eyes. He grabbed the cell phone on the way to the door, growling a response into the receiver as he unlocked the door.
The chef was on the cell phone yelling in his ear as Foster Martin, the assistant manager, dashed inside his apartment with a separate, but equally frustrating problem. He clenched his jaw, motioning for Foster to sit as he turned his attention to the man on his cell phone.
“Please hold a moment, my other phone is ringing.”
He answered the phone on the table without showing his frustration.
“This is Kirby.”
“Mr. Kirby, this is Detweiler.”
East flinched. The only time his head of security called was when there was a problem.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“There’s a woman giving birth in Room two, one, five.”
East groaned. The last time this happened, the woman filed a lawsuit against them for not having a doctor on staff. She didn’t win, but it was a hassle that lasted the better part of six months. He didn’t want a repeat performance.
“You’ve called 9-1-1?”
“They’re on the way.”
“How far along is she?”
Detweiler began to stutter. “Far along? Hell if I know. She’s at the screaming stage, if that’s what you want to know.”
East almost chuckled. If he remembered correctly, Detweiler was a bachelor.
“I don’t suppose there’s a doctor registered?” East asked.
Foster jumped up from where he’d been sitting, waving his hands even more in an attempt to get East’s attention.
“There is, there is,” Foster cried. “His name is Butcher. I remember thinking that would be a terrible name for a doctor to have.”
East gave Foster a nod and then returned to his conversation with his security chief.
“Check with registration. There’s a Doctor Butcher staying here. Get him to the woman’s room asap. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“He’s in three hundred,” Foster said. “I checked him in myself yesterday.”
“Did you hear that?” East asked.
“Yeah, Room three hundred,” Detweiler said, and hung up.
Foster started to speak when East motioned to the cell phone he was still holding.
“Hello, Pete, you still there?” East asked.
A soft curse rolled across East’s eardrum, followed by a burst of anger. “Pierre, Pierre, I told you to call me Pierre. And I do not like to be kept waiting.”
East’s voice lowered. “Look Fullbright, pull that French stuff with someone who hasn’t known you since sixth grade, okay?”
Pete Fullbright cursed once more, with emphasis, then sighed.
“The entire meat shipment is bad. What the hell do you suggest we serve three hundred and forty-four guests today? Hmmm?”
“Call Antonelli’s Meat Market. It’s just a twenty minute drive from here as opposed to the two-hour trip from L.A. Have them deliver whatever they have that’s freshest, and to hell with the cost. We’ll take it out of our regular shipper’s hide later.”
“Bien, bien,” Pete said. “Merci.”
East grinned. “Hey, Pete, you need to practice that accent a little more. It still sounds like you’re saying mercy.”
“Go to hell,” Pete muttered, then added, “…boss. Go to hell, boss.”
“Been there, done that,” East said, and disconnected, turning his attention to the man on his couch. “Now, what’s up with you?”
Foster Martin stood abruptly, his hands fluttering about his chest like a wounded bird trying to find the strength to land.
“The computer is down. At least I think it’s down. Anyway, it won’t come up and we have guests waiting to check out and guests waiting to check in. I’ve already called our usual repair service and they’re on some emergency call on the other side of L.A. Said it would be this afternoon before they can get out here.”
“Then call someone else,” East said, and headed for the kitchenette. Before any other disaster presented itself, he needed fortification in the form of caffeine.
“But…”
East pivoted, staring sharply at the small, pale man and tried to remind himself why he’d ever hired him. Then he frowned, remembering. He was the Attorney General’s nephew and he hadn’t hired him. He’d just appeared one day with a letter of recommendation written on a letterhead he couldn’t ignore.
“Foster, is there a phone book in your desk?”
“Why…yes there is. Do you want to borrow it?” Foster asked, anxious to please.
East bit his lip to keep from shouting. “No, but I want you to use it. Find the yellow pages. Find someone who can work on our specific system, and get them out here, okay?”
“Yes…yes, okay,” Foster said, and bolted toward the door.
“Oh, and Foster…”
He stopped and spun, his hands still fluttering. “Yes?”
“About the guests wanting to check in or out, use a pen and paper and do it like we used to before computers were ever invented.”
“Yes. All right,” he said, and shut the door behind him.
The ensuing silence lasted long enough for East to get his coffee made. As it was perking, he quickly dressed and made a trip to Room two hundred and fifteen to check on the expectant mother. To his relief, he found Doctor Butcher in the act of delivery and a couple of paramedics on their way down the hall, although the young woman was wailing at the top of her voice because her husband was nowhere in sight. It seems he’d gone out for his morning jog and was missing the birth of their first child. At that point, East made a quick call downstairs to send a couple of staffers in search of the man. Once he was certain that everything was under control, he dashed back to his room. After a couple of cups of coffee and a shower and shave, he headed downstairs fully expecting to find chaos at the registration desk. Instead, the desk was almost empty and only the normal ebb and flow of traffic was moving through the lobby. Mildly surprised, he moved behind the counter then into the staff room where the mainframe computer was housed.
Ally looked up from the chair in which she was sitting. “Good morning,” she said, then returned her attention to the computer terminal in front of her.
East’s mouth dropped. “This area is off-limits to the guests,” he said, then remembered who he was talking to and changed the direction of his questions. “What are you doing?”
