Dead On Your Feet (Stan Kraychik Mystery Book 3) by Grant Michaels

Author:Grant Michaels [Michaels, Grant]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Gay Men, Humour, Fiction, Stan Kraychik, Boston (Mass.), Murder Mystery
Publisher: ReQueered Tales
Published: 2019-12-10T00:00:00+00:00

11

So Danso Samba

IN THE MAIN LOBBY OF THE Copley Palace numerous posters announced a special performance by the famous stage and film actress Sharleen McChannel. Sharleen had embarked on a new career as a psychic channeler and seer, and apparently she was wrapping up a nationwide tour to promote her latest book of personal knowledge, Up in a Tree. Her easy publishing success made me wonder about writing a book myself, something about the mystique and romance of salon life, a runaway bestseller called Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

But fleeting dreams of fame and fortune could not distract me from the mission at hand. I went to the main desk and asked for Marshall Zander’s suite number. It seemed a simple enough request, yet they referred me to the concierge, exactly as Marshall Zander had suggested in the first place. I sensed that he was being protected from the public for some reason, and since I wanted to get to his suite to see Rico, I was going to have to confront Monsieur le Concierge, which meant sacrificing my anonymity. Concierges are usually clever, observant, prying individuals. I couldn’t just ask him to ring the suite directly, because if Marshall Zander was home I’d have to invent a reason for not going up, which might attract suspicion: “Oh, he’s home? Never mind.” Yet if Marshall Zander wasn’t there, which is what I was hoping, I did want to get in to see Rico. I devised a simple scheme to get the concierge to cooperate, then approached his desk and began my spiel.

“I have a rather delicate mission concerning a Mr. Zander, who is staying here.” My formal tone caused an insolent twitch from the man’s fastidiously groomed pencil-line mustache.

“Is Mr. Zander expecting you?”

“Not today,” I said. “But I must speak with his attendant, Rico.”

The concierge’s eyebrows went up. Like his mustache, they had been compulsively plucked and trimmed. Dragons at the gate came in many guises.

“On what business?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m a caterer. I’m here to confirm the plans for a small reception, a surprise for Mr. Zander. So I’d like to see Rico, but only if Mr. Zander isn’t in. I don’t want to spoil the surprise for him.”

The concierge gave a little snort of disbelief, as though my story was a common excerpt from The Hustlers Handbook.

“I see. So if Mr. Zander is home, you do not want to go up. Is that correct?”

“That’s right,” I said, but my bravado was crumbling fast.

“And if Rico is there alone, you do want to go up.”

“Yes,” I said guiltily.

“Your name?” he said.

“Just say it’s the caterer.”

“Will Rico know who you are?” he said suggestively.

“If he’s alone, you can tell him it’s Stan.”

“Just Stan?”

I nodded. “You can describe me to him. I’m sure he’ll remember me.”

“Yes,” said the concierge. “I’m certain he will.”

I nodded.

With the efficiency of a Prussian officer the concierge punched the magic sequence of buttons that connected to Marshall Zander’s secret domain. I wondered what all the mystery was about.

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