H O T E L L O S T

By Kurt Indovina

This is an excerpt from my short novella Hotel Lost. You can download the entire story as a PDF or EPUB for free. Have at it!

"Tell them your last name is Wallace. Your room is booked. The first week is already covered. They say all the rooms there are nice. Hopefully it’ll have a fridge. (I had to request one at the last hotel I stayed at, which was a first for me.) It’s imperative you get room 002. Do not take no for an answer. If there’s an issue, I’ve included a $50 to smooth it over. Money talks. But in your line of work, you already know that. Once you’re in the room, search it. You’ll find further instructions there. —K."

If the letter hadn’t been accompanied with a lofty check, I would have crumpled it up, thrown it away, and kept the $50 as an inconvenience fee. I had no idea who this K was, but they were right about one thing: money talks.

It had been weeks since my last gig. The affairs were slowing down, the city was getting quiet, and the bourbon was running dry. I needed the dough, and I wasn’t much of a businessman—if I were, I wouldn’t be in this line of work. So when this letter found its way under my door, unmarked, no return address, and a check that cleared, who was I to deny the fruits of life? Lemons and all that.

The hotel was nowhere, off a road I had never been down in a place I had never known existed. It was a far fetch from paradise. The road I drove in on felt like a crease yet to be ironed out. The kind of place you end up when you stop paying attention to exit signs. The hotel felt convenient, in that way. Placed for folks too lost to turn back, too far gone to make sense of where they went wrong.

And, hell—when you’re already this deep in nowhere, might as well see how much further nothing goes.

Living in the city wasn’t all that different. Everyone, in their own way, seemed lost on their own journey. The difference between the middle of nowhere and the city is that you’re surrounded by the lost in the city. The ones that made a wrong turn so long ago they can’t even recall where it was or where the hell they came from. Lost with no choice but to keep going, marching on a prayer they get to see the other end of the road. But here, in front of this hotel, I was alone, and the road only just started. It began with a letter K.

That’s all I knew at the time. Money talked, and rent was overdue.

It was a single story mid-century hotel and looked like you’d seen it on a matchbook from a sleazy bar on the edge of town. I walked in. A tune floated from the radio, trying to tread above a wash of static. I rang the bell and waited. No answer. I rang it again, in time with the jazz smashing a cymbal. A hand appeared over the bell and stopped the ringing, but the song went on.

The hand was attached to an older man—flannel, tucked into tweed pants, hiked up high, belt tight. By the time my eyes met his, he was already looking right into me. 

"I heard it the first time," he said.

His lips were as straight as his thin white mustache. I apologized. "One ring. That’s all you need. Any more and I’ll start to charge ya," he said.

He was serious. 

"You should have a sign," I said.

"I do." He pointed to a sign on the counter. 

Ring once, you’re golden. Ring twice, pucker up. Ring thrice, and you’re outta here. 

"Now you wanna room or do you wanna keep ringing my bell?"

"I have a reservation," and before I could say my name, he said it for me. Wallace. Jack Wallace.

"I thought this was a joke," he said. "This was booked weeks ago. Paid in full. By mail. You don’t know how to use a telephone?" Did he treat all his customers this way, or was this that middle-of-nowhere charm?

I told him I hadn’t made the reservation. It was made for me. I asked if the letter was signed K. He didn’t remember. Didn’t care. He half suspected I wouldn’t even show up, despite being paid in full, in cash.

The Stache grabbed a key off the wall behind him and set it on the counter. Room 003. 

"Must be a mistake," I said. "I was told 002."

"Who told you that?"

"Whoever booked me here. The letter said 002."

He looked at me for a while. Mustache pin straight. Slowly he turned around, looked at his wall of keys, then turned back to me.

"002 is taken." 

I was prepared for this. I took out the $50, a hefty bribe, more than a few nights stay here, and set it on the counter. 

"You dropped the key to 002 when you went to grab 003."

The Stache looked at the $50, then back at me. "No, I didn’t."

"Okay, well, I heard 002 was available."

"Who told you that?"

"This fifty dollar bill."

The Stache’s expression stayed the same.

"Money talks," I said.

"I didn’t hear it say nothin’."

"Maybe there’s a nicer room for the guest in 002 to have?"

"002 is the nicest room."

"I was told I needed to have it. That it was reserved for me."

"We don’t do specific room reservations."

"But it was in the letter, right?"

"Wouldn’t know. Threw it away."

I stood there. A stalemate. "Can I have 002 tomorrow, or as soon as they check out?"

"Sure." 

I picked up room key 003, took one step, and nearly forgot to ask: "Does 003 have a fridge?" He said no, and that I’d have to request one. I nodded and walked down the hall, the jazz from the radio faded with each step.

—

Room 000 on my left, 001 on my right, 002 on my left, and 003 on my right. I looked at the door of 002. Studied it. Waiting to get something out of it. You’re not here to profile a door, Jack. 

​​But I kept looking, like I could see through it if I just focused hard enough. I looked back toward the bell desk, which was out of sight now around the corner. The lobby and the front door. All appeared further away than it should have. The static jazz now a faint hum, echoing down the long hall of doors and red wallpaper. 

I slowly put my ear against 002’s door. Nothing. Nothing but the low hum you get when you press your ear against a flat surface. I wanted to jiggle the door knob. See if it was unlocked. But I didn’t. One wrong move and the jig was up. My only source of income, gone. It was all too fragile: the road, the hotel, the old man with the stache, the desk bell, my bank account, and least of all, my pride. Instead I did all I could do. The thing I did the most in my profession: watched. So I was gonna watch this damn door.

Room 003 was a standard square room: a bed center against the wall, nightstands on either side, a small circular table with a radio on it, one chair, a dresser, TV, and a bathroom.

I had been in this room a hundred times.

A quick glance around revealed nothing less than a sad windowless prison cell, masked just enough to fool the dumbest of folk that it was a hotel room. Either K was lying to me about these rooms being nice, or someone was lying to them. The warm dirty glow of the ceiling light didn’t do the pale carpet and tan wallpaper any favors. The lack of scenery was made up with scenic paintings, one on each wall. A ravenous ocean smashing against the cliff side of an island with a lighthouse over the bed; a lone tree atop a hill, framed among the clouds, dashed with magenta against a setting sun above the table; and an American-style painting of the hotel above the TV.

The door’s peephole gave me a front row view of 002.

I emptied my overcoat pockets onto the table: Loose change, rolling papers, flask, matches, my notebook, and my favorite fountain pen. My only fountain pen. Then unpacked my clothes and stowed them in the drawers. 

The peephole was too high to use from a chair, which meant I would have to get in a pretty uncomfortable position for the stakeout. I pulled the chair up against the door, I planted my feet on the seat, and perched on its back support. It was digging right into my tailbone. I leaned my face against the door, eye pressed against the hole. A front-and-center view and the worst seat at any show. I had to get in that room. I said it to myself like a mantra.

—

END OF THE EXCERPT

To read the rest of Hotel Lost, you may download a PDF or EPUB below. Thank you very much for taking the time to read this. Don’t get too lost.