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That tired me out so much I climbed into bed afterward. Woke up and remembered losing my job. So I started drinking again. Then I slept again. Woke up from my dream in the middle of the night. Pushed those thoughts away and settled back down. Easy to do with blankets this soft.
Now it’s the morning and I’m up. I’ve got to decide what to do next.
I decide to do what I always do when I need to think. I get my sketchpad out and I draw. It’s the guy from the bar. Marco. He’s got two guns and a violin case, shooting at my father. Halo above his head, horns on my father’s. Then another sketch. Marco as the devil, chasing after me with a whip over his head. I rip out the page and toss it into the bin.
I go to order some food, but I hang up the phone before reception even answers. How am I going to pay for it?
It might be comped, but there’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world. I need a job. I need a home. I need a lot of things I’m not going to get by lounging around here all day.
I remember the card he gave me. If you need a job, call me.
Should I do it? I take the card out of my jacket. It’s jet black with a phone number written in white across the center. No name.
I pick up my cellphone.
Should I call?
I think about the alternative. Try to find work. Try to find accommodation. I doubt I’ll be able to stay here for long. I need to do something. I can’t just end up on the streets.
I dial the number. It’s answered after two rings, but it’s not Marco at the other end of the line. It’s a man, but the voice is older, slightly hoarse. “Alessandro here,” he says. “Who is this?”
“Hi, Marco gave me this number last night. Is he there?”
“He is… unavailable.”
“Oh, could you give him a message for me?”
“Make it quick.”
“He offered me a job, and I was just wondering what sort of thing it might be, that’s all.”
“I shall get back to you.”
“Wait, don’t you need my name?”
He chuckles. “I know your name, Anna White. I also know your original surname, before you changed it.”
The line goes dead.
“Okay,” I say out loud. “Well, that wasn’t creepy. Not one bit.”
I return to my sketchpad. It occupies me until the growling of my stomach grows overwhelming. I look in my purse. I’ve still got my thirteen dollars. That’s got to be enough to get something to eat.
I pack my suitcase before I leave. I take it with me. I get a horrible feeling I’ll try to come back and find they don’t recognize me at reception, refuse to let me inside again. Or stick a huge bill in my face.
I walk down to the lobby, past the faces of people who stare at me. I’m not surprised. The outfits they’re wearing look like they cost more than I make in a year. I head for the reception desk. The concierge looks up and nods my way. “Help you, Miss White?” he asks, his Italian accent so strong, I’m not sure it’s real.
“I was hoping to get something to eat.”
“We can have something sent up to your room or the dining hall is open for breakfast, if you prefer.”
“No, the thing is, I’m not exactly flush with cash right now. Is there a diner anywhere near here? Grocery store maybe?”
“You needn’t worry about the cost of your meals. It has all been covered by Mr. Donatello.”
“Seriously? You’re shitting me, right?”
He colors slightly. “I assure you, we never joke here, Miss White.”
