13

13

WHEN WE ARRIVE back at The Hotel Dickson, we are eagerly greeted in the lobby by our friend from the night before, Tim the Bellman.

“Welcome back Ms. Buchanan, Ms. Dieterle, is there anything I can assist you with this evening?” Tim asks, reminding me of a love-sick puppy dog. I can’t help if he’s hoping to get another of Mary Sue’s ‘tips.’

“Easy there, Tim,” says an older, balding man wearing the same monkey organ-grinder uniform as Tim, stepping between Tim and ourselves. I assume from his reprimand that he’s a supervisor or something. “I gather you are our new long-term residents?” The balding man inquires of Mary Sue and myself.

“Yes,” Mary Sue says in her thick, fake, southern drawl. “I’m Lindsay Buchanan, and this is my associate Nanetta Dieterle.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man replies—as his eyes wander over us, I can feel him undressing us and I have to refrain from visibly shuddering with revulsion. “I am Howard, the head of Guest Services here at The Hot