobby, passing Sexy McSexy Pants, who gives Taylor a little wink as we walk by.
The elevator is spacious and the music is somewhat muted. That’s a plus, and thankfully Chester makes the trip up to the eighth floor without letting one rip.
We walk quietly down the hall and arrive at room 812. I pull out the gun, which has been stashed in my coat pocket. My heart is beating so hard it might as well be knocking on the door. I’m so close to death right now.
Several thoughts are going through my mind:
Do I really want to do this? No.
Is it necessary? Yes.
Do I trust my friends to see it through until the end? Somewhat kinda.
Are you tired of me answering my own questions? Me too. I’ll stop.
I have no clue what might happen n
ext. I could open the door and Kline may already be standing at the ready with his own pistol aimed at my melon.* (Melon being my head, not a swollen testicle, just to be clear.)
Or I could be getting ready to swing the door open to an empty room and Detective Archibald Kline – AKA Jeffrey Douglas – is already in Costa Rica, having fooled us all by buying two different plane tickets just to throw us off.
I could even burst through the door and have the firefight of my life that would make John McClane jealous with pure, unadulterated envy. Hell, I might even scream out ‘Yippee ki-yay!’ just to know how it feels. Or better yet, try my best to do a better impression of Ah-nuld and give ‘Hasta la vista, baby’ a go.
One fact that continues to ring in my brain like a boom cannon is that this moment right here and now is my own personal Rubicon. And I’m about to cross it. I tighten my grip on the gun as Taylor slides the magnetic key card in the door and turns the handle. Only then does it occur to me: what if Kline bolted the door from the inside, or flipped the extra bar lock into place?
My prayers are answered when the door swings all the way open, and we go in, with me at the lead.
Two shots ring out in quick succession. Chester and Taylor hit the ground in bloody heaps, dead to shit like – GAME OF THRONES SPOILERS AHEAD – Ned, Catelyn, and Robb Stark. I stand in the same frozen and silent horror* as I did after watching the Red Wedding play out in such a grisly manner. (Actually, that’s not true. I read the books and saw it coming; the only true shock was that Robb’s pregnant wife wasn’t supposed to be there.)
Anyway, that isn’t what happens at all. My friends aren’t lying dead. They’re still super alive, and we hear a loud snoring come from the bedroom. I don’t want to yell out and scare Kline. Giving the older man a heart attack would serve no purpose except to save taxpayer money when it came to sentencing him to life in prison. I think about that for a good second and then decide saving taxpayer money is the honorable thing to do.