Room 702 (28 page)

Although he had been lucky, Chaz is also smart.

He knows better.

 
He needs to get to a bank.
 
Although the money is undoubtedly laced with drugs and all sorts of other disgusting tainted ideals, at least deposited somewhere the money will be marginally safer.

Here, locked away behind the relative safety of a designer hotel, Chaz starts to wonder what he will do with the unexpected cash.
 
A bit of a loner, Chaz has had a transient past couple of years.
 
Bouncing from city to city, at twenty-five he doesn’t have much to show for his life.
 
He flicks on the television, not sure what sort of inspiration he’ll find.

Maybe he’ll buy a ticket home.
 
His hometown of Fargo, North Dakota seems like a very long way away.
 
He hasn’t seen his parents or sister in a few years.
 
Maybe he’ll put down some roots somewhere.
 
With this kind of money, he could put a down payment on a house, but where would he live?
 
He had been calling Las Vegas home, working in casinos and partying hard, he left Nevada two days ago, and doesn’t have anything in his dingy apartment that can’t be replaced by the new money.

Gazing out at the traffic, he looks down at his busted Nokia and scrolls through the numbers.
 
There are very few real names in his phone book; the list is mainly a collection of drunken nights out, ‘best friends’ found after copious amounts of alcohol and girls he never planned on calling again.
 

He pauses on a name, Funny Charlie.

Scratching the scant growth of facial hair on his chin, he tries to remember the conversation that prompted adding such an individual.
 
The discussion comes to him in a flash.
 
He had finished his shift at the Treasure Island, bleary eyed at 2 A.M. and decided to have a drink before leaving the hotel.
 
Going off strip to a dingy place where the beer was cheap, he had ordered the exact same drink (Jack and coke, 3 rocks, twist of lime) as Charles ‘call me Charlie’ Achenbach.
 
After three of the same drinks, they had bonded.
 
Charlie was a truck driver, who often stopped over in the Meadows.
 
The man was a good fifteen years older than Chaz, but they had connected on a number of different levels.
 

“Why would he remember me?” Chaz muses aloud.
 
Then presses the button, and hopes that his ‘friend’ picks up.
 
“Come on, come on.”
 

After the first ring, a gruff voice answers, “Heya.
 
Who am I talking to?”
 

Chaz hears road noise in the background and figures Charlie must be in the middle of working.
 
Clearing his throat, he says, “Hey Charlie, it’s Chaz – from Vegas.”

Charlie takes a beat to figure him out and then says, “Hey man, how the hell are you?”

It’s been at least two months since their drunken night together and Chaz figures he has nothing better than to answer with the truth.
 
“The reality is, buddy, I’m not good.”

“What’s the issue?”

Sensing he has his friend’s full attention, he explains the situation – the previous twelve hours and how he’s come to be at the Winchester, sitting on a lot of money that shouldn’t be his.
 

“What do you want to do?”

“I have no idea what to do.
 
That’s just the problem.”

“Why’d you call me?”

“I’m not sure.
 
You seem to be a guy who has things figured out.
 
I don’t know…
 
I thought you might have some suggestions.”
 
“Who connects you to the game?
 
Anyone they can press?”
 
“I don’t think so.
 
It was through a buddy from Vegas, I didn’t even meet the guy before we started playing.
 
He just texted me the directions.”
 
“That’s a relief.
 
Now, how badly do you think these characters want their money back?”
 
Chaz remembers the look of disbelief on the face of the man across the table when he turned the last card.
 
He answers, “Pretty bad.”

 
“Did you give out your last name?”

“No.”

“Any specific details?”

“Lucky for me, there’s nothing particularly specific about my life.”
 
“Good, good.
 
Now, kid, have you spent any of the money?”
 
“Just on the room.”
 
“Also good.”
 
Suddenly feeling very alone, Chaz asks, “Where are you right now?”
 
“Funny you should ask, my young friend.
 
I’m just coming over the Newhall pass.”
 
Chaz, who has no real idea of the topography or geography of Los Angeles, pauses and asked, “So, close?”
 
“I’m bound for Long Beach, where I need to drop off my cargo, then look for a place for me and Pepe to call it a night.”
 
“Pepe?”
 
“My bloodhound.”
 
“Of course.”
 
“Can you sit tight until then?”
 
Chaz looks around the space and says, “Yes.”
 
“I’ll call you back when I’m back in my own wheels.”
 
Chaz puts the phone down.
 
With adrenaline leaving his body, he thinks nothing sounds better than a hot shower and some sleep.
 
He’s been up all night and his body is screaming for rest.
 
After nearly passing out under the rainhead shower, he pulls on the fluffy robe and crashes out on the bed.
 
 
The blaring ringtone wakes Chaz from a deep sleep.
 
Looking at the clock and seeing it’s now past noon, he recognizes Charlie’s number and picks up, “Yup?”
 
“You sitting tight?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“I made some calls on your behalf.”
 
“You didn’t have to do that—”

 
“I know, you didn’t ask me, but there is a reason why you called.”
Afraid of the answer, Chaz asks, “What’s the word?”
 
“You want the good news or the bad news?”
 
“Bad news.”
 
“You probably don’t run in these circles, but that money wasn’t intended to be out in circulation.
 
There’s a guy here, or, was here before he got busted, Jay Jay.
 
Anyway, one of his generals is now wanted for that cash – money that was supposed to be delivered at 8 A.M. this morning.”
 
Chaz does not want to know how Charlie knows any of this, but he summons his courage and asks, “What happens if he doesn’t turn it in?”
 
“That is unrelated to you, Chaz.”
 
“So what’s the good news?”
 
“The good news is that they don’t know who you are.”
 
“But you’re telling me some guy is going to die as a result of the money I currently have?”
 
Charlie sighs and says, “Probably.”
 
Chaz, who has been pacing, sits down heavily on the bench in the bedroom.
 
Finally, he asks, “What would you do?”
 
“These guys aren’t nice, Chazzy.
 
There is no way they would do the same thing in your shoes.”
 

“You didn’t answer the question.”
 
“I don’t know.
 
It could be too late.”
 
“But there’s a possibility it’s not?”
 
“I don’t know, kid.
 
I really don’t.”
 
Chaz looks across to the safe with money and sighs, then he asks, “What about this kingpin, didn’t I hear something about him in the news a few months back?”
 
“He was busted.”
 
“By some kid, right?”
 
“Something like that.”
 
“Well, maybe instead of getting this money back on the streets, I don’t know, I could donate it to her or something.”
 
“Sounds noble.”
 
Chaz stands up and shoves his feet into the free slippers and walks in circles.
 
Finally, Charlie says, “I’m not going to tell you what to do.”
 
“I’m not expecting you to.”
 
“But I will say it sounds like you might be onto a nice idea.”
 
“Thanks.”
 
“Look, me and Pepe need to get going, but let me know whatever you decide.”
 
“Thanks.”
 
“And I do hope we can meet up for a drink sometime in Vegas again.
 
That was real nice.”
 
“It was.”
 
“Take care.”
 
“Safe travels.”
 
Chaz puts down his phone and looks at it – wondering if the conversation really took place – if any of this past twelve hours have been real.
 
He walks over to the bar area and opens a bottle of water, drinking all of it.
 
Feeling hydrated, but still tired, he looks in the mini bar and digs out a Red Bull, cracks it open and downs all the sugary liquid.
 
Sighing, and still no closer to a decision, he wishes he had a computer.
 
What is he doing with his life?
 
Picking up the phone to the front desk, he says, “I have a strange request.”

It is a bad day.
 
Unfortunately, it is a day like any other.
 
She is traveling with her parents and while most teenagers would be happy to get a suite in a fancy hotel by themselves, Carina Sardellis feels more alone than ever.
 
It wasn’t as if they notice.
 
Her grades are fine, she is as social as anyone expects her to be.
 
When she started wearing long sleeve shirts all the time, they hadn’t bothered to ask – probably thought it was some inane fashion trend she was following.
 
And when she is alone, as she is now, the compulsion is the worst.
 
When she can’t control herself, when taking a razor to her arm is the only thing she can do.
 
She tries to think of anything else.
 
Attempts to motivate herself towards any other activity.
 
To watch television, to spend time goofing around online, to take a bath or a walk or any of the other thousand things she could be doing, but as of this moment, she cannot stop thinking about how good it will feel to drag the sharp edge of the blade against her skin.
 
She can’t remember exactly when or what triggered the compulsion to start harming herself, but there they were, all the same.
 
Too many emotions – clouding her head, taking up her entire mind, crowding out rational thoughts.
 
These screaming voices won’t go away until she cuts.
 
With her parents out on some fancy client dinner for the evening, she has no one to turn to in this city far from home.
 
They won’t even bother checking in on her until the following morning.
 
Not for the first time, Carina wishes for a sibling.
 
Someone she could look after, an older sister who would be watching out for her.
 
But she is an only child.
 
And there, in the bathroom, like any hotel, is a plastic razor, wrapped and ready to use and no one is around to stop her.
 
Not that she needs the Winchester’s safety razor, there are small blades in her makeup bag, safety pins and other sharp objects stored and tucked away at home, but the thought of a brand new razor holds particular appeal.
 
Unable to stop herself, Carina goes into the bathroom.
 
There is something particularly lovely about cutting in a clean space where she can’t be interrupted, where the evidence can be washed down the sink.
 
Rolling back her sleeves, the evidence of other sessions is present – her most recent cuts from not even a week ago.
 
From her make up bag she removes gauze, which she will use to staunch the bleeding when she finishes.
 
The collection of oversized bangles and bracelets will hide the rest.
 
Holding the razor, she easily extracts the blade from the razor, throwing the plastic cover away, listening to it clatter in the empty trash can, then steps into the bathtub – an easy place to clean up after herself.
 
Leaning up against the angled side of the bathtub, she makes the first incision.
 
The pain is expected.
 
The blush of scarlet on her wrist sends a sense of relief coursing through her.
 
There is a ritual she follows – quick and slow cuts, first the left wrist then the right wrist, always the same amount of scratches.
 
When she’s finished and looks to see the spatter of blood around her, the strange patterns they make, she knows she should feel shame, but instead she only senses emptiness.
 
However terrible the hollow feeling is, it is better than the cacophony that preceded the session.
 
Her wrists are raw, and her hands are shaking.
 
She wishes this would be the last time, but knows it won’t.

As the bellboy closes the door, Dr. Amy Mathews and Zachary King are left in the silent room.

Although not specifically voiced aloud, this weekend is supposed to be an effort to save their marriage.
 
Neither can remember when their relationship went wrong, when things drifted apart or why they necessarily got together in the first place.