Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

He was still hitting her when somebody knocked on the door.

Lee sat back, panting. He glanced quickly around the room, as if to make sure there were no cameras aimed at him. He stood, collecting himself for a moment, paused long enough to spit on her, then crossed the room and opened the door. “What?”

His uncle was at the door. Short, with a bad back. Dead eyes that wouldn’t blink at a night fire at an orphanage. “Jesus Christ, Lee, you want to bother answering your cell?”

“I got busy.”

“Do we, or do we not, have an agreement that you will keep it with you at all times? I have been calling you all morning. And when I call, you answer. It does not get any more simple than that.” This was Lee’s uncle Phil. He was an alderman, and although Lee was the star, nobody was kidding anybody.

Phil ran the show.

Phil, with his hunched figure, sunken eyes, and gray hair, would never rise beyond an alderman. He was, however, a very skillful Chicago alderman. As a Chicago alderman, as long as you weren’t a convicted child molester or a member of the NRA, you could get away with most anything. But he had gotten his fingers too dirty for the kind of scrutiny that comes with the elections for a higher office.

Lee, however, was handsome and charming enough for the business. Phil found all possibilities of opportunities as far as Lee was concerned. Lee wasn’t going to be just a Streets and Sans commissioner forever. No, he was being groomed. Whispers floated through the elevators and walls in City Hall. “Congressman. Maybe even a senator. After that, who knows?”

And Phil would be the man behind the throne. The only one Lee trusted utterly. Phil was looking forward to all the new pies he’d be able to dip into.

This morning, however, made the job difficult. “You some kinda run-of-the-mill, bought-and-paid-for politician who puts his dick before the job? Is that it? Is that who you are? Somebody who’d rather fuck some coked-up whore than take care of himself?”

Lee stammered out, “No . . . no . . . I . . .”

“‘I’ what?” What’s that? What are you trying to say for yourself?”

“I just found out.”

“Oh. You just. Found. Out. I see.”

“I’m taking care of this situation.”

“I see.”

They listened to the whore trying to cry through a shattered face.

Lee said, “I’ll deal with it. I promise.”

Phil pushed past him and shut the door softly. He locked it. Tested it. Took a deep breath. He turned on Lee. “What kind of fucking hotel did you set us up with here? Jesus Christ, did my sister beat you in the head with a frying pan when you were a child?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You aren’t the only one that’s been bit, dickhead.”

Phil waited until Lee met his eyes, making sure that Lee understood that he was talking about the businessmen who worked so adeptly behind the scenes to make sure the Machine was well-oiled in their favor. “Nobody’s blaming you. Not yet. This goddamn hotel—it’s got fucking bugs, Lee.”

“Bugs?” The beating had quickened Lee’s pulse, but his head was still foggy.

“Yeah, you fucking idiot. Our friends, they’re all bit up. So am I. Itches like a sonofabitch.”

Puzzle pieces finally started snapping together for Lee.

Phil saw the light of understanding finally dawn on Lee’s face. “First, get on the phone with the manager. I want eggs and oysters and Bloody Marys in their rooms five minutes ago. Make sure those guys are taken care of. Next, get Dr. Preston up here immediately. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I gotta go back and get some ointment on these rashes. Tell the manager to meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes, but I’ll stop by the rooms first, see if I can’t calm the old bastards down.”

“Okay.” Lee looked back at his whore. “Call that pimp. He needs to escort his property from my room. Stupid bitch got drunk and fell out of the tub.”

CHAPTER 12

9:10 AM

December 28

Two men and a dog moved in a halting shuffle along the wide corridor. The beagle, Daisy, padded silently along and stopped at the sixth doorway. The two men froze and held their breath. The dog nosed the door open and pushed inside. They followed her inside. Daisy sniffed and pawed at the crumpled sheets that lay at the foot of the bed in the vast suite, gave one short bark, and promptly sat down.

“What does that mean?” Mr. Ullman, the general manager asked. He was a sweating, pallid man in his mid-fifties who demanded that the employees call him Mr. Ullman, never by his first name. He looked like he might be sick any minute.

Daisy’s handler, Roger Bickle, was a round little man dressed in a white uniform with a red bow tie. He knelt down and peeled up the fitted sheet from the mattress. Using a pen flashlight, he lifted the edge of the mattress and examined the seams. Daisy barked again.

“What does that mean?” Mr. Ullman asked again, impatience cracking his voice. “Why is he doing that?”

“It’s a ‘she,’ sir, and it means that we have a positive result.”

“Positive? So that is . . .” Mr. Ullman was clearly overwhelmed and confused. He refused to give up the hope that a positive result meant that his rooms were pest-free.

The exterminator shook his head. “It’s not a good thing, sir. I’m sorry.” He stood, grim and apologetic, hoping his professional appearance would reassure the general manager. Roger secretly liked wearing his company’s uniform. He went along with the usual bitching and moaning about the ridiculous outfit in the locker room, but every morning, he felt proud to clip on the bow tie. He believed the uniform carried authority, and had a calming effect on clients.

He circled the bed, pulling up the fitted sheet as he went. “I’m afraid to inform you that Daisy has given us a positive sign. And what that means, sir, is that you have an infestation of bedbugs.” He swept the pen light along the seams in the mattress and focused on a spot near the headboard. “Yes. Here we are. You can clearly see a physical presence right here.”

Mr. Ullman got closer, put on his glasses, and stooped over, peering at the circle of light. He saw brown spots dotting the fabric and what looked like tiny, finely crumbled scabs. “What is it?” he finally asked.

“Bedbug fecal matter,” Roger said with no small amount of satisfaction. For a moment, he thought the general manager might actually vomit. “See, what happens is—”

“Please, I don’t need to know.” Mr. Ullman sank back onto the leather couch. “All I want to know is how to get rid of them. Quickly and quietly.”

“They might be in the couch too,” Roger pointed out helpfully.

Mr. Ullman leapt to his feet and swatted at the tail of his suit coat. He looked like he was about to cry. Instead, he fingered his tie.

Roger grunted and pulled the mattress sideways about a foot. Lying on the floor, he shone the pen light on the underside of the mattress. “Yes, sir. There is most definitely an infestation of bedbugs here.” He pinched something tiny between his thumb and forefinger. It looked like the husk of some foreign fruit seed. “Here we have an exoskeleton.”

He swung his flashlight back to the wall. “And like any bug, when there’s one, there’s a ton.” He held the exoskeleton out.

Mr. Ullman waved it away. Now that the harsh reality had settled in, he only wanted to know one thing. “How do we get rid of them?”

Roger struggled to his feet. “That, sir, is not an easy question.”

“Surely you must have some kind of pesticide for these things.”