McGrave's Hotel (15 page)

Nothing Ever Happens

Thaddeus McGrave’s eyes finally closed for a snooze as the long night came to an end and dawn approached. The sun’s leading edge was only minutes away, and the winter birds of Central Park were chirping.

Across the lobby from the painting, the hour hand of the grand clock inched toward
VII
, and the parade of guests checking out and checking in had begun. The revolving door began to turn, and the six night bellhops stood ready to assist.

“Jimmy, me boy,” said Walter Quinn. “Lest you think I was not paying proper attention to this and that through last night’s shenanigans, take a gander at this.”

Mr. Quinn handed James a sheet of news copy.

It read:

Dateline Manhattan—The measure of a man is not always what you tick off with a garment district tape measure but is more correctly how tall he walks when the odds do not exactly favor him. Take the case of the youngest but by my reckoning tallest of the bellhops at my favorite McHorror Hotel, who last night pinned back the ears of a Broadway Lothario, refused to blink when challenged by three rising actresses who redefine the word
vamp,
restored a missing three-thousand-year-old Egyptian mummy to its rightful owners, assisted in the capture of two bug-eyed escapees from a German laboratory, and single handedly brought down a Nazi airship loaded with U.S. state secrets. And all the while struck up a romantic entanglement with the most dangerous young lady you would ever want to take home to Mother.

“Aargh,” James said. “You can’t print this. How did you know all this? And she’s
not
my
girlfriend
.”

“
Can’t
is correct,” said Mr. Quinn, snatching back his story. He slowly ripped the page in half. “Remember those bums on the roof in the black jackets? They turned out to be federal agents on the trail of the spider lady and her floating command post. They have instructed me in no uncertain terms that I cannot print an iota of anything that occurred at McGrave’s last night. Threatened to lock me up in the pokey for violating the Espionage Act of 1917. So it’s good-bye, story.”

Mr. Nash looked official behind the Front Desk, sporting a fresh carnation. Miss Charles stood close by his side, looking more attractive than ever, having changed into a cream-colored narrow-waisted chiffon gown. They looked on with apparent pleasure as the night’s guests departed.

Victor Lesley led the exodus, surrounded by and apparently guided by his harem of young blond actresses. The young ladies wore sunglasses and scarves around their heads, the great Lesley himself also in sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. James smiled at the group’s aversion to the morning sun.

“This way, Vic,” one of the girls said as they made their way to the revolving door.

“Try not to look at the sun,” said a second.

“You’re so fortunate to have a night job,” said the third.

Mohammed Bey and his three associates came next, waving the agreement they had recently signed with the Brooklyn Museum. The four looked happy and festive in their bright red fezzes.

Meanwhile, as James was aware, Abasi and his assistants had loaded the three nested coffins containing the mummy of Queen Siti into the truck out back, ready to transport her to her new home. James wondered if she would acquire, in a few years, a Brooklyn accent.

Looking for trouble in every direction, the six federal agents in black jackets next made their way to the exit, flanking someone covered with a large sheet. One of the agents carried a large flit gun that James assumed was full of bug spray. The group moved slowly, running into a bit of trouble when they all attempted to negotiate the revolving door together. Out front, a black federal paddy wagon awaited.

As the door spun, the first of the arrivals appeared: a pair of young ladies wearing aviator helmets and goggles. Each balanced a broomstick over her shoulder. James wondered if they had
flown
in? Perhaps he was witnessing the look of modern witchcraft.

Looking lovely as always and almost solid, the Beaumonts were next among the queue exiting the facility.

“We’ve had
such
a wonderful time,” Mrs. Beaumont said. “We
must
stay here again some time.”

“The next time we are in town, for certain,” said Mr. Beaumont. He tipped his top hat to bid farewell to the onlookers.

The Beaumonts entered into the flow of the revolving door. Surprisingly, as it completed its full circle, they popped right back into the lobby again.

“What a charming place this is,” said Mrs. Beaumont, sweeping her eyes over the expanse of the Grand Lobby. “I think we might enjoy staying here.”

“Say, there’s a fellow,” said Mr. Beaumont to James. “Can you show us where to check in? And what’s the word on the cocktails?”

James was pleased, as always, to direct them to the Front Desk and to recommend the cocktails.

James failed to recognize the next gentleman leaving the building, a handsome man in sunglasses, wearing a sweater and dress slacks. He could have been mistaken for the young movie actor Cary Grant. The man hurried through the lobby and the door, shielding his face with his hand, apparently with no desire to be recognized.

James felt a decided chill as he watched the departure, causing him to shiver. Surely it wasn’t …

Next striding toward the exit came Mr. Wu, his eyes scanning the crowd with the intense gaze of a professional bodyguard. At the door, Mr. Wu stopped, turned, and awaited his young charge.

Fawn followed. Her traveling clothes consisted of a white blouse, a gray skirt, and black Mary Janes with knee socks. Over this ensemble she wore her navy blue winter coat, and she carried a small valise. She set the valise on the floor and looked about.

“Boy!” she called out when she saw James. “Fetch my bag.”

James jumped at the request and retrieved the valise. He thought she looked beautiful, but he was too shy to give her the hug he wanted to.

“Hi,” she said. “You know we have to leave. Dad’s finished here, and I’m afraid we’re bound for Europe. I wanted to do something before we go.”

“Sure. What?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

Her words surprised him. What a weird thing for her to offer. Weird, but a keen plan nonetheless. Absolutely perfect. Of course, there was still the matter of who she was.

“Will I die?” he asked. “If we kiss?”

“Would it matter?” she said.

He thought it over. Suddenly, her kissing him seemed the most important thing in the world.

“No.”

“Relax, then,” Fawn said. “I’m not Death. I’m just a bad flu.”

James’s eyebrows shot up.

“Kidding!” she said. “Hold still.”

Her face sailed up to his, and their lips merged. There was fire in the moment, but she was who she was, and so her lips also conveyed traces of ice. The kiss made James dizzy. A pair of slender arms wrapped round his neck and held him steady.

The other bellhops whooped in delight. Roderick stared in open-mouthed wonder. Spats and Joey made goofy faces, using their hands to make their lips look like fish kisses. Mick and Duke sang the requisite chant:
“James and Fawn, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

The eyes on the Christmas tree skull ornaments seemed to widen in amazement.

Mr. Nash turned to Miss Charles. “Remind me to send James to the hotel tailor on Monday for alterations. He’s looking taller lately.”

Mr. Wu approached the embrace and gently took the valise from James and took Fawn by the hand. “Thank you, Master James,” he said. “It has been honor knowing you.”

He and Fawn turned and vanished into the spinning door, taking James’s heart with them.

Through the glass, everyone could see more cars alighting in the forecourt.

Dr. Otto walked over to the door for a better view. He removed his watch from his pocket and synchronized it with the great clock on the wall. “McGrave’s Hotel,” he said. “Always the same. People come. People go. Nothing ever happens.”

As with my previous novel,
Lucas Mackenzie and the London Midnight Ghost Show
, I extend thanks and love to the amazing ladies who made this book possible.

First, thanks to Anna Olswanger, my agent, who found the perfect home for my work. It is an honor to be part of Anna’s team of esteemed authors and illustrators, who all know that Anna’s work on their behalf only
begins
on a work’s acceptance. None of us could wish for a better champion.

Second, to my principal editor, Tara Creel, for her notes, encouragement, and assistance with the overall design of the story; and to my copy editor, Nichole Lavigne, for her hard work in the trenches. Each has brought
McGrave’s Hotel
much closer to the work I envisioned.

Third, to the wonderful multitasking Georgia McBride, on behalf of the authors and readers everywhere who have found their way to Month9Books. It’s the home we dreamed of when first facing those blank pages, the home we are so proud to represent.

I also thank my parents, not only for encouraging my early reading and stabs at creativity, but for introducing me to the very world of
McGrave’s Hotel
. Theirs was that brash, boozy, big band era played out in hotels and night clubs. Theirs was the Dashiell Hammett world of glamorous dining and dancing and danger. Of course,
their
danger lay in the tough guys whose clubs Nick and Nora Charles frequented, whereas the danger in McGrave’s lay in denizens of the undead.

Speaking of spooks, I also found inspiration at the movies, especially the Saturday matinees of my childhood. I particularly loved the classic black and white horror movies that featured multiple monsters, sometimes Frankenstein’s monster, Count Dracula, and the Wolf Man all in the same feature. It is no wonder that I would one day write a story that contained vampires, mummies, oversized spiders, and assorted ghosts and ghoulies. I hope everyone has as much Saturday-afternoon-type fun reading it as I did writing it.

Steve Bryant
is a longtime performer of spooky magic, a veteran author of books of card tricks, and the author of the novel
Lucas Mackenzie and the London Midnight Ghost Show
. In the 90s he founded
The Little Egypt Gazette
, a 40-page online magazine for magicians containing news, reviews, magic tricks, humor, and fiction. The
Gazette
eventually became a popular blog that has appeared monthly for twenty years along with Steve’s frequent contributions to the country’s two leading magic journals (a recent piece: “Zombieland,” the true story of Dr. Blood’s Zombie Show).

SAMPLE CHAPTERS:

ARTIFACTS

FLEDGLING

Chapter One

My name is Jax Murphy, and I’m twelve years old. I live in a small town near Charlotte, North Carolina, and my friends and I are less than two weeks from our last day of sixth grade. We have a
big
summer planned that should be exciting … and exhausting.
Only two more weeks!

But first,
I have to sit through boring days of class after class where all the teacher does in that
looooong
est forty-five minutes ever is tell you how the school year was harder on him than it was on you.
I’ve heard that before!

I feel like I’m going to explode, and sitting through class these next few days just might kill me, but it’ll all be worth the wait. Don’t take my word for it. Just look around my room.

Camp brochures are …
everywhere!

Scattered across the bed and floor, unfolded and tacked to my wall, and stapled to the back of my door. Spread out on my desk, numbered from one to fifty depending on which activities I wanted to do first … and starred for how many times I wanted to do them … all the time.

Only two more weeks!

I shot a look at the calendar and the first Saturday of summer.
The
Saturday with the gigantic red circle drawn around it and two of the most
awesome
words I’ve ever read inside it:
Camp Runamuck
. Exclamation point. Exclamation point. Exclamation point.