*     *     *     *     *

     I arrived in the lobby of the Parc 55 Hotel at 5:42 P.M.  There were barely a dozen people in the spacious lobby, with a pair of guests being helped at the front desk by two hotel staff members.  I stepped up behind these people and waited my turn.

     I was on edge, because of what I might discover here in the way of messages.  Impatiently, I glanced to my right and noticed the cashier.  She was a cute, petit redhead, with a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, whom I had dealt with before.  She wore her gold-red hair in a short bob, which complemented her forest-green blazer.  “Deborah” was etched on her silver name plate.

     She spotted me, recognized me, and lit up with a warm smile.  Moving to my position she said, “Hi, Mr. Chisholm, may I be of assistance?”

     “I hate to b-bother you, Debbie...” I replied, “...I know it’s not your department, only could you check my m-messages?  It’s kinda important.  I’m in 1405.”

     “No bother at all, Mr. Chisholm,” Deborah cheerfully remarked, as she zipped over to my key box.  Finding it empty, she immediately got on a computer and checked for messages there.  Frowning she came back to me and said, “Sorry, Mr. Chisholm, you have nothing at present.”

     “W-Well, Debbie, that’s very sad,” I confessed.

     “Oh?” Deborah asked, as her frown turned to concern, “How so, Mr. Chisholm?”

     I smiled, and replied, “It means n-nobody loves me.”

     Deborah laughed.  I snickered, thanked her for checking, and walked away.

              *     *     *     *     *

     I took another sip of my bourbon on the rocks, and then consulted the illuminated clock perched on my nightstand.  It registered 7:38 P.M.; prompting me to heave an impatient sigh.  I then adjusted another pillow under the back of my bald head.  I had already showered and changed clothes: white T-shirt under a soft, beige, V-neck wool jersey, washed-out Levi’s and black wool socks.  Stretched out on the bed, I attempted to watch a program on the Discovery Channel.  A pride of hunting lions was being shown stalking game across an African savannah.

     In reality, dear reader, this documentary was doing nothing to settle my taught nerves.  Watching these stalking lions made me wonder if anyone was stalking me.

     The telephone on my nightstand abruptly rang!  Causing me to practically jump out of my skin!

     Annoyed, I snatched up the receiver, and said, “Hello...”  All I heard was a lot of empty, dead air.  I’m about to say “Hello” again when there’s a loud “click” at the other end.  Whoever it was had hung up.  “Well, fuck-knuckles!” I think; must have been a wrong number.  Disgusted, I slammed the receiver down.      

     The call successfully succeeded in irritating my jangled nerves, dear reader.  I didn’t need this annoyance.

           *     *     *     *     *

     Ten minutes later the pride of lions has taken down a worn-out buffalo, tearing the hapless animal apart as they wolf it down. 

     The stuff children are exposed to on TV, dear reader, regarding poor table manners!  I then rubbed my stomach, while it occurred to me I haven’t had dinner yet, and I could also eat a whole buffalo!

     Exasperated, and tired of waiting, I polished off the bourbon, killed the TV with the remote, set the glass and remote on the nightstand, and sat up on the edge of the bed.  However, as I slipped on my black penny-loafers, I thought I heard a light knock on my door.  Causing me to freeze...and really listen. 

     Son of a bitch, dear reader, I heard the weak knock again.

     Moving to the door, I checked the peephole.  What I saw elicited an involuntarily, verbal, “What the fuck?”

     Not believing what was out there, I immediately opened the door.  Standing with her back to me was a petit, platinum blond, with a Parisian boy’s cut, in a black, short, fitted-leather jacket, with matching, skintight leather pants (accentuating a  firm, glossy derriere one could crack walnuts on) plus calf-length leather boots possessing six-inch, spiked heels.  A large, matching leather bag was also slung from one shoulder on a strap.  I had seen that leather bag before; it was used to carry a stripper’s accoutrements; obviously this dancer had just come from the O’Farrell strip club.

Danielle performing at the O’Farrell Theater.

     “Danielle!” I exclaimed, utterly stunned.  “What the hell are you d-doing here?”

     Danielle spun around.  Her brilliant, cornflower blues went wide with surprise, as she exclaimed, “You?  Why are you here?  You shouldn’t be here!”

     Okay, dear reader, let’s hold the phone.  At first I felt my grey-matter was playing tricks on me.  Did Danielle address me in Arabic?

     Before I could process this possibility, a huge, granite fist came round the doorjamb and slammed my gut!  Knocking the wind out of me, I folded up similar to an accordion; dropping to my knees!

     Gasping for air, I glanced up at Danielle as a swarthy male, in his early thirties, joined her.  He was handsome, slightly built of average height, having dark eyes and hair, with a neatly trimmed mustache, dressed in an expensive camelhair topcoat and three-piece burnt umber suit.  A discordant note was his barrel chest; it didn’t seem to belong to his body.  Watching me gasp for breath, similar to a fish out of water, caused him to smile at me.

     My view of him and Danielle was then blocked by the owner of the granite fist; a massively built male in his thirties, clean shaven with red hair and green eyes, wearing a tailored, black topcoat over a charcoal three-piece suit.  This dude could have played offensive tackle for the 49ers; he was that big and quick.

     Abruptly my cerebral processes were violently interrupted by the offensive tackle kneeing me in the face; breaking my nose and snapping my head back!

     Mercifully, dear reader, all the lights went out!

            *     *     *     *     *

     Gradually, as if moving out of a fog, Danielle slowly came into focus.  She knelt in front of me, used a damp washcloth to wipe blood from my nose with one hand, while the other massaged the back of my neck.

     “He’s coming to...I think you’ve broken his nose,” Danielle said in perfect Arabic.

     Bells rang in my head, dear reader, as stars floated at the periphery of my vision; even so, I’m fairly certain she’s actually speaking Arabic.  What the hell?

     I now attempted to move...discovering I couldn’t.  Rather than panic, I forced myself to take deep breaths and scan the room; in an attempt to figure out what I’m up against.

     First of all, they’ve got me seated in a chair with my wrists plastic zip-tied together behind its backrest.  In addition, both my ankles are plastic zip-tied to the chair’s front legs.  I’m totally immobile.

     Obviously, dear reader, they know what they’re doing, only why is a beautiful French girl involved with them?  I compartmentalize Danielle, placing her on the back shelf.  I’ve got more important fish to fry...such as who exactly are these guys?  So I keep my mouth shut; watch and listen.   

     These are not the average radical-Muslim, ragged-assed- terrorists; they’re far too well dressed and manicured; making them extremely dangerous as they can fit in anywhere. 

     The copper-headed offensive tackle’s hands are in the pockets of his topcoat, as he leaned against a wall and watched me hawk-like with cold, unflinching, emerald-green eyes.

     While the doe-eyed, well-dressed, swarthy gentleman, sits quite relaxed on the edge of my bed smoking; flicking ash into an empty water glass.

     They both begin to converse in Arabic, and I detect a very interesting word in their conversation: “water.”  The swarthy gentleman refers to it as “moya,” which is a Saudi expression.  Whereas the offensive tackle calls it “maya,” an Egyptian expression. 

     Therefore, dear reader, in future I’ll classify these two men as a Saudi and an Egyptian.  As for Danielle, she’s still a mystery to me; I can’t classify her Arabic dialect.

     Sure enough, instantly upon reaching this deduction, the Egyptian took the water glass from the Saudi, went to the bathroom, poured an inch of water inside the glass, and returned it to the Saudi, for his cigarette’s ash, who in turn said, “Shukran...(Thank you).”

     At this point, dear reader, I make another rather startling deduction.  Everyone, except me, wore latex gloves; a strong indication they intend doing some really nasty things to my person, without leaving a trace in this room.  But who’s the brains of this outfit?  Who’s running the show?

     Danielle got up, went to the ice bucket, and began packing the washcloth with ice.

     I took this interlude to try something.  Looking at the Saudi, I snapped in English, “Hey, asshole, c-can’t you read?”  I then nodded towards the “No Smoking” sign on the desk, and said, “This is a ‘No Smoking’ room.”

     Before I could say, “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack be stepping on my dick,” the Egyptian strode over and popped me on the edge of my left eye socket!   Wow!  The room spiraled...and I saw more stars as my retina attempted to detach itself!

     Danielle, bless her heart, spun round and snarled, in Arabic, “Stop it, goat-brain!”

     The Egyptian looked behind him at the Saudi, who in turn motioned for him to back off.  The Egyptian retreated.

     OK, boys and girls, as painful as it was, I’ve got my confirmation.  The Saudi is definitely the ringmaster.  Subsequently, if by a miracle the opportunity should arise, this is the dude I’ve got to take out first.  Even though, at this stage, it’s merely wishful thinking.  

     Danielle knelt in front of me again, daubed at my bleeding, swollen nose with a dry washcloth, and then applied the washcloth packed with ice.  A ginormous “goose egg” commenced to swell at the outer socket’s edge of my left eye.  Consequently it would close my eye completely.

     Danielle shot the stink-eye at the Egyptian, and snapped in Arabic, “Damn you...his nose is bleeding again!”  Then she zeroed in on the Saudi, snapping in Arabic, “Control your dog!”

     The Saudi smiled, took a drag, exhaled a blue cloud and examined his cigarette’s ash.  Making up his mind he swung his large doe-eyes at me, and said in English, “You have an item we want.”  Flicking ash into the water glass, he continued, “Where is it?”

     To which I replied, “Where’s my m-money?”

     As if by magic a Valkyrie combat knife appeared in the Egyptian’s right hand!  Pointing its wickedly-sharp blade at me, he made his move, saying in Arabic, “I’ll find out where it is!”

     Nimble as a gazelle, Danielle pranced out of the Egyptian’s way.

     “Stop, brother!” the Saudi barked in Arabic.

     Much to my relief the Egyptian froze.

     “He deserves to be butchered like the infidel pig that he is...” the Saudi added in Arabic, “...except not yet.  This is neither the time nor the place.  We must remain covert...our mission depends on it.  Put away your blade.”

     Executing another magic trick, the Egyptian’s wicked blade glinted and vanished.  Moving at the speed of light, I’ll be damned if I knew where he hid it.  Frustration and disappointment registered on his face, as he leaned back against the wall.

     The Saudi then pulled out three bundles of $100 bills – each with a $10,000 band – from a deep pocket of his topcoat, and laid them out on the bed.  Glancing up at me, he said in English, “Here is our end of the bargain, my friend.  Where is yours?”

                                       

     “It’s downstairs in a s-safety deposit box at the front desk,” I replied in English.

     This puzzled the Saudi, prompting him to ask, in English, “Why not use the safe in your closet?”

     “Because any idiot can open it with a m-magnet,“ I responded flatly in English.

     The Saudi nodded at the Egyptian, and said in Arabic, ”Check the safe in the closet.”

     The Egyptian moved to the closest, slid open the door and looked inside.  I had never used this safe and always left the safe’s door wide open.  The Egyptian glanced back at the Saudi, saying in Arabic, “It’s open and empty.”

     Motioning with my head towards the writing desk, I said to the Saudi in English, “There’s a big m-manila envelope lying there on the desk.  Put the m-money in that envelope.” 

     At present my nose is totally stopped up, forcing me to breathe through my mouth...then the strong copper taste of blood comes to my mouth.  I’m bleeding again.  Ignoring it, I said in English, “We’re gonna make the exchange d-downstairs in the lobby...with lots and lots of p-people around.”

     I choked on a glob of blood, cough it up and spat it out on the floor.  Catching my breath, I finished my instructions in English, “Then you’re g-gonna leave me in the lobby...alone and intact.”

     By his sullen expression, I observed the Saudi is not pleased by my plan.  Frankly, dear reader, I really don’t give a shit-pickle.

     Nevertheless, after a moment’s consideration, the Saudi forced a smile.  Dumping his cigarette in the water glass, he handed it to the Egyptian, saying in Arabic, “Flush the contents down the toilet and break the glass before we leave.”

     The Egyptian nodded, took the glass and moved towards the bathroom.

     The Saudi now studied me, and, with his phony smile still intact, said in English, “Your plan is agreeable to me.  We’ll do as you say.”  Then he gazed at Danielle, and continued in English, “It appears we are all going downstairs.  His nose is bleeding again...see if you can stop it.  I don’t want to draw attention to us.”

     Danielle knelt in front of me again – mopped up the blood with the dry washcloth – then reapplied the ice-packed washcloth to stem the flow.

     As she performed this chore, the Saudi said to her in Arabic, “After the exchange we will leave.  Only I want you to stay with him on the pretext you must nurse him back at his room.”

     Danielle interrupted her chore, turned and looked over her shoulder at the Saudi.

     “Find out how he discovered us...” the Saudi elaborated in Arabic, “...and if he has an accomplice.  Then as you dealt with that French banker in Marbella last year...seduce him into bed and kill him with your ice pick. 

      Afterward call Makmoud...he will sanitize the room with his team, and dispose of the body and his possessions.” 

     The Saudi picked up the money, stood, moved to the desk and stuffed the money inside the manila envelope, as he went on in Arabic, “He can identify us, Danielle, and sell us out.  He must disappear.”

     I witnessed Danielle’s large, innocent blues turn to ice as she nodded ever so slightly at the Saudi, and then gazed at me and smiled.

     Continuing my charade that I don’t understand Arabic – even though I fully understood she’s just agreed to murder me – I put on my best impression of Mad magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman: “What?  Me worry?” 

      I smiled back at Danielle; hoping to appear totally stupid and in the dark regarding her intentions for me. 

     Kill me with an ice pick indeed, dear reader.  Where on earth do the ragheads come up with this stuff?

     From the bathroom I heard the following: The Egyptian flushed the toilet, and smashed the water glass on the floor.             

            *    *     *     *     *