short story
A valet arrives, and I get out and enter the hotel lobby. I avoid the main ballroom where the dinner’s taking place and look for a pub where I might drink and contemplate my next move. The large hotel has several such pubs, and I know of one that’s especially secluded and private.
The style is Art Deco: stained glass portals, checkered black-and-white floor, mirror-paneled ceiling. The only customer there. I order a Scotch, then stare morosely at my drink, my third or fourth of the evening. I’m trying to pace myself.
The bartender smiles broadly. I knock back the scotch and gaze out the window at the hotel’s terrace and sculpture garden outside. Enveloped in snow, the statues slowly transform into unrecognizable lumps. The bartender thumbs a remote, and electric flames leap in the convection fireplace. Then on the jukebox Nat King Cole sings “A Cradle in Bethlehem,” though Christmas is over and New Year’s fast upon us.
I order another scotch. I wonder if it’s too late to join the others at the dinner. But I don’t think I can stand seeing Abramovich’s face, and I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.
