Mike’s eyebrows shot up. He’d had quite enough of someone else’s body fluids for the day.
“Then you’re gonna go around the corner and then you’re in 237. Just let us know if you find any mouse droppings. We haven’t had a problem with em for-”
“What? Say that again?” Mike stopped, interrupting him. “Mouse what?”
“Mouse droppings, you know, mouse turds.”
“You’re telling me that you’re renting me a room that may be infested with mice and that your establishment's hallway has bums in it that urinate and that I may end up stepping in this urine?”
“Well, not if you’re careful.” The clerk looked at him as if he was the stupidest human being on the planet. A hand on his forearm made him flinch, the feeling like cold lizard.
“Hey, baby, I got a better room. I can take you to a place where there ain’t no mouse turds, I can take you to some places you ain’t neva seen,” the woman crooned. “You got fifty bucks? I got heaven for you.”
Mike snatched the key, plucked the paper back, and stormed upstairs. Indeed, Bernie the bum sat in a pool of his own urine and, although Mike tried not to actually examine it too carefully, probably his own vomit. The screams of some woman in the distance behind a door pierced his ears. He heard a smack and then a scream, a smack then a scream and realized that what he was hearing was not a fight between domestic partners – the smacks were not abuse – but were some sort of sexual game. Cringing, he worked to ignore every bit of sensory input from this place, breathing now through his mouth and approaching room 237.
His key slid in the lock and he turned and found that he had to jiggle the doorknob, pulling the door slightly toward him to get the bolt to turn out of place so that he could enter. He almost wished that the lock hadn’t worked and that he hadn’t succeeded because the bolus of odor that hit him upon opening the door made him understand the phrase knocked flat on his back. Lysol combined with vomit and urine and – his eyes lit on one of the outlets – some sort of Glade product of undetermined floral origin. No petroleum product was going to overcome the biological permeation of whatever cloth fibers or polyester imitations filled the room, absorbing an olfactory history of very human deeds.
Mike took a step back, crossing the threshold, his brain mildly aware of the sound of a gunshot, of squealing tires, and of a new scent. He turned and looked and there was the man he presumed to be Bernie, standing over the balcony railing facing the parking lot and urinating. When Mike looked down over the railing, following the trail of liquid, he realized that Bernie was peeing directly on the hood of his rental car, which Lydia had so kindly rented for him. It was a sprite can, quite literally.
Somehow General Motors had managed to convert a sprite can into a car.
Tongue twisting inside his cheek, jaw flexing, body tensed, he took note of everything around him. Bad flight. Bad car. Bad hotel. Bad travel arrangements.
Lydia.
What kind of game was this? He looked at his watch: 11:49 pm. Pulling out his cell phone, livid beyond belief, he punched in the number for work and then stopped. What good would calling her at work do when she wasn't even there? And what good, frankly, would calling her at home do – even if he had her number?
He had no reason to have it no matter how much he wanted to have it. Goddammit. That woman. What was she doing? Why would she punish him like – oh. Oh shit.
Following his request, she was economizing. He had told her to make the business arrangements for Detroit and to save money. Somehow, she managed to turn everything around so that whatever he told her to do, she did to the letter of the law.
Ah, so this was how she wanted to play? She was capable of more – he knew that. Social graces weren’t something she lacked. He’d been in the corporate world long enough to know that there were plenty of people who were competent at doing the actual work of the job but who had the social skills of a stuffed monkey draped with Mardi Gras beads.
Not her. So what was this game? Why on earth would she book him in the seediest, nastiest possible set of arrangements you could ever expect a billionaire to – hold on there.
Not a billionaire yet, and she doesn’t know you. Matt Jones, yes – but not Michael Bournham.
Mike leaned back against the railing, his hand sinking into something hard and wet, and then he heard a cracking sound, pulling back from the railing just in time before one of the rods – cheap wood faded by weather, sun, and time – popped off and fell to the ground with a rattle. A clacking sound as it made its slow, crooked path down to settle by the tire of his car pierced the night air, joining in the muted chaos of traffic, sirens, and machinery.
He had had enough. Enough of this game, enough of this place, and just plain enough. No matter what Jonah told him, he didn’t need to play the part of Matt Jones 24/7. And this? This entire situation made him think that being Matt Jones wasn’t worth it. The only thing that made it worth it was Lydia.
Who had booked him in a hotel with more germs than a bird flu research lab.
Grabbing his overnight bag, he stalked past Bernie, whispering, “Make sure you give it a good shake.” As he descended the stairs with more athleticism than he’d exhibited outside of a gym with a personal trainer in months, his legs practically running as he sprinted for the car, he stopped cold.
Fuck this shit. He wasn’t driving that thing. Grabbing the phone, he called Dom, who seemed to know everyone, everywhere in every major city. This wouldn’t be the first time that Dom got him out of a mess.