Risk

Elevator Embarrassment

Although he had been watching the bar for the emergence of the two men for almost an hour, Martin was still startled by their sudden appearance in the doorway. He quickly looked down at his CN Tower pamphlet, and let them pass by behind him. They looked so huge and ugly and mean. It was all he could do to lift himself off the couch when he heard the elevator doors open.

He rounded the corner and turned down the hallway to the elevators just as the doors were closing. Panicking, he lunged forward and caught the door just before it closed.

“Hold on. One more. Going up? Hee-hee. Oh, that’s my floor.” He was babbling like an idiot. Would they kill him just so they wouldn't have to listen to him anymore?

Sweat was pouring down his sides from his armpits, which were suddenly drenched, like someone had turned on a faucet. He hummed nervously to himself. The two men stared straight ahead and didn’t look at him, just as George said they would. Was he that invisible to people? Did he leave so little impression?

The doors opened, and he forgot to hold them aside. One of the men was now holding the door for Martin instead. He was a wall of black leather and dark eyebrows. His eyes were too close together.

“Go.”

“No, you first,” Martin gulped.

He made an impatient gesture with his arm and his partner moved in behind Martin. “Get awff.”

Martin exited the elevator and hesitated ever so slightly, looking both ways. The hallway seemed about equidistant in both directions, so he turned right because he could see a fire exit sign. Not that he was in any shape to outrun anyone. Walking slowly in what he hoped would appear to be an unpanicky way, he noticed that the two men were following him. He could hear their footfalls behind him and could see their tiny reflections in the doorknobs he was passing.

When you think of your own death, you rarely imagine a Holiday Inn as the setting. The carpet was so perfectly uniform and nicely vacuumed, and the whole place so well cared for and smelling so fresh and clean. But he was resigned to it now. Everybody had to go some time. If only he’d eaten more steaks.

Would they miss him at the office? Would his parents be much bereaved? Probably not. Unless it made it onto the TV: Police found the bloody corpse of one Martin Porchnik, Underwriter, repeatedly stabbed in a Holiday Inn stairwell early Wednesday. Film at 11:00. “Oh, wake up, dear. Martin is on the news.”

As he rounded the corner, he suddenly saw an ice machine inside a little enclave, and, hallelujah, a snack machine. He immediately stopped and turned in, forcing the men behind him to pull up to avoid him.

“Think I’ll get a snack,” he said, forcing himself to smile at them.

They both looked at him, said nothing, and kept on walking down the hallway. Martin rushed over to the snack machine, his hand shaking, looking for change. He pushed some coins into the machine, pressed H-6 and hungrily tore the wrapper off a Mars bar, taking a big bite. The choco-sugary flavor filled his senses, and he closed his eyes, savoring it as if it were life itself. He shook his head and forced himself to walk back out into the hallway. Six or seven doors down, there was a doorway swinging closed.

Munching his chocolate bar and walking along quite jauntily, he passed by the door he had just seen closing, using the barest minimum of his peripheral vision in case someone was looking out the peephole. Weren’t those peepholes supposed to protect innocent people from criminals, and not the other way around? He kept on walking to the end of the hallway, and opened the stairwell door and then quickly pushed it closed behind him, sitting down with a huge sigh of relief to finish his chocolate bar. The sugar rush was entirely welcome.

Seven-twenty-five. He could still see the door handle in his mind. When he was finished, he pocketed the wrapper and walked back along the hallway in the direction of the elevators. He had come this far unscathed, so he figured he must be charmed. Reaching the hall where his brief ordeal had begun, he pressed the down button, and the doors opened almost immediately. He took one last look down the hallway, and stepped onto the elevator, almost colliding with someone getting off.

“Pardon me,” said a quiet, confident voice with a trace of a British accent.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin. “I should look where I’m going.”

The man held the door a second and looked Martin over. Martin felt scrutinized and hoped he didn't have chocolate on his face. The man was impeccably attired in a gray pinstripe suit, dark hat, conservative navy tie, and a matching puff in his pocket. “Isn't a bit late to be going out?” he asked.

“Oh, uh... ” stumbled Martin. “Just going down for a beer.”

“I see,” said the man. “Good evening.”

The elevator doors closed between them, Martin descending towards the lobby and Mr. Smith walking off in the direction Martin had come.

The doors opened in the lobby and he got off, seeing George sitting in the lobby on the couch. He walked over to him triumphantly.

“Marty! You made it back alive,” George was saying in a quiet voice.

“Mostly.”

“Did you get their room number?”

“Yep!”

“Fantastic! Good work, Detective. Fist Bump!”

Martin bumped his knuckles against George’s outstretched fist. The desk clerk looked over in mild annoyance, so Martin sat down in the chair next to the couch, motioning for George to sit down also.

“So what do we do now?” said Martin.

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“What did you find out?”

“Not a lot. They didn’t steal anything, like we thought. They report to someone named Mr. Smith and they are the same guys who broke in before.”

“Why’d they go back, then?”

“They seem to have forgotten something, or missed something. There was supposed to be some new contract in last week that wasn’t there when they broke in the first time. The Mr. Smith guy was apparently angry about this and sent them back. I’m not really sure about that.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, they kept referring to a contact who gave them wrong information.”

“Of course! It had to be an inside job. How else would they have known so precisely what to look for?”

“Another thing was, they were talking about some big money. Going on vacations, season tickets to the Knicks. These guys were pretty boring to listen to, but they were excited about the payoff, that’s for sure.”

“What could have such a big payoff? The reserve on our file is only a hundred and fifty grand. This thing still doesn’t add up.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So should we call the cops? Tell them what room they’re in?”

“And tell them what? That we were snooping around and saw them not steal anything. The cops would be just as likely to charge us as them.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Well, let’s call it a night, and talk more about it tomorrow.”

“Good idea. I am bushed, and I still have to ride home from downtown.” George reached into his pocket. “Here. I got a pack of matches with the hotel phone number on it. We’re probably going to need it.”

“Good idea.”

They walked out to Martin’s car and drove back out onto the main road, retracing their path to Finch and then back towards his apartment. Martin dropped George at the Finch station, and then went home to bed, thoroughly exhausted.