THE MAGIC STICK

MICHAEL COLLINS

David

When the approaching boat was so close to mine that I could see the small dents and nicks in its hull I dropped my rod to hang on to the thin aluminium sides of my tinny. All I could think was, oh, fuck it; I’m going to die, as the looming craft’s howling engine vibrated the air around me. I gripped tighter, feeling a fingernail bend over backwards and snap with the pressure.

Afraid to watch any longer I shut my eyes as my flimsy little dinghy dipped wildly towards the oncoming vessel. Bracing myself I took a deep breath. Suddenly I was in a catapult as the dinghy rocked and then, caught underneath by a massive wave, flung itself into the air, flipping me out over the water before it landed upside down on top of me, plunging my world into complete darkness.

People ask, ‘how’s your day been?’ Now what sort of dipshit question is that? Do you really think they want to know? It’s like, ‘how are you today?’ How many times have you heard that one when you were minding your own business?

Last week I decided to answer the question for a change, drivelling on about my sore back, my crappy pay and inconsiderate guests. I was the receptionist in The Majestic at the time and the silly woman who’d asked me the question was checking in. A captive audience, wouldn’t you say? While I was ranting I watched the expression on her face change from faked politeness into mild irritation and then saw her eyeballs bulge like a trapped rabbit’s as she realised she’d unleashed a lunatic tirade with her one ill considered enquiry. She could do absolutely nothing about it but put up and shut up. Now that was a good day and after that little chat if you’d asked me how I was I would have told you I felt fine, thank you very much.

Anyway I get ahead of myself because this morning, without any doubt, was the start of the worst two days of my life. It commenced badly, so let’s go back to the beginning and see if I had any opportunity to influence how it turned out. I don’t think I did. I reckon that from the moment my bloodshot eyes opened that morning I was doomed to being bobbed along like a turd in a sewer until, bashed and brutalised, I would be jettisoned, thoroughly sanitised, into the oxidation pond.

The hotel safe is an ancient dial job, tucked under a desk and therefore perfectly positioned to exert maximum discomfort on anyone using it. On this occasion that’s me, hung-over and unhappily aware of a persistent grinding pain perfectly centred between my right eye and ear as I bend to crouch in front of it

In the past the various incumbents of this office, finding the safe an inconvenience and too heavy to shift, imposed their own tastes in furnishings around it. This was without any consideration for the poor chumps, like me, who have to squat, shuffling forward with calves cramping to madly grapple with the beast every day.

It’s 6 a.m. on a Sunday and I really didn’t want to be here. Sometimes, like now, I loathe my job, the hotel and, in particular, that shift from 6 a.m. until two known as the ‘earlies’ which also happens to be the worst shift of the day for anyone with a taste for a decent drink every now and then. Well, I said until two o’clock but, in fact it was until the gung ho new manager considered it reasonable for me to leave. And, believe me, there’s always something cropping up at the last minute to keep me there for another unpaid half an hour or so.

Earlies are always the shifts with the most problems. The first in the series of agonies is checking the receipts from the previous day that never seem to balance. This is followed by a mad rush as the punters shake themselves into shape and start demanding everything from breakfasts before the kitchen staff is in to the papers they say they ordered.

‘Where’s my dry cleaning, young man?’

Up your arse, I think, but would never dream of saying so. Well not so they’d hear me anyway.

Christ, then come the checkouts. They are manic when everyone wants to be prioritised, has urgent business or is running late simply because they couldn’t get their fat arses out of bed early enough. And, for Christ’s sake, before them are the dickheads wanting to check in before rooms are even vacated. Nice one.

Recently I told a whingeing couple that I would be delighted to check them in but asked them to be very quiet when they entered their room. They stared at me expectantly, perplexed for a full minute, waiting for me to elaborate as I continued to shuffle papers around the reception desk and loving every minute of it. Eventually the stupid bag asked,

‘Why be quiet?’

I put on my oiliest smile and in a voice grinding with sarcasm I replied,

‘Because it’s only eight o’clock and the people who paid to have that room from last night until 10 a.m. this morning are still asleep in THEIR bed’.

That almost got me the sack. Now I couldn’t afford that to happen. I owe too much on my credit card and the payments are killing me. I also need at least a grand to get a rego and some new tyres for that heap of shit of mine. And I can’t do without my wheels, can I?

For my ‘indiscreet humour’ I copped a huge bollocking from Linda, the manager, and endless earlies to ‘put me back on track’ as she put it. To keep a close eye on me would be more like it. And to really piss me off the dickheads scored a bottle of cheap bubbly with a free night’s accommodation from her as an apology. So everywhere I went that morning I would find them lurking and smirking giving me the shits.

Right now the sweat’s pissing out of me while I dial the safe combo. Four right, three left, two right and back to…

‘Come on, what the hell’s the matter with you?’

When the lever failed to move I gave that solid steel mother a decent slap and managed to bruise my hand for my efforts. Starting the process again I was desperately conscious of the time. Those bloody newspaper people and the milk lads would soon be ringing from the loading dock needing access to deliver their crap.

My lower back, tightened by the ridiculous position I was forced into, was screaming and felt ready to snap. Bingo, I got it and as the door swung open unexpectedly it plonked me back onto my arse. Typical. Twisting my torso I reached into the safe’s dark interior to get the two reception till drawers out first but there was something odd. I couldn’t quite get it at first so I swivelled hard round, shoving my head under the desk to see clearly into the safe. I pulled out the two usual till drawers I needed, sliding them along the carpet to one side. That’s when I felt a niggling worm threading its way through my guts. There was nothing left in there but an empty space and I had to wave my hand dumbly around in it to make sure I was seeing right.

That was a Sunday so there should have been two bags, Friday and Saturday’s takings ready for Monday’s banking. I remembered something sitting up so quickly I belted my throbbing head on the underside of the desk. Fuck it; this was worse, far worse. I felt a wave of panic and then the hot sting of all that bourbon I had last night souring the back of my throat.

For the past few days the hotel had been packed with a Russian dairy delegation. A weird boozy bunch they had paid for everything the night before because they wanted an early checkout this morning. Rooms, restaurant, bar – they paid for everything in cash. Okay, so one bank bag would be the usual credit card stuff and not worth a shit. But in the other there must have been at least twenty fucking grand.

Now the sweat was really beginning to stream down my face and my whole body felt cold and clammy. Keep calm, keep calm! Linda must have taken it home or hidden it somewhere for safe keeping. At the same time I knew that was highly unlikely. My smart, still-got-it-stuck-up-her-bum bitch of a manager would never go against company policy. If we hadn’t heard it once from her we’d heard it a hundred times, ‘If it’s in the safe it’s insured.’

My hand was shaking as I picked up the desk phone, hitting the speed dial for Linda’s home number. As the ringing tone began I sincerely hoped for my sake that for once she had decided to bend the rules.

I had to leave two messages before she rang back. Call herself a manager. Ha, the last thing she said to me before she left on the Saturday was that this would be her first day off since she started. She should tell someone who cares and try going home at night instead of snooping around the place taking notes to catch us out.

She’s not a bad looking sort though and I reckon she’s got the best arse I’ve seen in this place for a long time. I just wish she wouldn’t stare straight into my eyes when I’m talking to her. It puts me right off, like she can’t know when I’m bull-shitting, surely?

Linda’s not like that other wanker of a manager we had, Peter Williams. Now there was a loser, and the crap he laid on me was unbelievable, the lazy prick. At least Linda is silly enough to face up to guests complaining instead of pissing off out the back to hide like Williams did whenever a guest blew a fuse. I got him in the end though, but it didn’t work out the way I wanted. After I’d reported him to the managing director and had him sacked, that miserable Tony Crestwell and his merry board of directors said that I was ‘getting there but still too inexperienced for the job of managing a hotel’. Now that made me spit. What did they know about hotels, sitting on their fat arses with fridges full of booze at their fingertips?

Things settled down on the front desk after Linda finally rang back to tell me she was on her way in. She didn’t sound too happy and neither was I, having looked forward to a quiet day to nurse my poor, throbbing head. Now there’d be hell to pay and guess who’d be first in line as whipping boy. Just wait and see! You can bet it’ll be yours truly.

Half an hour later when the rolly, polly Ruskies departed they presented me with a genuine tin Russian hip flask full of vodka before they staggered onto the bus. They were all pissed again. I don’t know how they do it but it looked like fun and I was tempted to have a decent swig out of the flask to settle my guts. And I probably would have if Linda hadn’t been coming in.

I seem to be into the grog quite a bit recently and I’ll have to start cutting back, to be honest. It doesn’t seem to do anything for me anymore, except give me massive indigestion, no matter what sort of booze I shove down my gullet. And the pain I’m getting in my chest is shocking. I thought it was a heart attack the first time and then Michelle gave me some horrible pills to suck that turned into thick goo in my mouth. They worked so I chomp on them whenever I feel the start of the pain but, recently, they don’t appear to be working so well. All those takeaways, meat pies and sausage rolls won’t be helping but cooking for one is just a drag, especially after a few drinks too many.

That receptionist, Michelle, is a good sort and a bloody good worker too. Not like that other beauty queen, ‘just call me Bec,’ Rebecca. She prances around with her boobs hanging out and always leaning forward when some hunk is at the counter, giving him a decent eyeful. And when I ask her nicely to do something she looks at me like I’ve crawled out from under a stone. I’ve seen Linda ogling Rebecca’s boobs too. You know, it’s just struck me. I bet Linda’s gay. That’s it! I haven’t seen her with a guy and she never talks about them. Well, I’ll be buggered, ha, that’s funny – my boss is a dyke.

Oops, talk of the queer she-devil, here it comes now and doesn’t she look ready for a fight? Linda obviously didn’t shove that bank bag somewhere out of the way last night because when I told her on the phone that it was missing there was a horrible silence. It was only then I felt this teensy twinge of guilt, as if I’d had something to do with it. But, how the hell could I have done?

I watched Linda park her BMW in the loading bay outside the hotel’s main entrance. Being a Sunday there was no chance of her being towed, worse luck. I would have loved seeing her gallop off down the street after it with her arse jiggling nicely.

Let’s get real, something this big is her problem and that’s what she’s paid the big bucks for. Without cameras the joint wasn’t exactly secure, was it? I mean who wouldn’t have a bit of electronic surveillance in this day and age?

Looking through the glass I could see the neon sign reflecting ‘Majestic’ in the highly polished body of Linda’s vehicle and I must admit I grudgingly gave her credit for keeping her older motor in such good condition. Not many chicks know how to put a bit of soapy water on a car let alone change a bloody tyre.

I could see she was on her mobile phone, probably to some lezzo who’s giving her one, so I managed to grab a quick durry outside the fire exit next to reception. From there I could keep an eye on her and still be in earshot of the reception bell.

As I watched my cigarette smoke drift towards the hotel sign I couldn’t help thinking about the name, ‘Majestic’ or ‘Magic Stick’ as the place was fondly referred to. People like Linda and the shareholders discouraged us from using the ‘Magic Stick’ as a name for some reason. They probably couldn’t stomach the fact that their darling little hotel was once the city’s number one whorehouse.

In those days, for cash backhanders the boys in blue carefully protected this place and looked the other way. And there was never any problem from City Hall either, which happened to be conveniently within walking distance from the Magic Stick’s discreet private entrance.

Some suites even boasted ghosts. One ghoul, once a fine pillar of society and a respected parliamentarian, had a heart attack and had gone to meet his maker as he screwed himself silly one night. To avoid embarrassing questions the full force of the law had been called in to haul the honourable member, ha ha, down the fire stairs and deposit him in the shit house. The scenario would have been perfectly acceptable except that the dumb coppers left his pants in his suite instead of around his ankles, which would have looked a bit suss. I think the people who say they’ve seen him roaming the corridors bollock-naked are off their nuts ha ha, but it does make for a good yarn.

Unfortunately I had other things to interrupt my meandering thoughts that morning. Back behind the desk I shoved some mints into mouth, checked the knot on my tie and ran my eye over the reception desk area. I had to make sure everything was ‘in place, handy and tidy’ as Linda would say. A quick glance in the mirror made me feel a lot better. My eyes looked quite decent considering they were full of sand. Hey, not a bad looking bloke at all with those, dark, moody features and a definitely sexy, kissable mouth. Thank Christ I ironed my shirt before getting into the piss yesterday. You never know what’s going to happen in the hospitality industry, do you?

Jesus, that bitch really grilled me. After I’d given her the friendliest, ‘Good morning,’ and my best smile too. I was standing there just starting to brief her on the missing money when Michelle and Rebecca lobbed up to start their shifts. So she whistles me into her office so quickly it looked like it was me who was in the crap. Then I got the good cop bad cop thing from her. One minute she was nice and smiley, pretending to be sympo and the next I’m accused point blank of pocketing the dough.

I know, I know, I’ve pinched the occasional thing. Nothing anyone would notice, like a decent feed of prawns or the odd bottle of vino. Hey, how much do I get for all the overtime I’ve done? Nix, nada, not even a thank you most of the time. Everyone in this game pinches stuff to a minor degree or three and it’s so acceptable it’s even got a name. Now how about that? Not stealing, larceny or good old thievery, something to make you shudder and think of stale bread and water served up in slime streaked cell walls. Oh no, something quite innocuous like ‘leakage’ of all things. How can you possible be doing anything seriously wrong when you’re mopping up a bit of ‘leakage’ for yourself?

When I came out of Linda’s office I was so pissed off I felt like kicking the place apart, but in five seconds Michelle had me calmed down. She knows just the right things to say. Thanks to her I even managed to deal quite civilly with the four-eyed, silly looking prick in room 2020 that I usually haven’t got any time for.

Now that’s one oddball. He’s been with us for about a month, has got stuff-all baggage and spends most of his time in his room or in the foyer coffee shop. He can see reception from there and watches us for hours, drinking his long blacks and continuously cleaning his glasses. It gives me the willies. What’s he want? Hasn’t he got anything better to do with his time? He’s certainly got money staying here forever. I wonder what sweet deal Linda gave him.

She’s as quick a car salesman to spot a chance that one. One day I saw her in action with some corporate dudes. She had them eating out of her hand and they thought they were smart and hot while she was shafting them in the nicest way. I made a comment to her when they’d gone and she said that as long as everyone thought they were getting a deal it was good business.

That’s not what I thought when I watched those suits nudging each other and eyeing off her arse behind her back. They wouldn’t have thought her so tasty if they’d known she was a dyke would they? Must ask my mate, Michelle and see what she thinks about it.

Now there’s a real doll for you. Pity she’s got a fella squirreled away somewhere because I’m sure she fancies me a quite a bit. She was really up close when she asked me if I was okay after that bag, Linda, interrogated the hell out of me. I could feel the heat in her body when she leaned into me. Not like that Rebecca. She just ignored me when I came out, except for asking when I was taking my coffee break. Nosy bitch; doesn’t she realise I’m the assistant manager here and I decide whose taking their breaks and when?

To chapter 2