October 15, 2007
The siblings stood before the front doors of the Imperial, having arrived uninvited. Catherine was willowy and poised in a Chloé silk blouse tucked into Cavalli pants, with oversized aviators perched like a crown atop her bunned blonde hair. And Carlos—despite his designer clothes—looked like he had just rolled out of bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He tried repeatedly to ignite the thin, hand-rolled Sobranie with a disposable lighter. Frustrated, he tossed the plastic BIC aside.
“You have a light?” he asked.
“I thought you quit?” she answered, digging into her Hermès Birkin bag and extracting an exquisite jeweled lighter.
“Helps keep my weight down,” he said, grasping the Cartier. Looking at her brother’s pudgy body, she made a scoffing sound and waited for him to return it. When he did, she dropped the ancestral heirloom back into her bag.
“So why are we here? What is it you wanted me to see so desperately?”
“Before we go any further, I want you to take a deep breath in and breathe out all your negativity.”
“Cut the bullshit. Why are we here?”
“You’ll see,” he said, holding the door open.
In the main lobby, they were both astonished by the transformation. The Carrara marble floors, inlaid with Mayan-inspired geometric tiles, had been hand-buffed to a gleam under a fresh coat of beeswax.
“Hmm, well, this is quite an improvement from the last time I was here.”
“Yes, Emile hired a new man—looks like he’s been busy. Stay here, will you? I’ll be only a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the men’s room to powder my nose. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Grow up and don’t take forever.” She looked at her Piguet watch. Despite her vexation, the Imperial’s rehabilitated luster changed her disposition. Like a stone Svengali, it drew her past the grand staircase to the wing of the dining hall, where in the distance she spotted the new hire attached to a polishing machine.
Absorbed by his work, almost in a Zen state, the caretaker maneuvered the low-rev orbital buffer over the floors, eyeing the microfibers’ impact. As mundane as the task seemed, he thought, producing the optimal result required a light touch and the aesthetics of an artist.
“Hello… hello?” she called, raising her voice above the low-pitched hum of the buffer.
The caretaker remained engrossed in his work. It wasn’t until she was mere feet away that he sensed a presence. He turned abruptly to face her, his expression a mix of surprise and wariness.
***
Carlos heard the screams just as he was snorting a line of cocaine. He promptly railed two more before running as fast as his flaccid body could take him, until he stood face to face with the caretaker beside his somewhat hysterical sister. She stopped screaming but glared at him wrathfully.
“You asshole, is this your idea of a joke!”
“For fuck’s sake,” her brother panted, bending over, hands on his knees, catching his breath, “it’s the new caretaker. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Greene,” said the caretaker.
“Yes, that’s it. Emile told me all about you. Well, allow me to apologize for my sister—she’s lived a sheltered life, Swiss boarding schools and all that.”
“Oh, fuck off… and give me a cigarette.”
“I thought you quit?”
“I smoke socially, from time to time, and now would be a perfect time.” He took out a silver Tiffany cigarette case and opened it. She plucked one of the Black Russian cigarettes. He did the same. Fishing out her lighter, she lit hers, then handed it to him and walked off to smoke. With her back to both of them, she tilted her eyes to the ceiling to exhale. He lit his cigarette.
“You’ve done a fine job here, old boy,” he said, eyes surveying the building’s interior. “Stupendous.” He took a step closer. “Do you know who I am?” The caretaker nodded. “Good, then you know in the fullness of time the hotel will be mine, and I have grand designs for her.” Walking toward his twin, he added, “My sister and I have decided to take the Imperial out of mothballs and transmute this old relic into the place—the hot spot.”
She faced him. “And how do you propose to do that? Nobody comes downtown anymore except druggies and bohemians.”
“By turning it into a casino for high-stakes players.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“A gambling den?”
“Not the cheesy Vegas kind, my dear sis, but more like a gaming hall—the kind you used to find in the old world, with baccarat tables where nobility and diplomats frequented, where the great game was played, as well as dice.”
“Ever the romantic. Christ, who in the world knows how to play baccarat today? You would do better to invent an app for that. And when you say nobility, you mean Russian oligarchs and Saudi princes. All the people of pedigree—the ones I know—would never be caught dead in a casino.”
“Well, we need to change that. We have to make it the thing. That’s why I need you as a partner, not an investor. I need your influence. You’re a trendsetter, sis. When you say something is hot, people flock. You’re the hook.”
“You mean the bait.” She gazed up and down the halls. “So where would we put this gambling den, precisely?”
“Well, I thought the dining hall.” That idea seemed to resonate with her.
“And the ballroom?”
“We turn it into a club.”
“A club.”
“Yup—music, light show, all that. Exclusive, but less so, you know, for the young crowd. Picture a ballroom full of hot chicks.”
“And hot boys.”
“Sure, and a lot of sugar daddies and predatory cougars down the hall.”
“You’ve thought about this quite a bit, haven’t you?”
“I dream about it every night.”
“You know there’s no guarantee when Grandfather goes, you or I will inherit a thing, never mind the Imperial. In fact, it’s quite likely Daddy will. Have you dreamt about that?”
He took her by the elbow, leading her away a bit. “Why, dear sister,” he said, lowering his voice, “it’s incumbent upon you to work on Grandpapa before he goes—you being the apple of his eye.”
“I do love this old building, especially the garden,” she sighed.
“So, you’re in?”
“Before I make up my mind, I want to see the ballroom,” she replied, dropping her cigarette and crushing the butt into the marble. “It might take a fortune to restore it.”
“We can take a look right now.” He turned to the caretaker. “You have the keys to the ballroom, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the man stammered, touching the key ring attached to his belt. “But… I… I’m not exactly sure which one it is.”
“Be a good sport, will you, and find out?”
“I’ll need to check the bible.”
“Bible?”
“Sorry, I mean manual. It’s in the manager’s office. It’ll take a few minutes.”
“Well, we don’t mind waiting, do we, sis?”
“Not at all,” she replied.
The caretaker limped off. Out of sight, her brother turned to her. “I like the old boy. Let’s keep him.”
“Good Lord, he’s hideous. Where did Emile find him—living under the Fifth Street Bridge?”
“Let’s not be cruel, sis. Beneath that tortured exterior is a gentle, earnest soul.”
“Have you gone soft, big brother? Are you suddenly a man of the people?”
“Hardly, but a little kindness goes a long way. Something I’m surprised you haven’t learned, you being a CEO.”
“What I’ve learned is to never fraternize with the staff and to set standards. Speaking of which,” she gestured toward a large window display, “that has to go.”
“The western panorama? No!”
“The stuffed bison, the headdresses, the wax cowboys and Indians? We can donate it all to the Gene Autry Museum, but it doesn’t belong here. I never understood why Grandfather kept it.”
“Sentimental value. All those artifacts were his father’s, and that area over there will make a perfect lounge—think tiki torches and drinks with lots of fruit.”
She reflected. “You might be right. The kitsch might work.”
***
The three craned their necks, gazing at the faded stucco friezes—stepped pyramids and feathered serpents in ochre and jade—with gold leaf running along the walls. “At its peak,” he said, “they packed five hundred people in here. We could do twice that if we extended the club out into the hall, turn it into a lounge. We want this part of the Imperial hopping with young and old—that’s what’s going to make this whole casino thing work.”
“Yes, you’re right, but it could sure use some sprucing up.”
“Well, that’s what our friend here is for, right, Mr. Greene?” The caretaker nodded deferentially. “So how long would it take you to get this room looking spic and span?”
The caretaker looked all around, up at the ceiling. “Three months?”
“Too long. I want the place good to go before the New Year. I’m planning a big opening bash.”
“Impossible to do by myself. I’ll need a crew of maybe four or five—scaffolding.”
“Whatever is required, but my sister and I need the ballroom looking incredible. If you do that for us, we will be eternally grateful.” He looked to her. “Won’t we, sis?”
She faced the caretaker and forced a smile. “Yes… yes, we would.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll have to check with my boss first.”
***
“Absolutely not. That buffoon has no say in the Imperial’s affairs.”
“He sure acted like he owned the place.” The caretaker was in the tool room, speaking with his employer on the phone.
“Well, he doesn’t—far from it,” said Legrand. “Augustus Hellmann is the owner, and when he shuttered it, he entrusted the hotel to the Heritage Society. The Imperial has been under our watchful eye for seventy years, and as reigning President, I alone can make decisions regarding its care and preservation. A casino and disco would be an utter disgrace.”
“So what should I do? Ignore them?”
“Yes, and carry on with your assignments.”
“Okay. What if they come around again?”
“Show them the door and refer the brats to me. I’ll handle them. And chop chop—time’s a-wasting.”
“Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone.
Standing for a minute, his eyes lingered over the nude pin-up calendar. For a second, he felt an ache in his heart—and below his belt.
***
When the caretaker returned, he noticed the cigarette butts scattered on the floor, some crushed into the marble, leaving black stains. He could tell which were hers by the residue of lipstick on the filters. He picked one up, sniffed it; mixed with the tobacco was a hint of expensive perfume. He felt a familiar throbbing, and the baggy coverall tented absurdly. How long had it been? He had an urge to relieve himself quickly, but the size and scope of his duties dampened the desire. Slipping the stained filter into his breast pocket, he swept the rest into a pile, vacuumed them up, mopped the floor, and at one point dropped to all fours to scrub the last marks with rags. Finally, he ran the buffer over the area again. In minutes, that section of marble was as smooth as glass—or ice.
The caretaker stepped back from the machine, admiring his work, then looked at the vast expanse of dull floor still waiting. He groaned; he had about a week to finish the entire lobby. To accomplish that, he would have to work practically non-stop. He powered up the polisher. Its soothing white noise and vibration eased him into a more philosophical frame of mind. As challenging as the new job was, it was a vast improvement over the life he had lived only a few weeks earlier. He felt like a man.
Content Warnings Recap (for anyone who jumped straight here):
? Explicit recreational drug use (cocaine)
? Sexual content and arousal, including voyeuristic and fetishistic behavior
? Body shaming, fatphobia, and derogatory descriptions of physical appearance
? Ableist language and reactions to a character’s disfigurement/limp
? Heavy classism, elitism, and snobbish attitudes
? Frequent strong profanity, tobacco use, and smoking
What is your first impression of Mr. Greene, the new caretaker?
