Abby thought. It was disappointing to just be friends with him, but she couldn’t complain.
“Some other time,” she agreed.
In her condo, she unzipped her jacket and hung it up. She left her boots by the door and mixed herself a martini. On the stereo Frank crooned that he’d left his heart in San Francisco.
“I know the feeling, Frank,” she said out loud. “I left something in Vegas. I’m not sure what, but it was big.”
The next day, Abby was torn between going out for lunch and staying in her office. She chose the latter and kicked the computer out of sleep mode to begin surfing the internet. She was clicking through pages when the door to her office opened. Kessler stood in her doorway, taking up the space. “What’s this maintenance request?” he demanded, jiggling a work order at her.
Abby tore her eyes away from the screen. “Pardon?”
She was more than a little irritated that he hadn’t knocked.
He sneered at her. “Looking at porn?” he asked. He flashed a crooked grin that he probably thought made him look cute. It only succeeded in making him look like a creep.
“No!” Abby retorted, disgusted.
Kessler just shook his head at her. “Maintenance request. What gives?”
“Among other things the carpet in the elevator vestibule on the second floor needs replacing,” she began, but Kessler only continued to shake his head.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he insisted.
“It’s ripped near the elevator bank,” Abby informed him.
“Whatever. I’ve never noticed it. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’ll become a big deal if we don’t-”
“Forget it,” Kessler insisted. “I’m not signing off on it. Burton doesn’t want any big repairs.” He crumpled the form and tossed it onto her desk.
Abby swept it into the trash can after he walked away. She shook her own head at his trailing form. Kessler clearly had no interest in managing a hotel. She wasn’t certain, though, that Burton wasn’t interested in maintaining his multi-million dollar property.
Resolving to take up the state of affairs of the Custer with the owner himself at her next opportunity, she went back to surfing the web. She found a promising lead and picked up her cell phone. A groggy voice answered the phone on the other end. Abby frowned at the clock on the wall. Who slept at one o’clock in the afternoon?
“ ‘Lo?” the voice on the other end rasped.
“Hi,” said Abby politely. “I’m calling about your ad online.” The caller perked up and Abby thought she may have found a winner.
She woke up late, for her, on Saturday at around 9 am, showered and threw on some jeans and an old t-shirt. She counted through the 4,500 dollars she’d gotten when she cashed the check for the panhead, stuffed it in an envelope, and put it in her purse. The she pulled out her Smith and Wesson Small Frame .38 loaded with .357 rounds and double checked the safety. She slung her purse onto her shoulder and headed out to the cab that had just pulled up on the curb.
It was a bright sunny day, if still a little chilly, and Abby thought that boded well. The cab turned into Burnout and she paid and tipped the driver appropriately and swung out of the back seat. The cab had barely left the turnaround before Shooter Sullivan came up next to her.
“Well, hey there, Vegas,” he said.
She turned to him and shielded her eyes from the sun. “Hey!”
He eyed the cab. “Car trouble?”
“No. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your place,” said Abby. Shooter looked puzzled. “I talked to this guy over the phone, but I don’t know him, and I’d rather meet up on neutral ground. I guess I should have asked before I told him to come here. But I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“What-” he began to say, but then he was drowned out by the loud sound of a motor rumbling toward them. They both turned to see
“Some other time,” she agreed.
In her condo, she unzipped her jacket and hung it up. She left her boots by the door and mixed herself a martini. On the stereo Frank crooned that he’d left his heart in San Francisco.
“I know the feeling, Frank,” she said out loud. “I left something in Vegas. I’m not sure what, but it was big.”
The next day, Abby was torn between going out for lunch and staying in her office. She chose the latter and kicked the computer out of sleep mode to begin surfing the internet. She was clicking through pages when the door to her office opened. Kessler stood in her doorway, taking up the space. “What’s this maintenance request?” he demanded, jiggling a work order at her.
Abby tore her eyes away from the screen. “Pardon?”
She was more than a little irritated that he hadn’t knocked.
He sneered at her. “Looking at porn?” he asked. He flashed a crooked grin that he probably thought made him look cute. It only succeeded in making him look like a creep.
“No!” Abby retorted, disgusted.
Kessler just shook his head at her. “Maintenance request. What gives?”
“Among other things the carpet in the elevator vestibule on the second floor needs replacing,” she began, but Kessler only continued to shake his head.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he insisted.
“It’s ripped near the elevator bank,” Abby informed him.
“Whatever. I’ve never noticed it. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’ll become a big deal if we don’t-”
“Forget it,” Kessler insisted. “I’m not signing off on it. Burton doesn’t want any big repairs.” He crumpled the form and tossed it onto her desk.
Abby swept it into the trash can after he walked away. She shook her own head at his trailing form. Kessler clearly had no interest in managing a hotel. She wasn’t certain, though, that Burton wasn’t interested in maintaining his multi-million dollar property.
Resolving to take up the state of affairs of the Custer with the owner himself at her next opportunity, she went back to surfing the web. She found a promising lead and picked up her cell phone. A groggy voice answered the phone on the other end. Abby frowned at the clock on the wall. Who slept at one o’clock in the afternoon?
“ ‘Lo?” the voice on the other end rasped.
“Hi,” said Abby politely. “I’m calling about your ad online.” The caller perked up and Abby thought she may have found a winner.
She woke up late, for her, on Saturday at around 9 am, showered and threw on some jeans and an old t-shirt. She counted through the 4,500 dollars she’d gotten when she cashed the check for the panhead, stuffed it in an envelope, and put it in her purse. The she pulled out her Smith and Wesson Small Frame .38 loaded with .357 rounds and double checked the safety. She slung her purse onto her shoulder and headed out to the cab that had just pulled up on the curb.
It was a bright sunny day, if still a little chilly, and Abby thought that boded well. The cab turned into Burnout and she paid and tipped the driver appropriately and swung out of the back seat. The cab had barely left the turnaround before Shooter Sullivan came up next to her.
“Well, hey there, Vegas,” he said.
She turned to him and shielded her eyes from the sun. “Hey!”
He eyed the cab. “Car trouble?”
“No. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your place,” said Abby. Shooter looked puzzled. “I talked to this guy over the phone, but I don’t know him, and I’d rather meet up on neutral ground. I guess I should have asked before I told him to come here. But I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“What-” he began to say, but then he was drowned out by the loud sound of a motor rumbling toward them. They both turned to see
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