Free Man of Wax (Man of Wax Trilogy) by Robert Swartwood

my jeans and black T-shirt, wearing those sneakers that still had the spots of vomit on them. Damn it, I’d forgotten to clean those off. I really hoped nobody would notice, but the fact that it was all I thought about made me certain everyone was seeing it.  
    At the front desk, a clerk named Jason smiled and asked how he could help me this evening. The look in his eyes said that he’d been trained to use the same smile and expression on every person that walked through the hotel’s doors, no matter how rich or poor or in the middle they happened to be.  
    I said, “Yes, hi, my name’s Romeo Chase,” feeling at once like a complete jackass, and all of a sudden I realized that this was just another one of Simon’s jokes. Jason might pause to check his computer, but there would be no room waiting under that name. No, there would be no room at all, and then I’d just be standing there, with vomit on the toe of my right sneaker, looking like an idiot. Would they have security escort me out? I thought about the wallet. Was there even enough cash to stay one night in this place?  
    Just as I’d guessed, Jason began to check his computer. He typed something, moved his mouse once, looked back up at me. The smile never wavered.  
    “Ah yes, Mr. Chase, we’ve been expecting you. Your bag arrived earlier today.”  
    I said, “My bag,” completely oblivious. Then quickly nodded. “Yes, my bag.”  
    “Hold on one second.” Jason picked up a phone. He said a few words and then hung up, gave me another one of his plastic smiles. “It’ll just be another minute.”  
    I thanked him, started to back away, but thought of something and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, but can you tell me how long I’m booked for? I forget what my secretary told me.”  
    He glanced at the computer screen again. “Looks like two nights.”  
    I nodded, thanked him again, and started to turn away just as a bellhop was approaching. In his right hand he carried a suitcase—a large black suitcase which seemed to express to anyone who cared that its contents belonged to someone with money, and a lot of it.  
    “Mr. Chase?” the bellhop asked, and I nodded. “Follow me, sir. I’ll take you to your room.”  
    He turned and led me to a bank of elevators. We waited along with a few other people until one opened up. An older couple—both who looked as if they’d traveled here via Winnebago—were discussing how much money they’d won playing the penny slots. Ignoring them, I stared forward at the panel of floor numbers. The one the bellhop had pressed was 7.  
    Eventually we reached my floor. The bellhop stepped aside, motioned for me to step out first. I obliged him then waited so he could lead me to my room. In his other hand a plastic keycard had appeared. He used it on the door, an electronic beeping sounded, and he pushed it open. Once again stepped aside so I could enter first.  
    The room was large and impressive. I immediately had the sense of someone who’s someplace he really can’t afford to be. Two nights I’d been booked here. What was I going to do in Reno all that time? Shit, what was I doing here to begin with?  
    The bellhop followed me into the room. He carefully set the suitcase on the luggage rack. Then he stood there, his hands clasped before him, asking if there was anything else I should need.  
    “No, I’m fine,” I said, looking about the room. Then I noticed him just standing there, and I understood. I reached into my pocket for the change I’d gotten back at the gas station in Redding. I had a five and three ones, along with a scattering of change. I stared at them awhile, thought really hard, and ended up handing over the five.  
    “Thank you, sir,” the bellhop said. He left without another word. The door closed behind him.  
    Leaving me alone with the suitcase.  
    Like the bathroom door, like the glove compartment, like the trunk, I didn’t want to open it. But