When Kip returned to his fifth-story hotel room at the Holiday Inn, he was more than mildly irritated when the ice machine on his floor was marked with a handwritten paper sign reading, “Out of Order,” the lettering a bit scrawled like an adult who never learned proper penmanship. He started down the stairs to the fourth floor for ice when it occurred to him that something was out of place in his room. The picture of his mark, Tycho, hadn’t been exactly where he’d left it before heading out that afternoon.

The black and white 3x5 inch photo was three inches left of his closed laptop instead of touching the computer’s left side. At first, he’d taken this as a moderate breeze from the A/C or a maid moving it, but he didn’t like the idea of the ice machine going out and forcing him down to another floor, especially without his weapon. He retreated back up to the fifth and bolted for the room to retrieve his Glock 20.

Hotels were always a risk when it came to doing a job. He’d scoured the place for online details before he arrived, but it was never the same as when he actually got there. And, there was no way he knew who would be in the hotel on the day or days he was there. This was what concerned him presently. Who had been in his room if not a maid? Hacking into the hotel’s guest room’s list wasn’t as easy as it used to be at any given hotel chain even a year or two ago, and he wasn’t extremely tech savvy. He could, at least, do passably good work when his life depended on it, and this time he was afraid it was the case. 

Why should an ice machine spook him so much? It was the conflagration of so many pieces of kindling over the course of this job and overshadowed by seeing Vin O’Malley’s hangout. Why did this job bring his mark, apparently without connection, to O’Malley’s stomping grounds when Vin didn’t even know him? And who picked off the crew that killed his nephew so skillfully? Why did the venture capitalist go by “Elvis” when he didn’t or shouldn’t know Kip was from Memphis, Tennessee? Why was the old Japanese man in the pub a retired hitman? Why was Tycho’s picture moved? Why was the ice machine out, which would force him definitely down to the fourth floor as there was no sixth? How would they know his favorite nightly drink at 5 o’clock on the dot would require ice? Who would even know he was there except for whoever hired him or got him to hire him? Who would want him dead? And then, he thought of L.A. and he shuddered.

Kip scrolled through his laptop, having unlocked and found the guest listing he’d been looking for: 

Room 409…Victor Charles…Translation: Charlene “Chazz” Victor, his high school best friend.

Now armed, Kip rushed down the stairs two at a time, his heels barely touching the steps. When he opened the door to the fourth floor, he found Chazz lounging near the ice machine, a glass in one hand and a .40 Smith and Wesson in the other. He froze and eyed her from head to toes. Good Christ. A svelte 5’10” without the wedge sandals, painted red toenails peeking out and a pink cotton wrap skirt completing the femme fatale look. 

“Thought you’d never get my message,” she said.

“It was your bad penmanship that gave you away,” he replied, his Glock still drawn.

“I never could pass Miss Rumson’s class.” She eyed his weapon and then raked his body with her eyes.

“Didn’t keep you out of college.” A bead of sweat formed on Kip’s forehead, not wanting

to make a sudden move.

            She puckered her lips and Kip braced for a snarky comeback.

            She delivered, “A college grad and near-high school-dropout, and yet here we are. The same profession.” 

Determined to not let her get to him, he straightened slightly and said, “Touché,” while raising an eyebrow.

Charlene gestured with her left hand, holding the glass of ice. “I suppose you’ll be wanting this about now?” 

He nodded toward her S&W .40. and said, “Not so long as you’re holding that.” 

“Oh, right,” she said with a little snort, “This little guy.” She lowered it slowly and Kip followed suit with his Glock 20, each put up their guns, she in a shoulder holster under her track suit jacket and he in the back of his pants’ waistband.

“Would you like to come in?” asked Charlene, her head leaning towards Room 409.

“Uh, yeah,” said Kip, trying not to sound nervous.

-----

In the midst of Kip’s dreary high school years, Chazz had been his only friend. She had a penchant for cross-dressing before it was normalized. No, not your jeans and t-shirts like a tomboy, more like fake facial hair and tuxedoes worn to prom or even lunch period. He remembered one day, as they ate lunch opposite each other on a red and white checked picnic blanket on the quad, she was wearing a navy-blue blazer over a white pleated shirt with a classy paisley pattern tie and khaki slacks below, sporting a black goatee while insisting on being called “Victor”.  Her long, wavy, natural blonde hair was tied up in a bun, but she had brown eyes shaped like her mother’s, who was of half-Chinese descent. Her father, on the other hand, was blonde and of Western European stock. This was the day that Kip’s guidance counselor had, in the previous period, told him bluntly he should look into trade schools for say, “landscaping positions” because his grades were not good enough for college. This didn’t shock Kip. He didn’t want to go to college anyway, but why landscaping? Did his body type scream manual labor? And why not welding or an electrician? Was that too high brow for him? Anyone could dig a hole and plant a bush. He’d scored high on the SAT for math. He was used to the “skin deep” or superficial judgment paid to him because of his height and build, but he did have some smarts. The irony was, his intelligence lay in the ability to hide it, so no one would pick it up and hence, he would get no credit whether he did anything well or poorly.

            “So, Kip, which colleges did you get into?”

            “I didn’t apply,” he said to Charlene.

            “You said you were going to,” she said, unwrapping her egg salad sandwich.

            “I decided, hey, what’s the point? I’m not Harvard material,” he said.

            “And what did Mr. Campbell say about that,” she said with a laugh.

            “Chazz…”

            She stopped him, “Victor today, Victor.”

            “Oh right,” said Kip with a smile. “Victor, you know Mr. Campbell doesn’t give a shit about me. He told me I should mow lawns or some crap for a living.”

            “There are worse professions,” said Charlene.

            “Yeah, I know,” Kip said with a shrug. “Okay, where’d you get into?” He asked, knowing today’s Victor was dying to tell him.

            “My first choice.”

            “Yeah? Sarah Lawrence?”

            “Yes!” She squealed with delight. “And Yale. And Stanford.”

            “Not Harvard, though?” Kip mocked.

            “Shut up, you bastard,” said Charlene blushing. “I didn’t even apply there.”

            “I know,” said Kip, “Just messing with you.”

Those were his only fond memories of that era…time with Charlene, the upper-middle-class girl with lenient over-educated parents to his single working-class mom who was always reminding him to not become a “worthless sunuvabitch” like his father…a father he’d never really known and so had no reason to hate.

How all of this fit into his current predicament made his mind return to L.A. He’d been over there protecting a group for a spoiled rich kid’s birthday/summer before going away to college party when something went terribly wrong. Not long after, he had received a mysterious phone call.

“It’s your job to know who you’re protecting,” the voice had said over the phone.