Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  “So we’re safe up on Vaughn, right?”

  “Well . . .” Logan screwed up his face and squinted at the ceiling. “Probably. But they say she’s got a real grudge against elevators. I can’t tell you what to do, of course, but . . .” He leaned across the table and tapped Max’s empty glass. “I always take the stairs.”

  Max’s mouth had gaped during Logan’s spiel, but he shut it with a snap and cut a glance at the other guys at the table. All of them appeared very interested in their drinks, empty or otherwise. Square Jaw winked at Logan. Obviously Max’s crew wouldn’t lift a finger to keep him from hanging himself.

  Excellent.

  “So.” Max cleared his throat. “Elevators. Check.”

  “Then there are the tunnels.”

  “Tunnels?” Max’s gape was back, his eyes nearly as wide.

  “The shanghai tunnels. Lots of port cities on the West Coast have ’em, they say. San Francisco, Seattle, Port Townsend . . . Portland’s are notorious. You mean you never heard of ’em?”

  “I have,” Mr. Bear volunteered.

  Logan shot him a thumbs-up. “Crimps used ’em to kidnap men and sell them to ships that were short of crew. Fifty bucks a head for an able-bodied man, no questions asked. A cowboy or farmer or lumberjack would drop into a bar, and get an on-the-house special from a friendly stranger or bartender.” Logan nodded at Max’s empty shot glass, its umbrella tilted at a tipsy angle. “Next thing they know, they’re unpaid labor on a ship bound for who knows where. And let’s say they didn’t have a very attractive retirement plan.”

  Max gulped and pushed his glass aside. “So the ghosts of the kidnapped men—”

  “Oh, not them. Most of them died at sea, some of ’em chained below decks. It’s the crimps you’ve got to worry about.”

  “I’ll bite,” Square Jaw said. “Why?”

  “Fifty bucks a head isn’t money they’d walk away from, even after death. I’ve heard of men disappearing off the sidewalk between one block and the next if they stray over the tunnels after dark.”

  Max scoffed. “Right. Where’d they take the guys? Ghost ships?”

  “Could be.” Logan shrugged. “The tunnels used to lead to the docks and this bar is supposed to sit over one of the spurs. But why worry? You’re the professional. You’ve got the respect of the entities on the other side of the veil, am I right?”

  “Uh . . . right.” Max’s gaze cut to the other guys at the table, who offered him nothing but bland expressions. “Other side of the veil. We’ve got it covered.”

  “Then you’re golden. Unless, you know, you run into a ghost who likes a challenge.” Logan stood up and clapped Max on the shoulder. “Then things could get ugly.”

  Riley typed feverishly, cross-referencing his private research files with the data he’d located online and at the local historical society. Julie had tried to convince him to have dinner with the guys in the crew tonight, but he’d passed. If he expected to find the truth without any help from Logan, he had no time to waste.

  What had he missed, what critical piece had escaped him because he hadn’t known the real story of Logan’s grandfather? What if it made the difference between catching the war on camera to prove it was real, and having it devolve into another anticlimactic HttM hoax?

  Worse, what if some scrap of lore he’d overlooked put the crew in real danger? That was what had Riley shaking in his high-tops.

  A knock on his door interrupted his search through the barely legible scans of old police reports. “Just a minute.” He saved his work and scrambled out of the chair to open the door.

  He’d expected Julie, but instead, Max stood there, visibly shaken and also quite obviously drunk off his ass.

  “Wiley. Buddy. This town is seriously freaky.” He stumbled past Riley in a bob and weave that would have been impressive if it had been intentional, and stood swaying at the foot of the bed, blinking at the room. “What is this? A fucking broom closet? You need a serious upgrade in accommodations, man.”

  Riley checked the hallway, but nobody else from the show materialized to take custody of its inebriated star. He sighed and shut the door. “I’m just the newbie PA, Max. I don’t rate a suite.”

  Max squinted at the single chair, then at the one-step-up-from-plastic flowered bedspread on the bed. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

  Riley’s eyebrows shot up, and he shoved at his glasses with a knuckle. “You want to sit?”

  Max never spent time in his presence voluntarily, unless it was to order him to fetch a latte or a bottle of tequila.

  “Yeah.” Max turned and nearly fell over. “We’ve got shit to discuss.”

  “We do?” A seed of warmth sprouted in Riley’s chest. Maybe he’d finally made a place for himself in the crew as someone who knew more than everyone’s preferred sandwich orders. “About what?”

  “This freaky-ass story, mowon. What do you think?”

  The seedling shriveled and died. Okay, so Max wanting to talk didn’t mean he wanted to be buddies, or even cordial. “How about we take this upstairs to your suite?”

  Max belched behind pressed lips. “Nah. I don’t roll that way.”

  Jesus. “That’s not what I meant.” Riley pulled Max toward the door. “Come on, big guy. When you pass out, I’d prefer it if you weren’t occupying all the available real estate in my room.”

  He shouldered Max out the door and steered him toward the elevator banks, their path not as direct as it could have been given Max’s increasingly unsteady gait and his tendency to lean. Why did drunk guys always revert to mouth-breathing? The alcohol fumes in Max’s breath were enough to make Riley woozy from the backwash.

  “Evelators? No way, man.” Max veered toward the door to the stairwell. “Shtairs.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” In his state, Max would probably fall all the way down and break his neck. Luckily, Max’s alcohol level impaired his willpower, and Riley was able to haul him back on track. If the star took a fatal header while in Riley’s custody, he’d be so fired.

  “You take me seriously, wight, Wiley?”

  “Uh . . .” Can I plead the Fifth?

  “’S what I thought. Knew I could count on you.”

  “Sure, Max. You bet.”

  He propped Max next to the elevator, but before he could hit the Up button, the doors slid open, and Julie charged out. She halted when she saw Max sliding down the wall, relief replacing the concern that knotted her forehead.

  “Thank God. You found him.” She helped Riley heave Max upright, supporting him from the other side.

  “He found me. Unfortunately. Let’s get him upstairs before the inevitable occurs.” It took both of them to pull Max into the elevator, since the guy was listing as if the floor were the deck of the sinking Titanic. “Do you know what his problem is? He seemed kind of freaked.”

  “Now he seems kind of semiconscious.” On cue, Max sagged against Julie, drooling on the shoulder of her fleece vest. “Ewww. He’s gonna pay for my dry cleaning. Or better yet, a new vest.”

  The elevator pinged, and they staggered out, towing Max along like a sack of potatoes with really good hair.

  “Where’s his room?” Riley panted.

  “Four thirteen. End of the hall.”

  “Um . . . where’s his key?”

  “Probably in his pocket.” Julie met his gaze over Max’s lolling head. “You do it. You’re used to feeling up guys’ junk, right?”

  “Excuse me? You’ve got as much experience as I do, bi girl.”

  “But I’m, like, management. If he comes to while I’m playing pocket pool he’s liable to file a sexual harassment claim.”

  “Max? Are you kidding? He’d probably invite you in for drinks.”

  Julie heaved a giant sigh. “Just do it, Riley, okay?”

  “Fine. But you have to hold him up.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen,” she grumbled. “The guy weighs a ton. Help me lean him on the door so he doesn’t squash me flat.”r />
  They shuffled around in the corridor, Max’s awkward weight draped over Riley like a lead overcoat, until they offloaded him. But instead of sliding down onto his butt or lurching back onto Riley, Max fell backward as the door creaked slowly open.

  Riley caught Max’s arm and the front of his jacket, and managed to break his fall, although Julie’s swift intake of breath made him glance up.

  Jesus. Max’s suite looked like the aftermath of a wrap party for a zombie movie. The furniture in the main room had been upended, chair and sofa cushions scattered from wall to wall, although they all seemed intact. The bottles on the wet bar were overturned but not shattered. However, shredded paper covered the carpet like glossy black and white ash.

  Riley nudged a clump of the scraps with his toe. “Guess Max’ll need to replenish his supply of autographed photos.”

  Julie didn’t answer. She was staring at the chaos, her hand over her mouth, her brown eyes wide.

  Riley put his arm around her shoulders. “Could he have done this himself? Does he usually trash his room?”

  She shook her head. “No.” Her voice was a broken croak. “He’s actually pretty meticulous. Besides, he’d never trash his own photos.”

  Riley eyed Max, now sprawled on the floor, adding a guttural snore to his continued drool action. Lovely. “What are we going to do? We should probably notify someone. The police? Hotel management?”

  “No!” She whirled, arms out as if to block him from digging the phone out of the litter on the desk. “Are you nuts? If Scott hears about this, he might start paying attention to the show again, and I’ll be back to a glorified gofer.”

  Riley gave her the thanks-a-lot-pal look. “You told me the glorified gofer job was a chance in a million when you convinced me to take it.”

  “And it was, right? Any day now, Scott’ll promote you to content developer.”

  “What do you bet I’ll still fetch the coffee, regardless of the title?” Riley craned his neck in an attempt to see beyond Julie. “We should probably check the bedroom too.”

  “Later. We need to stash him somewhere since we can hardly leave him here.” Max twitched on the floor between them, snorting like a feral pig. Julie shot a disgusted glance at him. “Help me get him to my room. It’s in reasonable shape.”

  “Where are you going to sleep?” Riley knew the answer before she blinked her doe-eyes at him.

  “I’ll crash with you. Won’t be the first time.”

  “I know. That’s not the point. If we—”

  “Please, Rile? This story is important to both of us. I need it to prove I’ve got the chops to run the show on my own. You need it to prove you’re more than the guy who knows how to google.”

  Riley glanced at the shambles of Max’s room. “Jules, this looks pretty major. What if something important is missing? What’s Max going to do when he sobers up tomorrow and finds out he has no pictures to hand out to his adoring fans?”

  “We’ll spin it. Say it was, I don’t know, poltergeist activity.”

  Riley primmed his lips and folded his hands at his waist. “But that would be a lie.”

  “We work in television, Riley. What makes you think truth is a priority?” Julie lifted one of Max’s limp arms and nodded for Riley to do the same. They pulled him to a sitting position only to have him fall over sideways, his head hitting Julie’s belly instead of the wall. “Ooof. Jesus. When I produce my own show, I’m signing a smaller star.”

  Riley stepped over Max’s legs and into the corridor. “Wait here. I’ve got an idea.”

  He raced to the end of the hall and took the elevator to the lobby, where he snagged one of the luggage carts and returned to Max’s suite.

  Julie grinned at him. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Yeah, well, guess you learn a thing or two as Production Bitch.”

  They wrestled Max onto the cart and wheeled him onto the elevator. When the doors slid open on Julie’s floor, Wes and Charmaine were standing in the hallway.

  Riley tensed, waiting for the inevitable questions, but the two staffers only stood aside for Riley to push the cart out of the elevator before they stepped inside.

  “Evening, Julie. Riley.” Wes ignored Max completely. “Missed you at dinner.”

  The elevator doors closed. Riley exchanged a sidelong glance with Julie.

  “Right,” she said. “Let’s offload the baggage, shall we?”

  By the time they wrestled Max onto the bed and got him face-planted on the pillows, they were both panting.

  Riley wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “What do you suppose he’ll do when he sobers up and discovers his headshots are nothing more than a carpet of confetti?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can handle Max.”

  “But should you? Jules, the place was trashed. I still think we need to notify the police.”

  Her eyes lit up with the manic glee he’d learned to recognize—and fear—from their college days. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s get one of the handhelds and film the scene. We can get Max to record a voice-over later.” She strode out of the room and power walked down the hall.

  “Julie.” Riley scuttled after her, catching her arm as they passed the elevator bank. “Come on. The hotel must have some kind of policy for loss. They won’t want it known that their guests aren’t safe here.”

  She rounded on him and poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “Can you guarantee that Max didn’t leave the door open himself? He’s always flipping the stupid security bolt to the outside so he doesn’t need to take his key with him when he goes to the ice machine or cruises someone else’s room.”

  Riley’s eyebrows popped up. “Max gets his own ice?”

  “My point is that the fault might be judged to be ours. And in the dance of blame, I can guarantee you nobody’s gonna want to step up and be our partner.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yup. We found it, so it’s our fricking problem. Now come on. The equipment suite’s on this floor. Let’s go get that camera.” She sped on her way.

  “The equipment has a suite? I think I’m insulted it rates a better room than I do,” Riley grumbled as he tried to keep up with her determined stride. That was the problem with being on the low side of average height for a man with a best friend on the high side of tall for a woman. He was always in a half run whenever Julie was in a hurry.

  “Sorry to break it to you, hon, but the equipment is worth more than . . .” Julie’s steps slowed, and she stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Oh, no.”

  The door to the equipment’s deluxe suite gaped wide. Riley put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait here.”

  “Why? So you can get brained by the maniac with a grudge against HttM?”

  “No. But, like you said, finger-pointing is bound to ensue. When it’s time to spread the blame around, I’ve got less to lose than you do.”

  “No, you don’t. We’re in this together.” She linked arms with him. “Come on.”

  They slipped inside the suite. When he switched on the light, Julie whimpered and clutched his arm in a death grip.

  Most of the molded plastic equipment crates were out of kilter, but intact. However, several lay upended in the middle of the room, their two night-vision cameras little more than a pile of very expensive electronic pasta next to them.

  Riley eyed the carnage. “I’m guessing this is not good.”

  “You think?” Julie let go of him and shuffled forward, picking up a short boom with a microphone dangling off it like a dead fish on a line. “Whoever it was, they knew what to hit. Everything else is generic. But these? You can’t find replacements in the local surplus or camera shop.”

  Riley picked his way around the mess and eased open the door to the other room in the suite. The crates in there were undisturbed, but the light caught the glitter of broken glass on the carpet next to the bed. He crept forward.

  The shards of a crystal vase lay there, along with the sad broken stems and
scattered petals of what had been one of the small welcome bouquets hotel management had placed in each of the higher-end rooms. Needless to say, Riley hadn’t rated flowers. He’d barely rated enough floor space to turn around.

  Riley heaved a sigh, snagged the wastebasket from beside the dresser, and squatted down to collect the clutter of flowers and glass. When he picked up the first battered plants, however, something silver glinted underneath the litter of leaves.

  Careful not to nick himself on the slivers of glass, he pushed the detritus aside with one headless rose.

  On the sodden carpet lay an adjustable wrench the length of his forearm.

  “The murder weapon,” Riley muttered, flicking a thorn with his thumbnail. He squinted at the handle and the breath stalled in his throat, his vision blurring at the edges like an out-of-focus camera shot.

  There, just above the hole at the end of the handle, were two letters in a navy-blue enamel paint he knew all too well.

  LC

  Logan Conner.

  The broken flower dropped from his nerveless fingers. God, how far would Logan go to kill this story?

  “Okay, Riley. You win,” Julie called from the next room. “We need to bring in the cops. And Scott, damn it all to hell in a little tin cup.”

  Alarm jolted down Riley’s spine, and he rocked back on his heels. “No.” This was his fault. Regardless of how self-absorbed Logan had grown, HttM would never have raised a blip on his radar if Riley hadn’t shown up and demanded his stupid freaking closure.

  Besides, he wanted the chance to kick Logan’s ass himself first.

  He wedged the wrench up the tight leg of his jeans and down his sock, lodging the lumpy handle next to his ankle under his high-top.

  As he stood, the head of the wrench gouged his calf. Ow, damn it, ow. He shook his foot experimentally and only succeeded in catching what felt like half the hair on his leg in the adjustment-gear-thingie. When he turned around, he nearly collided with Julie. For a tall woman with a drill-sergeant stride, she could move silently when she wanted to. Sweat broke out along his hairline. Had she seen him hide the wrench?

  “You were right before.” He wiped his damp palms on his jeans. “We keep this internal.”