“What y’ doin’? Bored to my bones. Let’s play.”
“Cool. Come on down. I’m in—”
“I know what room you in. Be there in a minute.”
Keith took his axe out and stepped into the hall. Staggering, eyes red as Blacula. Got on the elevator. The other passengers stared, looking at him like he’d crawled out from under a rock. But admired the guitar. By the time they’d figured out what to make of him, the doors opened again and he was headed down a hall to Luis’ room.
“Wait a minute,” somebody said behind him. “Wasn’t that…? Yeah, he’s in Helen St. James’ band. Why didn’t I get his autograph?” Somebody else called, “Hey, can I—” and the door closed.
He knocked at Luis’ room. The door opened and Sam was standing there grinning, hand on hip. “Come on in, handsome.”
“Behave yourself.” Fat chance. As he went past her, she swatted him on the butt. Luis was over on the sofa, tuning.
Sam said, “Wanna beer?”
Keith set the guitar down, walked over, accepted a can of Corona. She sashayed past him and sat at her keyboard. In short order they were off and running, jamming their chops off. Didn’t take long before guests on both sides of Luis’ room called down and complained to management.
An officious fellow came up, took one look around, sniffed the air and made a judgment call. The room, along with Sam’s room and Keith’s suite, were all on Helen St. James’ tab. Privilege by association. With the kind of money Helen’s backers were throwing around, anyone who had trouble sleeping, since it didn’t seem this trio was about to abate, could settle for consolation.
The manager smiled, excused himself and closed the door. The complaining guests were advised to pack up and be compensated at comparable, 5-star joint. Keith, Luis and Sam kept on steady keeping on. Taking a bathroom break now and then or grabbing a snack. Otherwise it was about wearing themselves out, going for broke.
At some odd hour someone came banging on the door. Luis went to answer it. And, responding to a charming female voice, said, “I got company.”
“Then, come to my room.”
“Well, okay, if you insist.”
“I do.” That was the last Keith and Sam saw of Luis.
Luis was his boy and the whole nine, but the fool sometimes didn’t have the sense God gave a goose. He pressing his luck running around on Esme, then hitting the panic button when she got fed up and was ready to dump him.
She was a good woman, and lots of times, for some reason, a good woman will stick around through a lot. They do, though, get tired of being taken for granted. And once a good woman gets tired of you, buddy-boy, she is done. And all the begging in the world will not get you back in the door, let alone into her bed.
Yep, Keith thought, sooner or later Luis’ catting around was going to come back and bite him on the butt. Then, he’d be sitting around looking sad, missing his water once the well had run dry. He sure hoped whoever that chick was at the door was worth it. Worth losing the love of a good woman.
Keith realized, as he caught Sam staring at him with a slight smile, that he had his own temptation to resist. For Keith, though, it was different. He was no more immune to a sexy lady’s charms than the next man. However, he also had never been much of one to bed down for the sheer sport of it.
“Whaddya wanna do, now?” Samantha asked.
Next week: Samantha throws Keith a curve.
Dwight Hobbes welcomes reader responses to P.O. Box 50357, Mpls., 55403.