Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [79]
When Mr. Peters visited Deadwood, South Dakota, the episode felt like a promotional film from the local board of tourism. He had no problem getting free food and drinks from people who, in return, had their faces and their establishments on camera.
Oh Lord.
Hadn't I been saying this all along? I said this very thing a thousand times. I did.
“A better title for the series,” she concluded in the final paragraph of her review, raising her feisty scorpion tail for one last fatal jab, “might be Cash Peters: Comped.”
Ouch.
14
Mutiny
Gabble gabble gabble gabble …
I've got my ear pressed to the door, listening to a commotion in the corridor.
Must be about fifty tourists out there, bantering loudly in a language I don't understand. Hauling trunks and squeaky cases on wheels along the passageway their little feet scurry in and out of rooms, not in orderly fashion, but frenziedly like geese being shot at, as the jackhammer bang of each door reverberates through the walls, rattling the light fixtures.
Gabble gabble gabble gabble gabble.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang.
Gabble gabble.
Bang bang bang bang.
I haven't unpacked my bags yet, but to be honest, this hellish din has convinced me there's no point. I vote we call time on this crap hole right away.
Usually, the crew leads the charge on the issue of hotels. Director Mark especially. Hailing from solid middle-class stock, he's used to a high level of comfort, one that won't be compromised without a fight. However, on this occasion he's not with us, so it falls to me to get the ball rolling.
“It's a horrible hotel,” I grumble to Tasha in the lobby. “So run-down.”
Apparently, it was a Sheraton at one time. If so, I can see why they sold it. Probably in a hurry, too, fearing it might collapse at any moment.
“But it's going to be such a hassle moving all our gear out,” Jay groans, adjusting his sciatic leg and wincing. Poor guy's still in agony. How he continues on I don't know. I'd have quit weeks ago. “Plus,” he throws in for luck, “I'm not sure if I have the authorization to take us someplace better, that's the problem.”
“But we can't stay in a dump. We need rest, we need good facilities.”
He doesn't disagree.
“Of course …” After a moment's consideration, his eyes turn to hot coals of mischief. “… if the host insists that he can't possibly stay in this environment, then we'd have to do something about it.”
“We would?”
Oh my God, we would!
I keep forgetting: it's my show. I have the power to kick up a stink and make outrageous demands, a privilege I've been ridiculously slow to abuse thus far.
“Great. Then it's a done deal.” And I issue a “clap, clap, make it so” of my own. Remarkably, it seems to work miracles, not only in Dubai, but in any place where people enjoy being ordered around by tyrants, because Tasha runs off to make arrangements.
“Where's Willy? Willy!”
Willy's our fixer here in Morocco. A shifty, grotesque little fat man with thick wet lips and a brutish swagger, who's as wide as he is tall. While Tasha's hammering out the accommodation problem with him in a corner, he shrugs several times and drags a chunky hand down across his round face.
“The host can't possibly stay here,” Tasha's insisting.
At this, Willy scowls. “Oh? And this host you speak of,” he says, “it is who?”
She points, and a pair of wounded eyes swivels in my direction. Eyes that could tear the still-beating heart from a man's chest.
“Hi,” I say, and give a weak little wave, the