“What the hell?” Tommy whispered, waving toward the businessmen. “Why are they just sitting there?”
“The first three guys had to go back and get their things,” Trixie murmured. “Those guys called these two. They work for different companies but they all know each other. Since these two were told that we had rooms, they just brought their luggage with them. I told them that the teens — housekeeping — weren’t finished cleaning and offered them free drinks if they sat and waited.”
Trixie wrote down a total for the hundred-dollar bills. She had six thousand dollars in her hand.
“How much are you charging them?” Tommie said.
“I told the first guys that it was two hundred a night, one week minimum, paid up front. I thought that would discourage them. All five paid for a week. I gave Alita and Zippo a thousand to buy all the groceries that they could find; food is only going to get scarcer. These two made noises that if they liked what they get for the money, they’d want to stay for at least a month. A month would be six grand each. Who the hell has six grand to fork over like it’s nothing?”
“Apparently these guys,” Tommy said.
“We should get into whatever business these guys do,” Quinn whispered.
Tommy silenced him with a hard look. They were already in way over their heads with this hotel idea. He didn’t need his people larking off on other crazy ideas.
“These guys also called other people that had been at the Wyndham.” Trixie seemed torn between being annoyed and pleased. Her initial response had been to discourage them but the seven thousand in cash obviously shifted her thinking. “I told housekeeping to move up to the ninth floor after they finish with the eighth. Right now they’re waiting on the laundry room to finish drying the bed linen.”
She tucked the hundred-dollar bills into a cash box.
“This is frustrating,” Quinn said. “The other hotels have what I think is ‘American comfort food’ of pizza, hamburgers, macaroni and cheese, and chicken nuggets. There’s no other way to explain why they all have this really basic food. The problem is, we either don’t know how to make them — like pizza — or can’t get the ingredients in bulk — like hamburger patties. One thing that we have a lot of and can do well is hot dogs with a choice of onion and relish or sauerkraut.”
“Yeah, we do those for the racetrack,” Trixie said. “People love them.”
“Why are we doing food at all?” Tommy asked.
“Because it’s part of being a four-star hotel,” Quinn said while Trixie gave Tommy a “how stupid can you get” look that only she dared to do. “For appetizers we can do spring rolls, hot and sour soup, or wonton soup for twelve dollars.”
“Twelve?” Tommy said. “We only charged six at the restaurant.”
“That’s what the others are charging for soup.” Quinn tapped the menus before him. “They seem to double all the prices because it gets delivered to the rooms.”
Tommy turned to Trixie. “I thought you said it’s take-out?”
“Take-out we deliver to the room as if we were taking it to a table.” Trixie mimed carrying a loaded tray. “Room service: as in service to the room. We take them the food on a plate with silverware instead of inside a box.”
It was like trying to stop a train. Tommy shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll be back later.”
12: THE REDCOATS
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the driver of the Oakland-to-Downtown bus cried as the royal marines bounded up the steps behind Olivia. The puppies were all excited about the bus trip; the only other mechanical transport they’d experienced in their entire lives was the train ride from the East Coast. They bounced around the large interior, testing all the seats and examining every overhead advertisement.
“Are the redcoats with you, miss?” The bus driver watched the antics in his rearview mirror. “Are you one of those poor interns that the EIA hired to translate for the summer?”
Redcoats? Olivia hadn’t heard the nickname before but it was easy to tell why it sprung up. The royal marines were Fire Clan, whose “official color” was scarlet red. The marines’ uniforms looked like those of the British soldiers during the Revolutionary War; they wore the same kind of red wool tunics with big brass buttons down the center.
During the last few days, Olivia had been forced into close quarters with the marines and had seen them in every mode of undress possible, including buck naked. (They were very comfortable in their own skin and unabashed in their nakedness.) What was blazed across her brain was the white linen of their underclothes. She only saw them in their coats when they were away from wherever she’d set up camp. Their felt tricorne hats were black, as were their low boots. They also wore white cotton slacks and leather button-up gaiters that went up over their knees. She supposed that to any normal person, the other colors of the marines’ uniforms were lost against the brilliance of their coats.
“I am Forest Moss’s domi.” Olivia fed her fare into the box and took the transfer slip that it spit out. Did the driver know what a domi was? She hadn’t until a few days earlier. Olivia added, “I’m like Princess Tinker. I’m married to Forest Moss.” Sort of. At least the general impression in the city was that Tinker had gotten married to Windwolf. “These royal marines are my guard.”
“You’re going to pay for them?” It was a question but the driver said it more like a statement.
Last time she had taken a bus, she’d been shadowed by Wyverns. The sekasha had gotten on without paying. Not surprisingly, no one had tried to make the holy warriors cough up their fare — not with them lopping the heads off people right and left.
Olivia didn’t want to have to pay for the marines. It would be nearly thirty dollars for all of them and then she would need to juggle twenty-one transfer papers to get them back to Oakland. “I’m sure that the Wind Clan made arrangements through the EIA for the royal marines to have use of the public transit system.”
The bus driver blinked in surprise. “I–I—I don’t know.”
“It would stand to reason that the newly arrived elves from the Easternlands would ride for free,” she said. “There’s no other way for them to get around the city easily; they haven’t had time to ship in hundreds of horses and carriages. They don’t have human money, nor could the EIA pass out bus passes to all the incoming marines — not quickly.”
“I–I-I should call in…” the bus driver started but then stopped as his dashboard dinged repeatedly as the marines discovered the button that signaled a desired stop. He sighed and glanced up at his mirror. “Forgiveness!” the bus driver called in fluent Elvish. “Don’t push that, please — not unless you want off.”
“Chi-chi-chi!” Coal cried. “You speak Elvish so well.”
“I was born in Pittsburgh,” the bus driver said.
“He sounds like Wind Clan,” Ox stated bluntly.
“Ya! Fire Clan would be: Stop it, you kids!” Coal did a gesture that was possibly obscene. It was hard to tell, considering how often the marines used it with one another. He added a dozen more words that Olivia didn’t know.
The driver knew. He snickered, shaking his head. He closed the door and the bus trundled forward.
Olivia took it as a victory, the second for the day, maybe the third.
She’d forgotten to follow her father’s advice to see each success as proof of her own strength. It didn’t seem like much. She had no seeds in hand and no idea how she was going to find the missing prostitutes. Certainly what she had accomplished, however, had been more difficult than cleaning her room. She’d gotten in to see Tinker. She’d talked Tinker into using her great powers to help. She’d bullied a bus driver into giving the marines free rides. Yay, me.