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I spotted the ladies’ room in one corner of the lobby and took the blessed opportunity to avail myself of the facilities. On my return, I headed for the registration desk, noting that the same desk agent who’d assisted Kim and Christian was now free to assist me. His name, according to the tag he wore, was Todd Putman. Up close, he was fresh-faced and had perfect white teeth—always a plus in my book. I asked if a room was available, sheepishly confessing I had no reservation. I half expected an expression of fake regret, followed by a smug announcement that I was shit out of luck. Instead, young Putman couldn’t have been more accommodating. I requested a low floor, which I was given, no explanation required. My credit card was swiped and approved without incident. Once I had my key card in hand, he asked if I needed help with my luggage. I thanked him, but said I could handle it myself. I glanced down at the desk, where a series of business cards had been arranged on one of a line of small acrylic easels. On the first of these, I saw the name Bernard Trask, Guest Services Manager. I plucked one from the stack. “May I keep this?”
“Of course. If you need assistance, please feel free to contact Mr. Trask or anyone here at the desk. We’ll be happy to be of help.”
“Thanks.”
I exited the hotel through the Wilshire Boulevard entrance, scurried around the corner, and retrieved my car. The meter was expired and I’d narrowly missed the meter maid, who was five cars behind me with her chalk-laden tire marker. I shifted my perpetually packed overnight bag from the trunk, where I keep it, and moved it to the passenger seat, drove around the block, passed the entrance to the hotel, took the next right-hand turn, and pulled into the motor plaza.
The same bellman in livery who’d assisted Kim stepped forward and opened my car door. “Checking in?”
“I’m registered,” I said, holding up my key card, neatly tucked in the little folder with the hotel logo. Todd Putman had written my room number across the front. I grabbed my overnight bag and got out of the car.
The bellman handed me a parking receipt, which I slipped in my shoulder bag. I went into the lobby.
By now I was familiar with the expanses of polished marble flooring and the massive framed mirrors that reflected endless smoky images of those crossing the palace-size Oriental carpeting. I drank in the scent in the air, which was light and flowery. Unwilling to risk an elevator encounter with Kim or Christian, I found the stairwell and climbed the intervening flights to the eighth floor.
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I emerged from the stairwell and did a quick walk-about on the eighth floor. In the transverse corridor where the elevators were located, there was a seating area. In the center was a fruitwood credenza crowned by a large mirror with an upholstered chair on either side. A house phone sat on the credenza along with two potted plants and a row of magazines.
I found room 812 and let myself in. The space was handsomely proportioned and beautifully decorated. The color scheme was neutral—tones of charcoal, beige, and pale gray with textured and small-print fabrics in repetitions of the same shades and hues. King-size bed, desk, large-screen television set, and two comfy reading chairs with a table between. Good lighting, of course. This was a far cry from my usual accommodations, which might best be described as the sort of place where protective footwear is advisable when crossing the room.
My windows overlooked the swimming pool two floors down. The chaise longues were unoccupied. I could see a bar and grill at one end, but it was shuttered.
The directory of hotel services was sitting on the desk. I leafed through, noting that a hotel guest could order up just about anything, including massages, valet services, and babysitters. The indoor pool, the workout facility, and the spa were located on six. I went into the bathroom, which was done up in pale gray marble with thick white towels and an assortment of Acqua di Parma amenities. These people thought of everything. I could learn to live like this.
I pocketed my key card, left my room, and did a full tour of the eighth floor, noting the location of the ice and vending machines. I spotted a door marked STAFF ONLY that I couldn’t resist. Slipping through, I found myself in a short hallway that housed two freight elevators, a row of cleaning trolleys, and a room service cart waiting to be returned to the kitchen. A secondary door opened into a linen room, where clean sheets, towels, and an array of pillows were shelved in neat rows, along with bins of mini shampoos, conditioners, body lotions, and soaps. This area was strictly no-frills: bare concrete floors and walls painted the chipped, utilitarian gray of a prison set.
I moved back into the corridor, which was U-shaped with a stairwell at either end. The three guest elevators were in a transverse corridor midway between. I counted twenty-four rooms, some doubtless larger than others, a guess I later confirmed by consulting the fire map I found on the back of the closet door in my room. There was an X indicating my location with an arrow directing me to the stairs. I was warned not to use the elevators in case of fire, so I swore solemnly I would not. I went up to the ninth floor to assure myself that the layouts were identical and then checked the seventh floor as well.