February 2013
“Not another dead-beat!” I grimaced while scanning through the mornings messages. “I knew those two hookers wouldn’t last, but hey, sales are down and the current ex-GM, who couldn’t cut the mustard, insisted I rent the room to the fine ladies of the evening. Well shit. Now I’ve got to tell them to hit the road. Oh well, it’s a job and someone’s got to do it.”
Pouring a cup of coffee and munching on the morning’s jelly doughnut and banana, I reminisced about my foray last night with Tammy. Her acrobatic sexual rompings washed away the thoughts of the upcoming eviction. She sure knows how to curl my toe-nails.
I’ll wait till Jimmy Johnson gets in to help escort our ladies to different accommodations and perhaps a different county. I hope they haven’t decided to trash the room. Every time a customer decides we no longer accept their money, they have a nasty habit of rearranging our fine accessories and furnishings. I shudder with the thought of the last group I was a party to.
Six months ago, RJ, the desk clerk manager, told me he needed help throwing out the thugs in 704. It wasn’t pretty. RJ tried to be nice with the eviction, but these guys must have been high or tripping out on a new designer drug. No matter how hard we tried to reason with them, the message wasn’t registering. They swore up and down they’d paid the rent and produced a receipt from 1973. What the fuck? 1973!
* * *
The date of 1973 reminded me of the story I’d heard years ago surrounding the stately old lady by an elderly gentleman I met in a bar one night, who claimed to have been a bus-boy back in the day. In her hey-day, she was one of the grandest hotels in Dallas. The developers built her to handle Mary Kay Conventions and Dallas Cowboy games. It was a hopping joint back then. Nothing but the highest rollers and social elites could afford the posh accommodations. The Penthouse offered the largest dance floor in the city and a top shelf Swingers club—The San Sushi.
The parties hosted at the club were legendary. The only blemish for the establishment occurred in 1973. Apparently two high ranking escorts decided to have an after party with some of the patrons. The male guests were notable oil men, with a thirst for the sexual macabre. The girls promised them they would exceed their expectations in every way. Police responded to the hotel after receiving a cryptic phone call. The caller never identified herself; she only said, “We’re back.”
The police report detailed a room of horrors beyond imagination: blood stained carpets, body parts in the bathroom, smashed furniture, male heads replaced lamps. The remains were those of the oilman. I was told, the most bizarre part in the report for room 914 was the mention of a cold wind seeping through the room like a fog and the words, “fresh meat,” spelled in blood on the bathroom mirror. The women? They were never caught. No one else I talked to could ever substantiate the story from the ole’ timer.
* * *
We met the pair in front of the alcove, barring the door.
“Look guys, we’re trying to be nice here. Pack up your items and please leave. Rents ten days past due, and we have to let you two go.” The pleading look in their eyes ran shivers up my spine. The smell coming out of the room was horrid. It reminded me of a hundred pounds of two week old road kill on State Highway 183. You know the smell. It permeates the interior of your car and clothes. No matter how high you turn on the AC with all the windows down, you can’t shake it. And if you ever breathed it in with an open mouth; I need to think about Tammy again. That’s better.
