Excuse Me, Mr Jenkins? by Mike Jones

"One of these days we're going to spend a night here," he said. His hand was tightly clutched in hers and she gave it a slow squeeze.
    "It's okay," she said. "There are a lot more practical things that we could do with five hundred dollars."
    And maybe she was right - maybe there were more practical things that they could do with five hundred dollars. But on that particular night when they had gone walking and stopped to gaze at the beautiful hotel, its three towers shooting defiantly into the sky, each one lower than the one before it, each marked by the white frame work of a skewed pyramid, he felt an irrepressible longing for the place. He worked hard and so did she, but it depressed him to know that he was not becoming the great success he had always dreamed of becoming, that he was unable to take his beautiful young wife to any place her heart desired and give her all the things she deserved. He knew that when she said that she did not care about such frivolous things that she was telling the truth. However, he also knew that she would love to spend an evening in the hotel if the money was no problem and that alone truly upset him.
    One week later, the day of their fifth wedding anniversary, he made the decision. He filled a small backpack and told his wife that they would be going out for an extra special evening to celebrate and that she should wear that green dress with the lace fringe that he loved so much. She giggled with excitement when he told her this and she moved quickly, in a sort of flustered rush around their tiny apartment, getting ready.
    "Where are we going? What have you got planned?" She asked, over and over again. He met her questions with little more than a coy shrug of the shoulders. It thrilled him to see her like that, so completely overjoyed with what he could do for her.
    They got in a taxi around 9pm, she in her green dress that he loved, her hair pinned up to reveal the soft smoothness of her neck and earlobes; he in his one and only suit, a backpack slung conspicuously over his shoulder. The backpack had been an instant source of questions, but he had not said a word, merely smiled and shrugged. She slapped at him playfully for not telling her. He had been careful to tell the taxi company the destination over the phone so that she would have no idea where they were headed.
    Eventually they came to the block where the hotel was, its many lights giving the three towers a strange, foggy sort of glow in the evening air. The thought that they would stop there, actually pull into the horseshoe shaped driveway and be politely greeted by hotel staff never even occurred to her. The taxi pulled carefully into the driveway, easing to a halt at the entrance. Only once they had stopped and a man in white gloves, a black suit and smiling proudly opened her door, did she react. Her mouth fell agape. She stood motionless in the driveway as the taxi pulled away.
    "Dinner in the restaurant?" She squealed.
    He shook his head slowly, as if to say, "guess again" and watched her face drop even further in astonishment.
    "We're not staying overnight?" She asked, "What -"
    He raised his finger to his lips and offered his arm. Together they walked into the hotel, the doorman nodding as he opened the door for them, wishing them a good evening. They walked through the lobby, past the pastry shop and the front desk where all the staff stood at attention, smiling and wishing them a good evening. She felt like a celebrity and he felt downright heroic. They stopped in front of the elevators and he pushed the button. There were fresh flowers everywhere.
    Inside the elevator they marvelled at the shiny woods, the spotless mirrors, the spaciousness of it all. She asked if they were going to check in, but he would only grin, prompting her to laugh and slap his arm. The elevator stopped at the 32nd floor, their ears popping and the doors opened on a beautiful lounge overlooking the city. She held his hand as they were shown to a table with low, snug armchairs. He told her to order whatever it was that she felt like drinking and that he would be right back.
    "Baby," she said, holding on to his arm as he went to leave, "can we afford this?"
    He bent down to kiss her forehead and whispered, "Don't worry about a thing."
    On the tenth floor he found a smaller, plainer lounge. He stood by the elevators, pacing a little, feeling the plush carpeting beneath his feet. It made him want to remove his shoes, then his socks. He had never felt such incredibly soft carpeting. Group after group of drunken, laughing businessmen left the lounge, piling into the elevators. He studied them all, none of them quite right. After some time, a group of black suited men came out, staggering and laughing. There were five in total, four of them goading the fifth man - a short, fat fellow with thin strips of hair arranged over his bright red scalp - to come with them to "hit the town". They called the man by his surname, "Jenkins" and made crude comments when he refused their offers. Instead Jenkins said goodnight and stepped into the elevator. The decision to follow him was sudden, almost instinctive.
    Together the two men rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor, at which point Jenkins stepped out, walking unsteadily to his room. From the elevator, he watched Jenkins as he dug through his pockets looking for his room key. They were the only two people around, the entire floor silent. He could feel his confidence waning, his logic surfacing. He knew that if he didn't do it now, it wouldn't happen at all. So he called out, his voice quivering slightly, someone else's voice from deep inside. He called him Mr Jenkins, then said something purposely incoherent, approaching all the while. Jenkins stood in front of his open room, confused.
    "I beg your pardon?" asked Jenkins.
    He said it again but this time he was within arms reach and immediately tackled Jenkins to the floor of his room. He stuffed a handkerchief into Jenkins' mouth, only a slash of light from the hall illuminating them. Jenkins struggled a little, but he was too old and had taken on too much drink to put up a proper fight with a sober man less than half his age. The door was kicked shut. He sat on Jenkins' chest, his feet holding down Jenkins' arms as he opened the backpack. There was duct tape and rope, wrists tied to feet, Jenkins' mouth sealed shut.
    He stood up and turned on the light, relieved to see that the room was a spacious suite. He stuffed everything that belonged to Jenkins into a fat black roller suitcase that was sitting in the corner. There was a walk-in closet in the other room and he rolled the suitcase in, then returned to drag Jenkins there as well. Jenkins was trying to yell, but thanks to the handkerchief and duct tape, it was barely a whisper. With the closet door closed, all was silent. He picked the passkey up off the floor at the entrance, then gave the room a quick once over. Everything seemed to be in order.
    In the elevator on the way back up to the 32nd floor, he was alone. He stared at himself in one of the giant, spotless mirrors and straightened his tie, then his hair. It really was a beautiful hotel, he thought. Their room was unbelievably lavish. Their room? He stared himself in the eyes. Was he deranged? Had he just done a sane thing? A trickle of sweat ran down from his temple and he watched it slide all the way down his neck and into the collar of his jacket. It was only one night. One night and no one was hurt. Tomorrow morning hotel staff would find Mr Jenkins. He would be perfectly fine, if not a little cramped. It wasn't a rational or even sensible thing to do, no, but...
    The elevator door opened. He stepped awkwardly out and was greeted by a smiling girl in a skirt suit. From where he stood, he could see his wife, sipping her drink, her eyes still wide as she looked around, her smile as grand as ever. She was beautiful.

About the author:
Mike Jones writes fiction that can be found online at McSweeney's, Juked, Hobart, Opium, Wandering Army and Thieves Jargon. In print, his fiction has appeared in The Duck and Herring Co, Better Non Sequitur's See You Next Tuesday sex anthology and is also forthcoming in Monkeybicycle's fifth issue. His non fiction work can sometimes be found in Japan's national English magazine, Japanzine. He is currently working on a book of short stories.