The Remake Read Online Free PDF

R.J. said. He always used the name Albemarle because it was impossible to understand; no one could look it up because they could never quite piece it together. “We have a very large basket for a, uh—” He rattled a sheet of paper on his desk, just for effect. “—Jasmine White?”
    There was a pause so short R.J. wasn’t sure he heard it at all. “We have a Janine Wright registered.”
    “Uh…” said R.J., taking a stab at it, “is that in the Presidential Suite?”
    “That’s correct, sir.”
    “Yeah, do I gotta carry it all the way up to the, what, the top floor?”
    “The top floor, yes. No, sir, if you will deliver to the Sixty-first Street entrance we will take it from there.”
    “Beautiful,” said R.J. and hung up.
    He was feeling smug, first that his little scam had worked and second that he had guessed right about the suite. Of course, the Presidential. Where Nixon had stayed. That’s the way these moguls thought. President of a studio, president of the U.S., what’s the difference? Except the President of the U.S. didn’t make a quarter of what Janine Wright would make. And if any U.S. president did to the national budget what the studios routinely did to theirs, he’d be out of office and into Leavenworth.
    It didn’t matter. He had a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it beat the hell out of sitting around the office, eating cinnamon rolls.
    R.J. stood, stretched, and strolled for the door, snagging his coat as he went by Wanda’s desk. “Reverend Lake will be here at two,” she warned him.
    He shrugged into his coat. “If I’m not back by then, you can show him the pictures.”
    “If you’re not back by then,” she threatened, “I’m taking a sick day.”
    R.J. grinned at her, waved, and headed out the door.

CHAPTER 6
    The Hotel Pierre was a swanky old place on 61st and Fifth. It had the kind of old-school big-dollar feel to it that always made R.J. want to blow his nose on one of the thick Oriental carpets, carve his initials in one of the Colonial writing desks in the lobby, throw dirty socks up to hang from the chandeliers.
    But right now his problem was more immediate. If you stepped in through the door on Fifth Avenue you’d find yourself in a lobby swarming with attendants in white gloves, wearing gray uniforms with gold trim; a dark-suited concierge, bell captain, valets, clerks—hell, the place was a discreet, charming, posh, tastefully understated Gestapo headquarters. And one did not simply waltz in and head for a guest’s room. One would find oneself waltzed out the door again by a white-gloved bouncer in record time.
    But getting into places like this was R.J.’s job, and he had come prepared.
    Holding a clipboard he’d brought along, loaded with a computer printout, a small stack of index cards, and a pen stuck through the clip, R.J. approached the staff entrance on 61st Street. The printout was nothing more than some blank business form he had on the computer at his office, but nobody had to know that.
    He was not even two steps in the door of the staff entrance when a gray uniform blocked his way.
    “We’re not hiring this week,” the uniform told R.J.
    “Oh, really,” said R.J. He decided to run with the lead he’d been given and quickly took out the pen and held it poised over his clipboard. “And have you filed the forty-two-dash-twelve-slash-four-eleven B with our office explaining why not? Considering what our files say this ought to be good.”
    R.J. looked up at the uniform and watched his smooth superiority fall from his face and hit his shoes. “Uh, what?” he said.
    R.J. glared at him under one raised eyebrow. “So you haven’t filed a forty-two-dash-twelve-slash-four-eleven B?” He slammed the pen back under the clip. “I’ll have to see your Minority Hiring Report.”
    “Um,” the man sputtered out, “I, it—the personnel office is back there.” The uniform moved quickly away, no doubt looking for something to polish.
    “Have