Edward Lee - Mangled Meat

Nathans made a ludicrous pelvic gesture. “Yeah, seven and a half gigs of RAM.”

Everything is sex, came Flood’s dismal concession. At least he was conditioned now—yes, last night was indeed a fluke. The vision of the woman did little for him.

Flood tried to mask his despair. “Fellas, you know what I’m gonna do?”

“Give us a raise?” Nathan guessed.

“One better. I’m gonna leave you guys here to work your asses off while I go walk on the beach. You wanna know why I’m gonna do that?”

“Because you can ?” Farris said.

“Smart boy.”

“No problemo, boss,” Farris assured. “We’ve got it covered. Put your faith in us.”

Nathans piped in, “Aw, that’s his kiss-the-boss’s-ass way of saying we don’t need you.”

“Works for me,” Flood replied. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow to handle those sales interviews. Anything you guys need before I blow this computer-geek pop stand?”

“Maybe just a collar and chain,” Farris said.

Flood looked quizzical. “A collar and chain?”

“Yeah, to keep Nathans off that docking-station bimbo in the t-back.”

“Don’t need it now,” Nathans told them. “I already shot my load in my pants the last time she came around.”

“See ya, boss!”

“Have fun on the beach!”

Flood walked away, shaking his head. Kids, he thought. If they only knew. He hustled out of the con center, but even crossing the street back to his hotel, his vision was further assailed by more of the same imagery: more young women in bikinis strutting up and down the sidewalk, sashaying across the parking lots, bending over their open car trunks to lift out beach towels and coolers. Holy Jesus, Flood’s thoughts groaned. I can’t turn my head without seeing it…

He all but raced back up to his room, frustrations piling up. Oh, man, he thought when he looked in the bathroom mirror after changing. Gee, I wonder if anyone’ll guess I’m not from Florida. Parrot-green swim trunks, clunky Seattle sandals, and skin whiter than a Kenmore refrigerator. He slipped on an old Mariners shirt, sighing, and left the room.

More young women in bikinis stood waiting for the elevator, chatting gayly. One girl’s bikini—a bright and nearly luminous fuchsia—clung so tightly to her breasts and rump that it seemed anodized on her. Another had nipples which poked out like thumb-ends. Flood felt a twinge in his chest, turned, and fled for the stairs. Better to walk the five flights than stand waiting in that gaggle of cruel reminders.

He felt calmer once in the cool stairwell. 4 THFLOOR, read the next door down. Flood stalled.

What am I doing? he asked himself. His hand was turning the knob.

He knew what he was doing.

Morbid curiosity, I guess… What did he expect? To actually see the girl? What was her name? Jinny? What, I think I’m just going to SEE HER walking out of the room?

He pushed his confusion behind. In his mind, he pictured the hotel’s eye-beam configuration, then turned on the next wing.

That must be it, he realized. Last room on the south wing.

415, the door read.

A plastic tag in the key-card slot let him know: DO NOT DISTURB.

So this was the room. Room 415. Big deal… But at least the unspecified curiosity that had brought him was sated now.

“Are chew lookink for Meester Kingston, sir?”

The voice startled Flood to the extent that he almost shouted. A Latino accent, Cuban probably. He caught his breath and turned to face a chubby housemaid with brown hair back in a bun standing behind a cart full of brooms, towels, etc. Mammoth plops of breasts looked jello-like in the blasé work apron. Before Flood could answer, she continued the prattle: “Because if chew are, chew must call him, not knock. See the sign, hmm? Meester Kingston never wanna be bothered. He good man, teep good to all of us. He always get theese room here when he here.”

Information overload. She must mean Leon, the black guy, Flood put together. And he’s a regular, probably brings his stable here whenever there’s a nearby convention. Finally Flood got his brain back on track. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. Stupid me; I got off on the wrong floor. I’m on the fifth.”

Her breasts tremored when she bent to pick up a can of Comet. “Well, yes, but theese is forf floor, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I just realized that. Have good day,” and then he offered a covering smile and walked for the elevator.

Jesus, what an idiot! But he wasn’t even to the elevator cove when heard the door open.

He stepped up his pace. Fuck! But what was he anxious about? Leon Kingston had never seen Flood before, and there’s no way he or his cohort could know what he’d witnessed last night.

Flood wisely didn’t turn when his ears picked up the voice he’d already heard: “Maria, good afternoon!”

“Good afternoon to chew too, Meester Kingston.”

“And how are you today? Muy buena, I hope.”

A blushing chuckle. “Very muy buena, sir.”

Flood turned into the cove, hit the down button. In dread he could almost hear what she might say: Strange gringo man was standink in-frunna chore door, but then he relaxed at her real words after obviously accepting a tip. “Muchas gracias, sir!”

Hurry, hurry, he shot the though at the elevator. The carpeted hallway would betray no footsteps. He still didn’t know what he was afraid of, though; to Leon Kingston the Pimp, Flood was just another pale-skinned tourist. The elevator hadn’t opened yet when two figures came around the corner.

Flood nodded, smiled.

“Good afternoon, sir,” came Leon’s upbeat greeting. He looked better than Flood’s stereotypes imagined. Ring-like Billy-Dee-Williams hair, sharp conservative dark slacks and a fine heather-gray silk shirt, open at the neck but no gaudy gold pimp chains. Class, not flash. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Rosamilia.”

“I-I am,” Flood said, off guard. “Very much. It’s a gorgeous hotel.” The weirdest impulse, then, just another curiosity, a test to elicit a response. “I take it you’re one of the managers here?”

“No, no, sir. But it’s my favorite hotel on the beach. I always stay here during convention weeks.”

“Oh, really? The CES convention? That’s where I’m at.”

“All of them, sir. Leon Kingston. Very pleased to meet you.”

Flood shook the firm, long-fingered black hand. Wow, he ducked that one well, but what did I expect him to say? I’m a pimp? “Jake Flood. If you’re looking for the best wireless peripherals, stop by my booth across the street.”

“I just might do that, sir, I just might. Mr. Flood, please meet my good friend—”

Only at that moment did Flood notice Leon’s companion: elegant-physique’d, slender yet well-curved, hair radiant and black as ink cut straight as a bezel edge at the collarbone line—

“—Jinny,” Leon finished.

Flood surprisingly didn’t falter. He shook the cool soft hand, and said “Hello, Jinny,” then noted her fine, high-cheek-boned face and runway-model poise. The paprika-red wrap-dress clung to her curves as if she’d just been fitted by a pro fashion consultant. Flood’s earlier presumption was clarified; she was not a tacky convention whore, but an upper-end call-girl.

“Hello,” she said, smiling meekly. Then she seemed to restrain an uncomfortable flinch. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“First time on St. Pete Beach, Mr. Flood?”

The image of the girl stunned him once he compared it to the image he remembered last night: sperm all over her, face stamped into a mask of pain as she lay doubled-over on the bed, trim belly darkening with fresh bruises. “I-uh, yes, it is. Really nice beach town, nothing at all like Lauderdale and South Beach.” He tried to sound conversational, if only for an excuse to pay more visual attention to Jinny, a truly beautiful woman. “At my age, I like things a little laid back, a little less rowdy.”