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Donovan’s eyes brightened. “I have a better idea.”
We descended another floor to the lobby. Donovan led me behind the concierge desk, where he began opening drawers at random.
“Therehasto be a spare key around here,” he said. “The concierge and everyone else left in a hurry. I bet if we search hard enough…”
The concierge desk didn’t turn up anything, so we went into the back office. There was a desk with an array of computer monitors showing security camera feeds from around the hotel: outside the front door, by the loading dock, the lounge, the lobby, and the pool room. Donovan went under the desk, and seconds later the monitors all turned off. He crawled back out and held up an unplugged power cord.
“Don’t need anyone recording all the rules we’re breaking,” he said with a smile. “I’d hate for you to get in trouble for ignoring a sign.”
The other desks in the office were used by administrators, and were covered with paperwork. One had a lunch bag open with the contents spread out on the desk. A half-empty can of Coke was next to it.
“Everyone left in a hurry,” I said. “Probably rushing home when the lockdown was first announced.”
Donovan opened a drawer and made a victorious sound. “Found them!” He held up a big ring of keys.
“There must be thirty keys on there,” I said.
“Which means one of them has to work. Come on.”
We rushed back upstairs like kids who had solved a puzzle. Donovan opened the key ring and dumped out half the keys on the bar top so we could try them simultaneously. One by one we jammed keys into the lock and jiggled them.
“Bingo!” I said when my sixth key opened the liquor cabinet. “And God said,let there be booze!”
Donovan quickly put his hand on the cabinet to keep it closed. “Hold on a second, Feisty. As soon as we open this cabinet, there’s no going back. You’re living a life of crime from that moment on. Are you sure you want to take that step?”
I nodded solemnly. “I’m ready. Even if it means I have to get a gang tattoo on my ass.”
Donovan laughed, then took the key from me and opened two more cabinets. “Take the pool balls and rack a game. I’ll make us a couple of drinks.”
“How do you know what I like?” I pointed out.
“I don’t.” He pulled down a bottle of Campari. “But we’re in Rome, so I’m making you a Negroni.”
I carried the pool balls to the table. “I thought you were a line cook, not a bartender.”
“I can do both,” he said, “but I’ve only ever been paid for one.”
I had the balls racked and ready by the time he brought me an amber-colored drink in a highball glass. It tasted like dark licorice and fruit, with a bitter aftertaste.
“It’s better with an orange garnish,” Donovan said while grabbing a pool cue. “But alas, no oranges.”
“I like it!” I took a deeper sip. “I’m not very good at pool, by the way.”
Donovan placed the white cue ball at the end of the table and stretched out the cue. “That’s okay. I’m not very—”
He jabbed the stick forward, but it only glanced off his target. The cue ball rolled off at a diagonal angle, bounced off the railing, and then hit the rack of colored balls weakly. They drifted apart a few inches, but remained clustered down at the other end of the table.
I raised my glass and said, “You may not be a good pool player, but you make a good drink.”
“Apparently.” He looked at the tip of his cue stick and frowned.
I eyed the table. I didn’t have any good options thanks to his bad break. I lowered my pool stick to the table, gripping the front of it while using my other hand to push it forward. The stick hit the cue ball flush, but it wasn’t very hard, and my aim was so poor that I didn’t even hit the ball I was aiming at.
“You may not be a good pool player,” Donovan teased, “but you… Huh. Whatareyou good at, Feisty?”
“Oh, I’m good at plenty of things.”
“I bet you are,” he said while chalking his cue.
