Free Mangled Meat by Edward Lee Page B

night was indeed a fluke. The vision of the woman did little for him.
    Flood tried to mask his despair. “Fellas, you know what I’m gonna do?”
    “Give us a raise?” Nathan guessed.
    “One better. I’m gonna leave you guys here to work your asses off while I go walk on the beach. You wanna know why I’m gonna do that?”
    “Because you can ?” Farris said.
    “Smart boy.”
    “No problemo, boss,” Farris assured. “We’ve got it covered. Put your faith in us.”
    Nathans piped in, “Aw, that’s his kiss-the-boss’s-ass way of saying we don’t need you.”
    “Works for me,” Flood replied. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow to handle those sales interviews. Anything you guys need before I blow this computer-geek pop stand?”
    “Maybe just a collar and chain,” Farris said.
    Flood looked quizzical. “A collar and chain?”
    “Yeah, to keep Nathans off that docking-station bimbo in the t-back.”
    “Don’t need it now,” Nathans told them. “I already shot my load in my pants the last time she came around.”
    “See ya, boss!”
    “Have fun on the beach!”
    Flood walked away, shaking his head. Kids, he thought. If they only knew. He hustled out of the con center, but even crossing the street back to his hotel, his vision was further assailed by more of the same imagery: more young women in bikinis strutting up and down the sidewalk, sashaying across the parking lots, bending over their open car trunks to lift out beach towels and coolers. Holy Jesus, Flood’s thoughts groaned. I can’t turn my head without seeing it...
    He all but raced back up to his room, frustrations piling up. Oh, man, he thought when he looked in the bathroom mirror after changing. Gee, I wonder if anyone’ll guess I’m not from Florida. Parrot-green swim trunks, clunky Seattle sandals, and skin whiter than a Kenmore refrigerator. He slipped on an old Mariners shirt, sighing, and left the room.
    More young women in bikinis stood waiting for the elevator, chatting gayly. One girl’s bikini—a bright and nearly luminous fuchsia—clung so tightly to her breasts and rump that it seemed anodized on her. Another had nipples which poked out like thumb-ends. Flood felt a twinge in his chest, turned, and fled for the stairs. Better to walk the five flights than stand waiting in that gaggle of cruel reminders.
    He felt calmer once in the cool stairwell. 4 TH FLOOR, read the next door down. Flood stalled.
    What am I doing? he asked himself. His hand was turning the knob.
    He knew what he was doing.
    Morbid curiosity, I guess... What did he expect? To actually see the girl? What was her name? Jinny? What, I think I’m just going to SEE HER walking out of the room?
    He pushed his confusion behind. In his mind, he pictured the hotel’s eye-beam configuration, then turned on the next wing.
    That must be it, he realized. Last room on the south wing.
    415, the door read.
    A plastic tag in the key-card slot let him know: DO NOT DISTURB.
    So this was the room. Room 415. Big deal... But at least the unspecified curiosity that had brought him was sated now.
    “Are chew lookink for Meester Kingston, sir?”
    The voice startled Flood to the extent that he almost shouted. A Latino accent, Cuban probably. He caught his breath and turned to face a chubby housemaid with brown hair back in a bun standing behind a cart full of brooms, towels, etc. Mammoth plops of breasts looked jello-like in the blasé work apron. Before Flood could answer, she continued the prattle: “Because if chew are, chew must call him, not knock. See the sign, hmm? Meester Kingston never wanna be bothered. He good man, teep good to all of us. He always get theese room here when he here.”
    Information overload. She must mean Leon, the black guy, Flood put together. And he’s a regular, probably brings his stable here whenever there’s a nearby convention. Finally Flood got his brain back on track. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Stupid me; I got off on the wrong floor.