Hot Sheets (20 page)

"How's
business?" she asked as he sat opposite her.

"So, so. It's
been a struggle, financially, but things are beginning to look
up."

"I hope you
don't mind my saying so, but this place seems rather seedy."

She hasn't changed
. "Yes, it's very
seedy. Did you have a good journey?"

"Not bad,
thanks. How's your private life? Do you have a special lady
friend?"

"Good grief,
no!" he laughed.

"Oh, why
not?"

"Why go out
with Una when I can go out with Polly?"

"I'm
sorry?"

"Why go out
with one when... never mind. What about you? Do you have a special
male friend?"

"No, no one
special. There have been one or two, but nothing serious."

"How's your
job?"

"Pretty good,
I'm now sales director."

"Oh, you are
doing well!"

"Far better
than you, by the look of it. What happened to that slag you went
off with?"

"Tina? Er,
nothing much. So, how long are you here for?" Mike asked, trying to
change the subject.

"A day or two.
Good at sex, was she?"

Here we go
. "Sorry?"

"That slut you
left me for - good in bed, was she?"

"I really
can't remember, Belinda. You're looking nice. I like your hair, the
thirties look suits you."

"You never
paid me any compliments when we were married."

"That was a
long time ago. Well, I suppose I'd better get on, I've a lot to
do."

"How old was
she, fifteen?"

"Who?"

"That common
tart."

"I really
can't remember, Belinda. Have you had breakfast?" he cross-fired,
noticing the all too familiar signs of anger in her expression, the
hellfire of a woman scorned burning in her green eyes.

"Of course, a
hotel would suit you down to the ground, wouldn't it?"

"Why do you
say that?"

"You can screw
away to your heart's content. What with waitresses and guests, I
suppose you screw..."

"Oh, I'd
better show you your room. It's a nice room, bright and airy with a
sea view. It's on the third floor, so don't lean too far out of the
window," he smiled, an evil idea manifesting.

"I heard that
you'd taken up with a factory girl."

"No, no! A
factory girl, indeed! My God, the rumours used to be rife, didn't
they?"

"I heard that
it was some little strumpet who spent her days pulling a handle to
make holes in cardboard boxes."

"Did you have
the conservatory built? I know it was something you always
wanted."

"Yes, I did.
Do you remember that rumour about you and the woman across the
road?"

"Er... no, I
don't."

"Yes you do,
Mike. All the neighbours were talking about you sneaking into her
house after her husband had..."

"All I did was
repair her central heating pump!"

"They didn't
have central heating."

"Would you like breakfast now?"
I can
do you a nice mix of stale muesli and rat poison
.

"I thought I'd
missed breakfast."

"Missed
breakfast? Good God, the guests think breakfast's early if they get
it by lunch time!" Mike laughed, moving to the door. "Go through to
the dining room and I'll see what my incompetent chef's doing."

"I hope you'll
have the time for a chat later."

"Yes, yes of
course. Early mornings aren't easy, what with breakfast and cookers
exploding and everything."

"Do you have a
copy of the local paper? I'd like to see what's on in town this
evening."

"Er... there's
no local paper this week, they're on strike."

"Oh, what a
shame."

"I'll show you
to your room later."

"There's so
much we have to talk about, Mike."

"Er...
yes."

"There are so
many unanswered questions, unsolved rumours."

"Yes, I suppose there are."
I don't
need this shit!

Taking refuge
in the kitchen as Belinda entered the dining room, Mike cast his
eyes around the room and shook his head. Smoke billowing from the
toaster, the oil in the frying pan close to ignition point, several
raw eggs splattered over the floor, the place looked as if a bomb
had hit it.

"Ah, Mike, all
under control!" Dave beamed, egg shells crunching beneath his feet
as he turned the gas down.

"Under
control, my... Christ, Dave, what the hell is it with you? Look at
this fucking place! If the environmental health bastards were to
see this they'd go environmentally mental!"

"It's OK,
believe me. Look - toast, fried eggs, sausages, baked beans..."

"Char-grilled
bread, fried scum, blackened pigs' dicks and boiled beans, more
like! I ought to rough you up for your incompetence! By the way, my
ex-wife's staying and, from what I can remember, she doesn't like
her eggs covered in phlegm or her sausages underdone, reminiscent
of spent pricks. Not that that'll be a problem with your bloody
flame-grilled, char-burned offerings!"

"I'll see to
it that she has the best breakfast ever."

"You'd better!
She's already started having a go at me! Right, I have things to
do, I'll see you later. And don't wank in the beans!"

"Mike, would I
do that?"

"Yes, knowing
you! Oh, remind me to sack you later."

"Will do."

Slumped at the reception desk, Mike remembered that the glass
washer and other goods were being delivered that morning. And there
were two Mr Smiths arriving that night. Christ, I'll need another
fully equipped sex room, he reflected. There was no way he'd ever
be ready in time for the clients, he thought sadly. Paul was
probably unconscious, so he'd be of no use.
Why is life so bloody hard?

In usual
fashion, the morning wasn't going too well at Stokepot Towers.
Belinda was still in the dining room impatiently awaiting her
breakfast, Cecilia was cleaning the hotel from top to bottom and,
complaining about being broke, Nancy was desperate to start her new
job. Mike had promised her that she'd be working that evening and
had given her fifty pounds up front to appease her. But he
suspected that it was the sex, not the money, that she was
desperate for.

He'd phoned
Paul's room several times but there'd been no answer from the
drunkard. Wondering whether the barman had gone out, or was lying
dead on the floor, he grabbed the phone and tried yet again,
swearing to sack him unless he shaped up.

"Paul, you
lazy, fucking, alcoholic sexual deviant!" he yelled as the young
man grunted something unintelligible down the phone. "Get your
fucking arse down here within two minutes or I'll cut your balls
off and have Dave poach them and serve them on flame-grilled toast
for my ex-wife's breakfast!"

"What? Er...
that's no way to speak to a valued member of your staff!"

"I wouldn't
dream of speaking to a valued member of my staff like that! Get
your fucking arse down here now!"

Slamming the
phone down, Mike made his plans of commercial debauchery. Another
wooden frame, another TV camera, another... "Christ, there's a lot
to do!" he groaned despairingly.

"Mike, there's
no hot water!" Dave called, peering round the kitchen door.

"Fucking
plumber, I'll have his ball bag for the next Burns' night
haggis!"

"Oh, we won't
be using a condom instead of sheep-gut this year, then?"

"I'll use your
scrotum unless you sort the bloody kitchen out! It'll be ode to the
chef's bollock bag!"

"Sounds mighty
painful!"

"It will be,
believe me! Right, I'd better ring that incompetent, spunk-bubble
of a mother-fucking, arse-licking plumber!"

"Oh, Mr Hunt!"
Miss Chaste gasped as she emerged from the lift. "Goodness me, my
mother would turn in her grave if she heard..."

"Get into the
dining room and don't hover around out here or you'll be turning in
your grave sooner than you expected!" Mike ordered the horrified
woman.

"Oh,
but..."

"I'll
confiscate your pension book and cash your premium bonds!" he
threatened as she scurried into the dining room.

"Oh, dear,
another rule?"

"Yes, another rule."
Actually, that's
not a bad idea
.

Ringing the
plumber, Mike ordered him to be at the hotel within half-an-hour or
he'd tear his balls off and stuff them up his drain pipe. "You'll
get free fucks all right, mate - free fucks up your arse with a
fucking great length of fifteen mill' copper pipe!"

"Oh, well, put
like that... I'm pretty well booked up for today, but I might be
able to call round later if..."

"Are you
married?"

"Yes,
why?"

"What would
your wife say if she knew that you'd fucked one of my
waitresses?"

"I'll be there
in a jiffy."

"Damn right
you will!"

Replacing the
receiver, Mike turned the monitor on and flicked the switch through
the bathroom cameras. Frowning at the picture of Harold Gloom
wanking in the bath with a pair of red silk knickers tied around
the base of his cock, he squeezed his eyes shut and switched the
monitor off. Poor old Harold, he commiserated. Fancy having to
resort to wanking. Suddenly having an idea as Paul mooched down the
stairs, he grinned wickedly.

"Paul, I've
got it!" he exclaimed excitedly. "We could hire out battery
operated vaginas."

"What?" the
dazed barman asked, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and brushing his
unruly hair back as he staggered towards the desk. "Hire out
what?"

"Electric
fannies, I've seen them advertised in magazines. We could hire them
out to the male guests. Fit them in the rooms, to the walls, so
that all the guests have to do is stand there and shove their cocks
into the vaginas and come off. A coin slot, three pounds a spunk,
what do you think?"

"Yes, I
suppose so. What was the urgency to see me?"

"Get up to the
fourth floor and convert another two rooms into sex chambers. I
want the job finished by this afternoon."

"Now?"

"Yes, bloody
now!"

"I'm supposed
to be a barman, not a bloody builder!"

"You'll be
unemployed unless you get going."

"All right,
but I'll need a kick start first."

"You'll have a
kick start in a minute - my foot up your arse!"

"Yes, yes all
right!" Paul groaned, staggering towards the stairs. "Bloody slave
driver!"

Cringing as
Mrs Gloom came crashing out of the lift, her bouncing bosom
straining her blouse, Mike knew what to expect. She wouldn't
complain about the food, not now that her husband had disappeared.
Food was hardly a priority over what she believed to be her
husband's timely demise! One thing was for sure, she was in for one
hell of a shock when poor old Harold finally emerged unscathed!

"Have you seen
my husband?" she asked irritably as she approached the desk, her
lips pursed in anger.

"Yes, I met
him when you first arrived, Mrs Gloom."

"I mean
today!"

"Oh, no, I
haven't. Where is he?"

"If I knew
where he was I wouldn't be asking you, would I? Call the police!
It's just not good enough, he went out for a walk yesterday morning
and I haven't seen him since! Er... have you heard the local news
today?"

"No, why?"

"I just
wondered whether anything had been washed up on the beach."

"Such as?"

"Well,
driftwood, bottles, dead bodies... I mean, bits and pieces. Things
that the cruel sea has spat out after chewing the meat."

"Not as far as
I know, Mrs Gloom. Why don't you leave it a while longer? Perhaps
your husband went to a nightclub or..."

"Of course he
didn't go to a nightclub! The Gulf Stream doesn't affect this
coast, does it?"

"Er, no, I
don't think so."

"The North
Atlantic Drift?"

"No, why do
you ask?"

"No reason.
Call the police this instant!"

"As you wish,
Mrs Gloom - as you wish."

Inspector Dickwipe wasn't too concerned about Harold Gloom's
disappearance, although he said he'd drop in on his wife for a
description, if not a photograph, of her missing spouse. Mike
realized that he'd be deep in the shit once it came to light that
he'd been hiding the intended murder victim, but he had to go
through the motions. If he'd not called the police, then Mrs Gloom
would. But he'd worm his way out of it somehow. Where was the ugly
hag's lover hiding? he wondered. And who was the assassin?
Shit, it might be someone staying here - the old
bag's lover, even!

Sitting in the
bar after lunch knocking back a double vodka, Mike contemplated the
day so far. The morning had gone surprisingly well, the glass
washer and new fridges being installed after a row with the
delivery man over the lack of cash payment. Promising to forward
the money, Mike had no intention of paying - by way of cash,
anyway!

Paul had
worked non-stop on the fourth floor, downing a bottle of vodka in
the process. Trudie and Goldie had just about recovered from their
hard night of rampant debauchery, their sex slits inflamed, their
bottom-holes sore - but still usable. Unfortunately, there'd been
another worrying phone call concerning the clandestine business,
but he'd eventually get to the bottom of the mysterious calls, Mike
reflected optimistically.

What with the
revenue and the VAT man temporarily silenced, the only outstanding
problem was the right little bastard Gill. No doubt he'd show his
ugly face and his measuring pot before long! But if room sixty-nine
was as financially successful as last night's sex, there'd be no
need for a licensed bar, and that would put Gill's nose right out
of joint!