Book II – Chapter 09: Elevator

Posted On May 3, 2015

With the back of his hand, Demos swept back a curtain to take in the scenery. The hotel gave a wide view of the surrounding forest, with the border of a golf course peeking in from the east. Though seemingly enveloped in nature, the casino had been placed strategically close to a major highway. They did, after all, need customers.

“Not bad,” he said, his lips shifting to a light smile.

“Are you just looking at your reflection?” Ferris asked from his seat on one of the beds.

“No,” Demos lied, letting the curtain fall back into place. “I’m talking about the room. Though they could have given us the VIP suite.”

“We’re lucky they’re even allowing us to stay here,” Ferris said, using a cloth to clean his glasses. “You basically threatened to steal a fifth of their profits.”

“Well, it’ll probably work out in the end,” he said, his voice softening. “I just wish it had been my idea.”

Ferris said nothing, unsure of how to console the other. It was true that Demos’ big chance was looking promising — unfortunately, it had been thanks to Gina’s negotiations. For a man with such a sensitive pride, he seemed to be taking it fairly well.

“I guess we’ll find out in the morning,” Demos continued, “if this trip was worth it.”

“Yeah. Looks like we’re stuck here for now.”

“Stuck? The gaming floor is open all night and the bar doesn’t close until two,” the Italian said, opening the door with a smile. The thought of gambling had clearly lifted his mood.

“Oh, right,” Ferris said, his tone weary as he followed his friend into the hall.

“Think of it as a little vacation.”

“Losing money in a room full of noisy machines and drunk people isn’t really my idea of a vacation, but sure.”

“Well, I know, but you’ve been working so much lately,” Demos said as they waited for the elevator to arrive. “We haven’t really had a chance to—“

A ringtone interrupted his thought.

“Hold on, it’s Mom,” Ferris said, lifting the phone to his ear. Demos folded his arms, knowing better than to challenge the authority Ruth Levinstein.

“Hi Mom, sorry I didn’t call. No, I’m not going to make it for Shavuot. I’m seeing a client. Yes, I know it’s the weekend. I probably won’t be back until— I know, I know. I’m sorry. Just… just give the blintzes to the neighbors.”

Ferris gave Demos an apologetic glance as he listened to his mother berate him from the other end of the line.

“Actually, I need a little favor. I won’t be home until tomorrow night and Stanley needs— yes, I know you’re very busy. Look, I’ll stop by that kosher deli you like in Hartsdale and get you some challah. Yes, I know. I love you, too. Bye, Mom.”

“You should have told her I said ‘hi,’” Demos said as Ferris hung up.

“Then she would have wanted to talk to you,” Ferris said, grimacing slightly. “And we’d never get to— ah, hold on. I’ve got another call.”

“Hurry up, Mr. Popular. The elevator is almost here.”

Ferris gave a brief eye roll before answering the phone, turning away as he spoke.

“Hey, Alex.”

Demos frowned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Still upstate. We’re about to— er, are you all right? Your voice is shaking,” Ferris said, listening for a moment. “Yeah, you mentioned him before. What happened? What the fuck, can’t he be expelled for that?”

There was a chime as the elevator arrived.

“Let’s go,” Demos said. He was already in the lift, using an elbow to hold the doors.

Ferris cupped a hand over his phone, glancing sideways at the impatient Italian. “Sorry, she sounds pretty upset. You go ahead, I’ll come down in a minute.”

Demos’ chest puffed as he took in a breath through his nose. Before he could reply, Ferris had already turned away.

“Huh? Oh, no, that was nobody. Just a colleague.”

The elevator doors shut. Demos stared at the reflective surface before him, no longer able to hear his friend’s conversation. The sense of falling overtook him, walls rushing past and his feet barely able to keep steady on the marble floor. Demos finally remembered to breathe, realizing only moments later he had neglected to push a button. The elevator hadn’t moved.

His lips parted. “Nobody?”

He knew there was a reason for it — that Ferris couldn’t explain where he was or what he was doing, that he was playing matchmaker between an extortionist and a casino and overseeing a potential mass exchange of firearms. Alex was a normal girl. His girlfriend — was she his girlfriend? Did Ferris have a girlfriend now?

Demos closed his eyes, rubbing the thoughts from his temples. He inhaled, then pressed the lobby button. He needed a drink.

The casino floor was teeming with life. Where such a gainful turnout would normally have fired up fantasies concerning a bathtub full of cash, he now paid no mind to the throngs of customers. The machines flashed, chimed, and rattled, their luminous screens casting an array of colors across the white gesso of his face. The songs and lights blended together, feeling strangely distant as he headed for the bar.

Armed with a glass of Tennessee whiskey, he found himself hovering at a craps table. The stickman’s chatter buzzed in his ears, followed by the laughter of the table’s patrons. Loser seven.

He made sure to stay a step behind, not caring to take part in the game. He had planned on teaching his friend how to play, having already imagined those awkward hands throwing a set of dice down the green lawn of the table.

Ferris should have been there.

“Not going to play?” came a man’s voice at his side. Demos didn’t bother looking, only sipping at his glass.

“Not feeling lucky.”

“That’s a shame,” the man said. “I’ll bet you’ve got a stunning smile when you win.”

Demos blinked, then let his eyes drift sideways. The man was half a foot taller, his smooth jaw reaching just above Demos’ crown. He had dark eyes and even darker hair, with thick locks swept neatly past his forehead.

The Italian tensed. “You selling something?”

“Buying, actually,” he said, his lips curving. “If you’ll let me get you another drink.”

Demos’ common sense, normally quick to stomp any dubious suitor’s heart into the ground, was inebriated with liquor and misery. Only one instinct was functioning to capacity, one that magnetized him to the well-toned gentleman at his side.

“Does that clever mouth come with a name?” Demos managed a faint smile.

The stranger leaned subtly closer, his voice low. “Sandro. And what may I call you?”

“I’ll tell you after that drink is in my hand, Sandro.”

The drink came, as promised, followed by a number of glasses that Demos couldn’t recall. Warmth blossomed up his throat as he lingered with the stranger at the bar. Sandro — that was his name, wasn’t it? Demos was having a hard time remembering. When he stopped to think, to recall why he’d come down alone, that familiar ache burned in every inch of his chest. He couldn’t bear it, returning to his liquor and the sweet, approaching smile of the man before him. He could feel a hand on his wrist. It was warm — yearning. Someone wanted him.

He drained his glass, setting it beside its many predecessors. Sandro shifted in, his mouth grazing Demos’ ear as he made a suggestion.

Demos exhaled. “Yes.”

They had only been alone in the elevator for a second before a hand pushed up his shirt. Demos pulled the man down to meet his lips, dragging fingers through his thick hair. There was a clink as their belts met, hips bumping as Demos’ back flattened against the wall.

“You owe me a name,” Sandro said between heavy breaths.

“Demos.”

“Beautiful.”

Only the sound of chiming doors could part their mouths and Demos found himself taken by the hand down a long, dimly lit hall. There was a fumbling of metal and plastic before a green blink allowed them to tumble into the hotel room. The mattress creaked as two bodies descended atop, Demos’ hair splaying over the duvet.

Demos hissed as his throat was kissed. “Ff—“

“Listen.” Sandro whispered against the Italian’s white skin. “There’s one thing I want from you.”

“Tell me.”

He shifted upwards, his lips brushing over Demos’ jaw. “I want you to cancel it.”

“Cancel what?” Demos said, his breath short.

“Your deal with the chairwoman.”

Demos’ eyes snapped open. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sandro said with a grin.

One by one, Demos’ senses woke, sending a sobering chill through every nerve in his body. His hands snaked upwards, twisting Sandro’s collar between creaking knuckles.

“And what the fuck makes you think,” Demos shifted upright, his eyes boring into the other’s, “you can tell me what to do?”

 The other man only gave a short laugh.

“The elevator.” Sandro said. “It had a camera.”

“A camera.”

“I suspected you were a faggot. Now I’ve got proof. What happens to that proof is up to you.”

The strength in Demos’ grasp faltered. “But, but you—“

“Oh, me? I’m not gay. I’m a damn fine actor, though, aren’t I?”

Demos’ chest began collapsing on itself. His skin smoldered from his core to his fingertips, his hands trembling against the fabric.

Three words managed to escape the prison of his mouth. “You’re a Mariani.”

“The best of the best.”

Demos reached for his inner pocket, only to be tsked by the man before him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sandro said. “You don’t know where the file is. Shoot me now and it’ll end up on the front page of the Southport Daily before you can even drive back to town.”

“Fuck you.”

“That ship has sailed, sweetheart.”

The rims of Demos’ eyes tightened. His hand tingled, fingers tightening over the gun in his suit pocket. He pushed down the screaming voice behind his eyes, the voice telling him to leave all six bullets right in this man’s skull, clamoring for the messiest crime scene he could imagine. Demos’ blood was rushing, burning with liquor, with venom.

He swallowed, then removed his hand.

“That’s a good boy.” Sandro tapped a finger on Demos’ nose. “You’ll meet her tomorrow morning. Whatever her decision is, you call it off. Once I hear the news, your little secret is safe. You got it?”

Demos dared not open his mouth, knowing full well the string of obscenities that would force their way out. He gave a low nod.

“There’ll be one other person with the video, for insurance — in case you decide to come after me in a fit of vengeance. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sandro didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted himself from the bed, releasing Demos from the cage of his arms. He stood at the door and gestured for the other to exit, as if seeing out a valued customer. Once in the hall, Demos found himself unable to look back, even as Sandro spoke one last time.

 “Sleep tight, Ghost.” The door shut with a click.

Demos stared bleary eyed at the rows of sconces, barely aware of the numbness in his limbs. The dull feeling had seeped through his entire body, sucking the moisture from his mouth as he muttered in the empty corridor.

“Shit.”

Ferris was still in the hotel room when Demos arrived. The Italian tripped over himself as he crossed the threshold, his hair rumpled and his clothes reeking of liquor.

“Fuck.” He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Fuck, fuck.”

Ferris stared, forgetting to listen to his phone as he watched Demos swat a lamp from an end table. It fell with a clatter, the shade snapping from the base. Ferris murmured a quick goodbye, ending the call with a beep.

“Demos, what the hell?”

The Italian slumped against the wall, his fingers clawing through his own hair.

“I fucked up, Ferris.” His shoulders heaved. “I really fucked up.”

“What?”

“There’s… there’s a Mariani here. On the 3^rd floor.”

“God, you didn’t kill him, did you?”

“Fuck! Do you have any idea how much I want to?” Demos’ voice had hiked, stiffening every bone in Ferris’ spine. Ferris rose from the armchair with a creak, crossing the room to kneel at his friend’s side. It was only then he could see Demos’ fingers shuddering, locks of hair twisted between them.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He knows. He fucking knows.”

Without asking, Ferris understood. His hand found Demos’ wrist, easing those white fingers from his scalp. Finally, Demos looked up, his eyes lined with red.

“How?” Ferris asked, keeping his hand in place.

“I—“ Demos’ voice dropped to a mutter. “I… I sort of…”

“Go on.”

“I sort of—“ He buried his face with a hand. “I made out with him.”

“You what?”

The more Demos explained, the hotter his face grew. He described the craps table and the bar, unable to make eye contact with his friend as he illustrated just what happened in the elevator. Ferris sat eerily quiet, taking in each word with a low glare.

“And that’s it,” Demos said. “I’m fucked.”

The fallen lamp flickered at his side before finally sputtering out, leaving half of Demos’ face in shadow.

“You’re not fucked.”

Demos glanced back at his friend, startled by the force in his voice.

“You’re the Ghost. You’re Demos fucking Giorgetti,” Ferris said. “And you’re going to sober up and handle this.”

“How?”

Ferris offered a hand. “With me, of course.”

After an hour and a few phone calls, the two found themselves in the elevator once more. Don was waiting for them in the lobby, a crisp envelope in one hand.

“You sure this is all you need?”

Ferris slipped the envelope into his suit pocket. “We’re sure.”

“If you make a mess in—“

“You have my word,” he said.

The man nodded, giving the two a look over before turning to leave.

“I never agreed not to make a mess,” Demos said, his eyes on Don’s back.

“You’re agreeing now.”

“Fish—“

“Now.”

Demos exhaled. “Fine.”

The third floor looked just as Demos remembered it — quiet, polished, the same as any other hotel hallway. Even so, the sight of Sandro’s door brought a darkness to his eyes, one far too wicked for such an elegant setting. He pressed his ear to the wood, noting the rush of bath water. Catching Ferris’ eyes, he gave a single nod.

Ferris flipped open the envelope, lifting the card key with two fingers. The slot churned, then clicked.

He smiled. “Thank you, Don.”

The door thrust open. There was a scramble of bare feet on tile as the man inside rushed to seal the bathroom. He was a second too slow, grunting as the door’s edge knocked the front of his skull. Sandro wobbled, looking up just in time for Demos’ elbow to crack against his temple.

“Did I interrupt your bath?” Demos said, looming over the naked man at his feet.

Sandro sneered. “The fuck you trying to do?”

Demos checked his revolver chamber, counting the bullets before snapping it shut. “I’m handling this.”

“So you want the entire city to know—“

“Hi there,” Ferris said, nudging Demos aside. “You must be Sandro.”

“Who’s this clown?”

“Oh, come on. You know who I am,” Ferris said, crouching to tie the man’s wrists at his back with half a lamp cord. There was only a bit of struggling, as Sandro froze at the sound of Demos’ gun cocking.

“What, the Giorgettis’ other faggot?”

Ferris cinched the knot tightly, drawing a wince from the man’s back.

“That’s not a nice thing to say, Sandro. Now get up.”

Ferris didn’t wait for the other to comply, hefting him upright and forcing him into the open room.

“I don’t know what the fuck you hope to accomplish here,” Sandro said, the carpet leaving impressions on his knees. “When I don’t report back, that video’s going to—“

“Going to what?” Ferris said, adjusting his glasses. “You didn’t actually send it to anyone, did you?”

“Of course I fucking sent it to—“

“How?”

Sandro fell silent. Water continued to rush from the bath faucet, echoing from the walls of the bathroom. Ferris stepped past the bed, locating a black laptop on a desk.

“Ah, here we are — your RCA adaptor,” he said. “Mildly impressive.”

He rounded the table, his fingers tracing over the keyboard and ports along the side.

“But where’s your LAN cable? Ah, well, you wouldn’t need one. These rooms don’t come equipped.”

Ferris straightened himself, glancing back at the man on the floor.

“And no WiFi, either. Don mentioned they’d be installing it next month on our tour.”

The churning continued from the bathroom as the drain began to gurgle with effort.

“So tell me, Sandro,” Ferris said, squinting through the glare on his lenses. “How exactly did you send that file?”

Sandro bared his teeth, his molars grinding behind curled lips. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Demos nodded toward the desk. “Check the computer.”

The chair slid out as Ferris took the helm, running his fingers over the keyboard. There was a dull beep as a prompt came up, stopping him in his tracks.

“Hm.” Ferris rubbed his chin. “What’s your password?”

Sandro spat. “Fuck you.”

The keys made a few clicks before another dull beep came forth.

Ferris frowned. “No, that’s not it.”

“Try ‘password,’” Demos said, keeping the tip of his revolver at his victim’s temple.

There was another beep.

“Nope.”

“Put a zero instead of an ‘o.’”

Another beep.

“Fucking idiots,” Sandro said. “You’re wasting your time.”

“He’s right, Ghost. We’re not very good hackers.”

“Fine,” Demos said with a shrug. “Do it the hard way.”

There was a clatter as the laptop was ripped from its cords. It hit the floor with a thud, its internal mechanisms rattling below the trackpad. Demos’ shadow fell over the computer. He found himself unable to look away, unable to ignore the tangle of words that seemed to glow from the inconspicuous keyboard.

Your little secret.

Demos’ heel met the casing, sending cracks through the plastic.

Finocchio.

Keys popped loose as he stuck it a second time, followed by slivers of broken glass.

“Demos, you said you wouldn’t make a mess.”

“Just one more.”

“One more.”

Faggot.

A pointed snap filled the room as loose parts scattered across the floor. The screen flickered, then went black. Demos’ breaths came up in harsh pants, his veins still pumping with electricity and ire.

“The hard drive might be intact,” Ferris said, stealing his moment.

Demos looked up with a glare. “Then you take care of it.”

“Fine, fine.”

Ferris lifted what was left of the body, dusting loose keys from the surface before heading to the bathroom. The sound of a splash bounced from the tiled walls, followed by a sputter as the machine sunk to the bottom of the tub.

“Well, that’s done,” Ferris said, then dropped his eyes to the man on the floor. “What do you want to do with him?”

Sandro’s face, once red with heat, had now gone pale. A smile crept over Demos’ lips.

“Let’s take him for a drive.”