by Dan Ames
Room 729
Episode One
Dan Ames
Contents
Foreword
Room 729 (Episode One)
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
Foreword
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Room 729 (Episode One)
by
Dan Ames
ROOM 729 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
Copyright ©2014 by Dan Ames
All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
Prologue
Twelve Americans murdered in Tijuana
AP – TIJUANA, MEXICO –
Mexican authorities on Monday made a gruesome discovery: twelve American citizens shot dead, execution style, in a field outside Tijuana, Mexico. At time of publication, none of the bodies had been identified. There has been an escalation of violence in the city of Tijuana, with increased drug cartel murders often cited as the source of newly added tensions.
Chapter One
“If a guy on a business trip never showed up, no one would notice.”
It was a quote attributed to David Mamet, frankly I’m not sure if those were his exact words but it’s the gist of what he meant, I’m sure. I think of it every time I travel on business. I suppose Mamet was trying to say that all of us who toil in commerce are nothing but anonymous dweebs, totally interchangeable, and that we contribute nothing important to the world. On the other hand, artists (writers included, naturally) made individual contributions to society. The kind that mean something.
Frankly, I couldn’t help but agree with the bastard on a certain level. So much of corporate America is about accomplishing very little. It’s more about looking like you’re accomplishing a lot while actually doing very little. And you’re dealing with stuff that for the most part, no one’s going to remember.
So even though I understood Mamet’s point, it still pissed me off every time I got stuck back in coach on the five hour flight from Detroit to L.A.
What I do for a living, editing, could never be confused with art. I cut commercials mostly, although now that’s changing more into short videos that get posted on the Internet. Pure commerce, nothing more. Sure, every once in awhile there’s a project that’s really smart, or somewhat funny, and the finished piece is quite good. But it’s still commerce. Actually, every year my company picks a pro bono client and we do something for them. Last year it was a shelter for abused women. The film was powerful and helped raise some money. So take that Mamet, you asshole.
Of course, that didn’t help me feel much better. I couldn’t get an aisle seat on the flight from Detroit to L.A., so I was pressed against the bulkhead on my right, and on my left was the hot sweaty shoulder of a big guy from northern Michigan who smelled vaguely of beef jerky.
I used to get upgraded on the flights out, but now airlines were cutting flights and every plane was much more crowded, so the upgrades were few and far between. Before 9/11 I used to fill a small water bottle, the little 6 oz. kind, with vodka in the airline’s frequent flier lounge. And then I would get a can of cranberry juice or something and make myself a drink or three on the way to L.A. But now you couldn’t bring any liquids at all. Which was probably fine, showing up in L.A. half in the bag was sometimes worse than arriving sober.
I motioned for the guys next to me to let me out. They got out, crumbs falling off their laps from the five dollar snack bags they were devouring. I wedged my iPod deep inside my briefcase, always nervous that someone would try to steal something while I was taking a leak.
It felt good to stretch the legs and as I walked to the back of the plane, and I studied the faces as I passed them by. It was always interesting to me. There were bored faces, pissed off faces, people sleeping and a few expressions that were difficult to read. Now, it was near the end of the flight and most of the folks were awake and waiting to land. Looking out the window for their first glimpse of La La Land.
I got to the bathroom, shut myself in, and started to piss just as the plane hit turbulence. Happens every time. I braced my hip against the edge of the sink so I didn’t spray all over the toilet seat. I pressed the lever and heard the 100 decibel toilet flush.
Back at my row, the guys stood up for me again and I dropped into my own private hole of despair. The Mamet quote came at me again but I shrugged it off. We were about to land.
I reached for my briefcase, then stopped. I’m one of those paranoid guys, always thinking someone is going to steal my stuff. Maybe because I grew up in a small town in Michigan and when I moved to Detroit I always felt like the small town boy who makes an easy mark for the big city thieves.
Still, I could have sworn that I‘d put my iPod facing inward, toward the middle of my briefcase, so the screen wouldn’t get scratched. It now faced the outside.
I studied it. I must have been wrong. It was a long flight, nearly five hours. My brain was tired. I quickly went through the rest of my stuff (I keep my wallet in my front pocket during flights) and nothing was missing. My laptop, the second most important thing after my wallet, was Velcroed in place in its own little compartment.
I glanced at the guy next to me. He had a little chunk of an M & M stuck to his beard. The guy on the aisle was an older man buried in a novel. Nothing was missing.
No harm, no foul, right?
Chapter Two
A giant cockroach crawled out from underneath the baggage carousel. Was he a native Los Angelean or had he caught the plane in Detroit?
My bag was a medium sized deal as I was only planning on being in L.A. for two weeks, and it was spat out of the luggage chute and onto the conveyor belt relatively early in the process. I grabbed it, and wheeled out to the rental car shuttle bus, where I saw an Avis vehicle was waiting, as if it had arrived just for me. I climbed aboard, gave the driver my Wizard number (Avis’ preferred program), and sat at the back of the bus.
I could never decide what smelled worse – rental car shuttle buses in the morning, when it was full of businessmen who slathered on cologne with paint rollers, or in the evening, when the day’s cattle had left their stench on the seats. There were some mornings I nearly gagged with the stench of Chaps, Drakka Noir, and Hugo Boss.
But now, in the evening, the chemical scents had long worn off and the bus simply smelled of ass. Actually, when I thought about it that way, I guess I preferred the cologne ride from hell.
They dropped me at my car, a white Chevy Impala, and I loaded it up, showed my driver’s license at the gate, and pulled out of the lot. I headed for Sepulveda. I always avoided the freeway when I arrived in L.A. The 405 just seemed like the L.A. I’ve seen a million times. So I take Sepulveda to Lincoln, and follow Lincoln all the way into Santa Monica.
Maybe it’s because of my childhood, but whenever I arrive in Los Angeles I always feel like I’m entering the Kingdom of Sin. And I’m not even religious. In my mind, it’s all strippers, porn stars, Motley Crue, cocaine and everyone’s tan. And even if I
see a person who looks like your average, hard-working Joe, I just assume when their shift ends they change into some super-hip clothes, get some drugs, and head for seedy clubs.
I cruised down Lincoln in my rental car, passing Mexican restaurants, BBQ places, thrift stores and the obligatory Big Lots.
Lincoln crossed paths with Pico, and I hooked a left onto Pico and followed that toward Ocean. My second favorite part of coming to L.A., and Santa Monica in particular, was passing the Santa Monica High School.
I couldn’t imagine going to high school in the middle of all this. In my naïve experience, there was never anything to do in high school. Maybe if we got crazy, we’d drive up and down Main Street. But here? Jesus, you could buy crack, get a hooker and surf, all over your lunch period.
Pico pretty much dead ends on Ocean. I turned right and passed the Fairmont Hotel on my right, Capo restaurant on my left, LeMerigot ahead on my left and finally, Loews Santa Monica Beach Hotel. I turned into the circular drive and pulled up at the revolving front door. I glanced over at the statue: a businessman with a briefcase and a lei around his neck. Business combined with pleasure – get it? I gave the valet guy my keys, got my parking stub, retrieved my rolling suitcase and went inside.
The Loews hadn’t changed one iota in all of the years I’d stayed there. Two rows of palm trees – each of them roughly seven stories tall, were the main visual upon entering the hotel. Meant to inspire. There were two sets of elevators, one to the right, and the other to the left, beyond the reception desk. The fitness center and sauna were to the right, the bar area straight ahead, and the restaurant all the way at the back, facing the beach.
The woman at the front desk was Hispanic, with streaked hair and a great smile. Beautiful white teeth. Her nametag said Penelope.
“Welcome to the Loews Hotel, sir,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “There should be a reservation for Adams. Thomas.”
She clicked the keys of her computer, then frowned.
“Our system is down at the moment,” she said. “Please excuse me.”
She took my American Express Corporate Card and disappeared behind a wall of wood, over which a thin stream of water continuously flowed. A waterfall, how lovely. I watched the waterfall for several minutes until I was ready to call out to Penelope. I walked to the left a bit and got a glimpse around the wall o’ water. Penelope was speaking with a short Hispanic man wearing a Navy blue sportcoat and a gold pin. The manager, no doubt. I went back to my original spot and watched several more minutes of waterfall action before Penelope finally reappeared.
“My apologies, Mr. Adams,” she said. “Everything must be done manually when the computers are down.”
“No problem,” I said. I was tired from the plane ride and felt vaguely ill from the recycled air. I could feel the germs from the plane and the rental car trying to find a weakness in my immune system. I really just wanted a hot shower and maybe a beer or a glass of wine, then sleepy time.
But I couldn’t be upset with Penelope. She was cute, I liked her hair, and I loved her accent. Plus, it sounded like she was sincere.
Penelope handed me an envelope with a hotel key card inside. “You’re all set, Mr. Adams. Room 729. A king bed with a partial ocean view.”
“Very good,” I said. “I’m partial to partial ocean views.” Lame, I know. But I was beat, so cut me a break.
“Would you like a key to the minibar?” Penelope said.
“Yes, I’m in the mood for a mini-cocktail,” I said.
She smiled politely and I took the key, went back toward the front door, turned left, and took the elevator to the seventh floor.
There was a display on the inside wall of the elevator featuring the day’s top news stories. The stock market was down. Violence in the Middle East was up. And unemployment stayed the same.
The bell dinged and the elevator doors opened. I turned left out of the elevator and was now even with the tops of the palm trees in the lobby. I turned left again down a long hallway. There was a cart in the middle of the hall, and a door was propped open, from which the sound of a vacuum cleaner emanated. I passed the cart and saw the neat rows of shampoo and conditioner, little bars of soap, small water glasses and a stack of “Welcome to L.A.” magazines.
I reached the end of the hallway and room 729 was to the left. I pulled my roller bag up next to the door and slipped my key card inside the slot.
The light above the slot turned green and I pushed the door open. I pressed my shoulder against the door and grabbed the handle of my roller bag. I stepped inside the room.
Or I should say, I started to step inside the room.
Because the first thing I noticed was a laptop on the desk at the very back of the room. The laptop’s glow illuminated the black and white photograph of the Santa Monica pier that hung on the wall.
Someone was in this room, and they’d been working.
The second thing I noticed was the woman.
She was on the floor, at the foot of the bed.
A pool of blood had spread out from beneath her, and I saw a small dark hole above the two lifeless eyes that stared at me.
And the last thing I saw was a shadow on the far side of the room. It moved toward the desk, and I saw an arm at the end of which was a hand holding a gun.
Chapter Three
My reaction was instinctive.
I stepped backwards, back into the hall, and pulled the door shut as quietly as I could. But there was still an audible click when the door shut.
I was still holding my wheeled suitcase as I turned to the right. The hallway I’d just come down was too long and straight – whoever was in the room would be able to see me if I went that way. I spun and raced, running, down the hall to the right. The silence, the emptiness of the floor terrified me.
I turned the corner to the left just as I heard the door bang open behind me.
My suitcase tipped over taking the turn and it wrenched free from my hand. I didn’t hesitate. I left if there and ran, now carrying only my laptop backpack slung over my left shoulder.
The hallway turned right again and I took it fast. I heard the sound of feet pounding down the hallway behind me. Ahead, I could see at the end of the hallway the little table and bench seat that occupied the space near the elevators. Beyond that, I could see the tops of the palm trees. No way could I wait for the elevators.
This couldn’t be happening, I told myself. This was L.A., maybe I was being punk’d or something. Maybe they were actors rehearsing a scene.
Still, I didn’t want to stop and ask until I was down in the lobby, in front of a few dozen people.
I was nearly three-quarters of the way down the hall when I heard what sounded like a muffled bark from a Chihuahua behind me. Instantly, chunks of plaster from the wall exploded next to my head. No, I definitely wasn’t being pranked, and they definitely weren’t actors. That was a bullet, and it was real.
A set of door was just in front of the space near the elevators. Stairs! I banged into them, but they stayed shut. I looked down, the handles were chained together. Fuck! I turned the corner and looked at the elevator doors. Closed. No time to wait. The running footsteps were closer. I had no choice. The top of the nearest palm tree was just a few feet from the railing. I looked down into the lobby, seven stories below. I climbed over the railing. I took one look back and saw the briefest glimpse of a man with a gun round the corner. I turned back, gathered myself and jumped. I sailed through the air and slammed into the palm tree, taking a leaf in the face that sliced through my cheek, and barely caught hold of the tree’s thin trunk. My breath left me with a whoosh. I wavered slightly, rocking back and forth on the tree. I immediately loosened my grip and started to slide down the trunk. I heard that same bark again and chunks of tree bark spat into my face. I slid down the tree, fireman style. The palm’s ridges cut into my arms and hands. I reached the ground in seconds.
Incredibly, the lobby was deserted. I looked up and saw th
e gunman’s head duck away from the railing. He would find his way down here in seconds. I looked for a security guard, but saw none. And what if I did? It’s not like they carried guns.
I ran through the revolving doors, out into the hotel’s circular drive, hoping a cop would be conveniently sitting in the hotel driveway. Two cars were parked in front, and I saw my rental far to the right, next in line to be taken to the underground parking garage. The valet was in the small office to the left. I heard a shout behind me. I sprinted for my car. I looked in through the window and saw the keys still in the ignition. I jumped in, threw my backpack on the passengers seat, keyed the ignition and jammed the car into gear. I roared out of the drive and fishtailed onto Ocean. I glanced back, saw the gunman emerge from the revolving door.
I raced up Ocean, nearly sideswiping a Santa Monica transit bus.
And then I desperately tried to remember where in hell the Santa Monica Police Department was located as I reached for my cell phone.
Chapter Four
Rachel Adams cursed the lawnmower. You could set your clock to it: the minute Tom left for one of his occasional business trips, something always went wrong. One time there’d been a brownout. Another time she and both of the girls had come down with an awful flu. This time, it was the mower.
The frigging thing had started right up but on her second pass down the front yard (right where everybody could see) the damn thing had practically exploded. A huge spark had shot a flame out of the side of the thing and it immediately shut down. Not good.
