Free I'm Your Man by Timothy James Beck Page B

socks. I picked up the used condoms from the floor and flushed them down the toilet, then grabbed the garment bag and strode to the elevator.
    The lobby bustled with tourists and businessmen rushing to their destinations. A slight man behind the desk smiled at me as I approached.
    â€œWas everything satisfactory, sir?” he asked, quickly typing something into the computer after I gave him my room number.
    â€œThe suite was fine,” I said.
    â€œDo you have the Amex that was used to hold the room?”
    â€œYes,” I said, pulling my wallet from my back pocket. As I opened it, I flushed. The five hundred dollars in cash I’d had was missing. “This is not happening,” I said, clenching my wallet in my fist and trying with all my might not to launch it across the lobby.
    â€œIs the card misplaced, sir?”
    I opened my wallet and pulled out the card. “No, it’s right here.”
    I handed him my Amex and waited while he printed out my bill, silently cursing myself for bringing a stranger into my life and leaving him alone with my wallet. Everything he’d said to me was most likely a lie. Probably even his name.
    I decided there was no point in calling the police or trying to get back the money. I’d only embarrass myself in the process. I chalked it up to a five-hundred-dollar lesson and asked the hotel clerk for the name of a car service to take me to the airport. Preferably one that would accept credit cards.
    When my plane touched down at LaGuardia, I finally felt at ease and indifferent about Todd, the thieving trick from hell, but I was still bitter about losing five hundred dollars. I felt stupid for carrying that much cash in my wallet. Because of my size, I’d never felt threatened or worried about being attacked on the street. However, realizing that I’d invited a thief into my bed made me think that my mind wasn’t as developed as my body.
    I shrugged that off and found an ATM machine to get some cash. My cell phone rang while I stood in line outside the airport, waiting for a cab.
    â€œHello, Mr. Dunhill.”
    â€œHello, Ms. Medina,” I said to Violet. “I trust you’ve—”
    â€œCleared your schedule for today?” she asked. “Yes, I did. You only had one appointment. It was nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday, so I went ahead and postponed it.”
    â€œThat wasn’t what I was going to ask, Violet.”
    â€œOh. I fed Dexter this morning. Though I needn’t have bothered, since he helped himself to a loaf of bread that was on top of the refrigerator.”
    â€œThat’s his way of telling me to back off of carbohydrates.”
    â€œI saw a dry-cleaning stub on your counter, so I took the liberty of picking that up for you, since it was ready.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to do that.”
    â€œI know. You owe me fifty dollars.”
    â€œMy dry cleaning bill was fifty dollars?”
    â€œNo. Your dry cleaning bill was forty dollars. You were out of cat food.”
    â€œWhat kind of food did you—”
    â€œAnd litter.”
    â€œWhat did I do to deserve you? Manhattan, please. Forty-sixth Street and Ninth Avenue.”
    â€œSounds like somebody just got a cab. You’re not coming to the office today?”
    â€œNo. I’m going home.”
    â€œGood. I can cut out early and go to Barneys. I mean, I can finish typing these reports,” she said, as if I would ever reprimand her for taking an afternoon off to go shopping.
    The first time Violet ever took a sick day was the previous November, when she literally had to be carried out of the office on a stretcher because of stomach cramps. The pain had gotten so bad she was doubled up on the floor, clutching the itinerary for an upcoming location shoot and trying to crawl to the photocopy room. An ambulance had been called after Violet screamed out in pain when Evelyn, our office manager, tried to help her walk