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So why does my solitary life feel a bit like a death sentence tonight?
Chapter Four
DEX
The only reason she married that idiot was for money. Everyone knew it, and everyone knows that the reason she stays with him is for appearances. Katja can’t stand rumors and gossip being spread about her or The Whitney, but what’s sad is that she can’t keep it from happening by being married to that cheating loser. She also can’t admit she fucked up. Which she did, more than she even knows.
Am I salty? You can fucking believe it.
As my car pulls up to drop me off in front of my motel, as Katja so nicely pointed out to me, it takes all my might not to rage. It’s a pit. I know it. I just haven’t had the energy or desire to put any money or effort into it, especially since I don’t intend on staying here much longer if the plan I’ve put in motion works out as I hope.
It isn’t The Whitney and never will be.
It’s also in such an inconvenient location in New York. I left the Gala what feels like hours ago, and the damn traffic—even at night—is wearing thin on me.
“Good evening, Mr. Cohen,” Don, my front desk manager, says. The polite words seem foreign coming from the man’s mouth. His eyes are glassy and he reeks of marijuana.
I’ve been trying to groom the ex-hitman on how to interact with polite society, but the goon really belongs on the street hustling rather than working for me in this manner.
“Good evening,” I mumble, hating the smell of the lobby.
No matter how many times I complain, the housekeepers can’t fully rid the smell of piss from the cracked floor of the foyer. It really needs to be torn up, but God knows what I’d find underneath.
The sound of drunk laughter and music coming through the walls from the pub next door should annoy me, but instead it makes me thirsty for a beer. I’d much rather be over there than standing in my poor excuse of a substitute for The Whitney. O’Leary’s is the only good thing about this place. The food is fantastic, and the drinks pour heavy. The booths in the back provide me the privacy needed to conduct my business, and the patrons know better than to try and snoop. But it’s a far cry from the rooftop of The Whitney where I used to conduct my business.
“There you are,” I hear a voice come from the top of the stained, carpeted stairway. “Notice how I’m walking down the stairs? That’s because your piece of shit elevator isn’t working again,” Maxwell Ryland says with enough snark in his voice to have me clench my jaw, so I don’t reply with my own snarky retort.
The fat fucker who makes a living scamming unsuspecting elderly by offering fraudulent reverse mortgages could use the exercise.
“We’ll get maintenance on it,” I say, glaring at Don to silently tell the lazy ass to get on it.
“I tried,” Don says with a shrug. “Can’t get a hold of maintenance.”
“Then call Z,” I snap. “The man can fix anything.”
I see Don’s discomfort at the idea of calling Z. I can’t say I blame him. Z has been my right-hand man and best friend since childhood, but he’s a mean motherfucker who doesn’t like to be disturbed unless there’s a large paycheck waiting for him at the end. But I also know that he’ll help me whenever called upon.
He’s my cleaner. He cleans all messes no matter what they are.
Well… tonight I need a working elevator.
“I can’t keep staying here,” Maxwell says. “This isn’t The Whitney by a long shot. I appreciate your discretion and allowing us to do our business here, but this place is a real shit hole.”
“We’re working on fixing it up. Give it time,” I say, climbing the stairs and walking past him.
My patience is thin, and either I walk up to my room—four floors up—or I’m going to be making an enemy I don’t want. I have enough of those as it is.
He reaches out and grabs my arm—which I forgive this one time—and says, “Listen man, you are the goddamn Innkeeper. Our people respect you and what you do for all of us. But The Innkeeper’s reputation is getting tarnished by whatever you call this place. If you can’t give us The Whitney… well, figure something else out. I’m tired of slumming and want to pack my bags and stay at The Waldorf or something. I can’t bring a lady here. She’ll feel like a whore. People are talking about taking their business elsewhere.”
“Your words are heard and noted,” I say, snapping my arm away as I march up the stairs. The last of my patience has been used, and I need to get behind a closed door immediately.
He calls up after me. “I’m just trying to help by telling you like it is. We may be criminals, killers, and thieves, but some of us do appreciate the finer things in life.”
I keep walking.
Fucking Katja…
This wouldn’t be my situation if she didn’t end a contract that has been in place for decades.
