t in 519

  By Rex Clark

  Copyright 2017 Rex Clark

  Other titles by Rex Clark:

  Waters Rise

  The Horror From Beyond the Outhouse

  Seduction

  Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

  Blood Doll

  Memoriae

  “The guy in 519 doesn’t wanna be disturbed,” Terry announced.

  “Wow, and I just walked in the door. That’s gotta be a new record,” Rick replied, closing the front office door behind him and dropping his computer bag onto a stool. He glanced over at Terry, who was watching midget porn on his laptop, and shook his head.

  Terry shrugged, but didn’t look up from the two statuesque women and the midget in the Thor costume. His head was blocking the screen, so Rick couldn’t see what the midget was doing with his hammer. Probably better off not knowing, he decided, and slid his Beatles tie over his head and around his collar.

  “Just passin’ it on,” Terry said. “He checked in about an hour ago. Seemed like he was in a hurry, and he said he didn’t want anyone botherin’ him.”

  Rick slipped the knot into place and flipped his collar down as he walked over to look in the registration card bucket. He thumbed his way to the back and pulled the card for 519.

  “N. Hotep,” he muttered as he looked over the information.

  “Yup,” Terry said. “Big, tall, black guy. Kinda scary-lookin’. He looked kinda like Michael Jordan, only meaner.”

  “Michael Jordan? The basketball player?”

  “No, the other Michael Jordan,” Terry replied. “I think he did a movie.”

  “Did it involve midgets in Asgardian outfits?”

  Terry snorted. “No, but check this out. That chick on the left takes his hammer and sticks it-“

  Rick threw up a warning hand. “Hold it right there, man. I don’t need you to give away the plot for me.”

  Terry shrugged again. “Suit yourself. But Odinson there makes a solid case for dwarves. The Vikings loved that shit.”

  “Why are you even watching that here? You know someone’s just gonna tell Jackelyn you were watchin porn at the desk again, and it’ll be another write-up for you.”

  Terry snorted again. “Jackelyn and her old man are out celebrating their anniversary tonight. Or did you forget that, Mister Clean?”

  Rick shook his head and let it drop. How Terry kept his job was a mystery to all; some suspected that he was related to the owners, while others thought that he had dirt on the general manager, Jackelyn, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.

  “Anything else I need to know about that isn’t smut-related?” Rick asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, Jared called earlier and said he wouldn’t be in tomorrow. Something about jail. That’s a problem for Carla to worry about. And the tub in 204 isn’t draining. John went up and looked at it, but he can’t fix it tonight, so I moved the people to 308.”

  “308?” Rick asked with a grimace. “Did they get the mystery stain out of the carpet?”

  “Nope,” Terry replied, smirking. “Nor did they get the unidentified smell out of the bathroom.”

  “So, what? We didn’t have another king room to move them into?”

  “Oh yeah, we did. I just put ‘em in there because they wouldn’t shut up about the tub.”

  Rick blew out an exasperated breath. “Terry, dammit. You can’t keep pulling that shit, man. Now they’ll be down here in the middle of the night, wanting to know what the hell smells like moldy ass and demanding a free night, all because your dumb ass couldn’t be bothered to put ‘em in a decent room.”

  “So?” Terry said as he shut down his computer. “I’ll be home playin’ Halo, I don’t give a fuck what they say after I leave.”

  “Asshole,” Rick muttered as Terry packed away his laptop and clocked out. He was almost out the door when Rick asked him if he was going to clean up his empty Cheeto’s bags.

  “Nope,” he replied, and was out the door so fast he might have teleported away.

  Shaking his head, Rick picked up the empty bags and the three empty soft drink cans, and the Snickers wrappers, and pitched the whole mess in the garbage. He thought about leaving a note in the logbook about people having to clean up after themselves, but realized it would be a colossal waste of time. Instead, he wiped the yellow Cheeto dust off the desk and pulled out his own laptop.

  He’d barely plugged it in and turned it on when the phone rang. Rick took a look at the display, saw it had popped up “519”, and with a suppressed “Huh” he lifted the receiver.

  “Guest services, how may-” he started, but was cut off with a loud beep as the guest in the room pushed buttons on his phone. Rick flinched, gave the receiver a dirty look, and hung up.

  The phone rang again seconds later, once again identifying the caller as “519”. “Guest serv-” BEEP! BEEP-BEEEP BEEP!

  “Damn,” Rick spat, holding the phone at arm’s length. He hung it up again, but it was ringing less than a second later.

  He sighed, ground his teeth and lifted the receiver. “Guest-” BEEEEEP!

  Rick slammed the phone back into the cradle, then lifted again before it could ring. He punched 5-1-9 on the keypad and waited for the man in the room to answer.

  It was picked up after the third ring, although the guest didn’t say a word. “Hello, this is guest services,” Rick said in his most professional tone. “I was just wondering if you were having trouble dialing out on your room phone, as you’ve called to the desk a number of times. If you dial ‘9’, that will give you an outside-”

  BEEEP! BEEP BEEP-BEEP-BEEEEP!

  Rick snarled and dropped the handset back in the cradle. “Fucktard,” he muttered, and glared at the phone, daring the man to call back.

  It remained silent, though, and after a while, Rick decided the man must have finally figured out how to call out. He sat back in his chair, opened up his facebook, and started looking for memes to download.

  The evening progressed quietly for about thirty minutes, although Rick kept glancing over the desk into the hall, just waiting for the guests in 308 to storm the lobby, demanding restitution for their crappy room, but all was calm.

  Headlights splashed across the entrance as a car pulled in. Rick started to shut his laptop, but saw the glowing Pizza Hut sign on the hood of the car. He pulled a double-take and looked at the clock. It was 12:47 a.m.

  He waited as the driver got out, carrying the insulated delivery bag, and entered the lobby. The driver approached the desk, his attention on the order slip in his hand.

  “Little late for you to be out, isn’t it?” Rick asked as the driver stopped in front of him.

  “Yeah, we were literally closing it down when the order came through. Sorry it took me a while to get here. We had to send one of the other drivers out to get some wasabi.”

  “O… kay,” Rick said, wondering why he should be interested in the wasabi.

  The driver opened the bag, slid the pizza box out of it and set it down in front of Rick. “One large thick crust, with anchovies, black olives, pineapple, and wasabi. Local business discount, that comes to thirty-three fifty-seven.”

  “Wait, what?” Rick stared at the driver, trying to put the situation together.

  “Thirty-three fifty-seven,” the driver repeated. “And I’ll tell ya, we about turned you down when you called in the order, cause we don’t carry wasabi. But our shift manager couldn’t say no to the extra twenty you promised.”

  “Wh-what? I didn’t…. ah, I didn’t order any… ah, I-I didn’t…” Rick sputtered.

  The driver shook his head and held up the order slip for Rick to see. “Yeah, you did,” he said, pointing to the phone number at the bottom. “We went ahead and charged it to the card number you gave us.”

  Rick took the slip and scanned it, trying to find where the mistake had been made. Instead, he found his own debit card number staring back at him, along with an approved thirty-percent tip for the driver.

  “Actually,” the driver was saying, “I need you to sign that one. Here’s your copy.” He fished another slip out of his shirt pocket, extending it to Rick.

  Rick was shaking his head, but was too busy puzzling over how somebody had managed to use his card to prank order a pizza for him to notice that he had signed the thing and handed it back to the driver.

  “Thanks, man,” the driver said, folding up the delivery bag and sticking it under his arm. “Enjoy. Have a good one.” With that, he turned and left. Rick could only watch him go, not lowering his eyes until the car in the breezeway had pulled out with a muffler-less roar and the dull thud of rap music.

  “I don’t even like anchovies!” Rick said after him, but it was far too late by then to protest. He toyed with the idea of calling Pizza Hut and demanding to know who had called the order in, but it was a moot point by now; he had signed for it, and it was sitting on the desk, staring at him now.

  He sighed, shook his head, and took the pizza off the desk before heat from the box made the desk sweat. He stuck it in the minifridge in the back office, hoping that someone might like it, but he doubted it. Even Terry, with his expansive love for all things junk food, was likely to turn his nose up at this one.

  He had just stuck the pizza in the fridge when the phone rang. Rick blew out a sigh and stalked back out to the desk. He wasn’t at all surprised to see

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