Introducing The Heavies/Arthur Pinch
Arthur Pinch is sharpening his nails to points with a bastard file. Earlier some lost child sweating through flannel with a huge gym bag on his back had checked in. Nervous fellow looked like you could blow him over with the exhale from a cigarette. Besides that the grand and decaying lobby of the Hotel 9 was seeing a boring and rainy night, with some water trickling down the walls, if Pinch noting that he couldn’t hear the rain. Arthur stands the entire shift, concierge and the first face you see at the Hotel 9, his job is a serious one and he takes it as such.
The front desk, if it can be called, is a walled archipelago jutting into the lobby, ending in a round counter of luxury Teak hardwood polished to a shine that’s gone covered in a half inch of dust on the underside and a layer on top that leaves streaks and prints from everything that touches it. His sanctum. He’s behind glass and brass bars. The only way to interact with Mr. Pinch is a sliding glass window that he alone controls. When he speaks, it is not only muted by the glass, but amplified and static laden by the fact that there is a speaker at the top of the window. HIs place in the hierarchy for guests is laid bare by the proof that even if you walk up to the counter, the floor he stands on is six inches taller than the floor the guest occupies.
You could say Arthur Pinch, with his thin angular face, pointed chin, black hole eyes, slick black hair beneath a tweed Newsboy hat, tall gaunt frame, ascot, striped vest, pocket square, tailcoat, pinstriped trousers,, polished Oxfords, and colors all matched to a dirty crimson and brass or tonight purple and gold, depending on his varying moods, aside from his tweed hat, likes to look down on people.
The only way into the underbelly, back, and viscera of the hotel, is a tarnished golden metal painted door all the way behind him, behind his desk, the key wall, filing cabinets, his lunch in the fridge, the radio on that round shit table and the imitation Louis the IV chairs that don’t have casters, so you either slide them, or you hop them to the table so you can have a break.
When the air starts to give that wafting smell of not quite mold, but fresh trickling water damage beneath the scratched, peeling, and he sees bubbling in places on the north side of the lobby’s wallpaper, Arthur decides to phone… Well who should he phone? Malik? Moira, that useless housekeep? She’s not any sort of handyperson. Malik would probably hang up on him. Arthur puts down the bastard file, picks up the red phone on his side of the glass, and holds it, dial tone to ear, well deep in consideration.
Scanning the lobby Edith sits on one of the four overstuffed rondels between the door and the steps to his sanctum. Bored, flipping pages. In the dining room under the arch at right alone at a table in the dark with his feet up on the damn white tablecloth sits Rufus, smoking a twisted tree branch cheroot he rolled himself, glowing caution orange in the shadows he prefers. Miss Grim walks past the window from right to left, which means she’s walked down one side of the grand staircase and is walking up the other side to the south and southwest wing of the hotel 9.
The ceilings of the lobby are so high no noise from the floors above pierce the plaster in all its chipping art Deco radiance. There was the time that Rufus said to him, Arthur, if you could marry this hotel I think you would.
Not figuring who to call about repairs Arthur has let the line go from a dial tone to the rapid dinging noise of total disconnect. He puts the red receiver back in its cradle and takes a pad of Hotel 9 stationary to make a note for the Proprieter, “We really could use some sort of” he begins to write in the expressive staccato cursive inherited from his father but-
The quiet night, the scene, the elegance of this frame in front of Arthur Pinch explodes in a violent and cacophonous entrance. Both northern and southern doors, meant to be opened either one at a time or pulled apart from each side, like a parted curtain, to reveal the interior of the lobby, elegantly, with dignity, they both slam open and hit the flower vase sconces on each side of the doors, cracking one and shaking the other in its moors. And Arthur’s eye twitches.
The rain comes in washing a torrent across the front of the entryway, and with it Arthur watches as a tall woman with short cropped silver hair wearing a cheap sopping wet tiger print fake fur coat the texture of shag carpet comes dancing, not walking, not strutting, not gracefully malingering but dancing, like she was James fucking Brown, into the lobby. Wayfairers at night, a metal ball bearing mala whipping around her neck, a crop top that was Gucci before she mauled it, some sort of techno, technic, futureproof capri cargo pants with orange piping and clashing colored details from a bad science fiction movie and garish Brooks running shoes as she twirls and dances, yes, quite like James Brown. And the noise. “How you like me now?!” the music booms from a portable blue tooth speaker as thick as a log dangling from her wrist. She’s vulgarity run amok, even for the 9. Doing a dance routine as she approaches the stairs to the front desk, Arthur behind his glass wall in his refuge. Singing along. “How you like me now? How you like me now?”
It’s not that he doesn’t know the song, How You Like Me Now, by the Heavy, it’s that this is, well, heavy considering the night he was anticipating, his lunch within earshot if only the music would shut off.
Edith unphased flips pages in her book but looks over her shoulder for two breaths. Rufus pays the madwoman no mind.
Behind her, before the doors can swing back shut, a golem crosses the threshold. He’s nearly as wide as the doorway and has to stand taller than everyone but with this racket Mr. Pinch cannot think to know who the tallest person he can think of in the hotel is. Arthur blinks at the sight of him coming in behind the woman. Smells of predator. His walk isn’t a walk, not military, LEO civilian, or garden weed variety criminal, it’s the stalk of a predator. Wearing wears a down baffle coat that goes to just below his knees the color of Yugoslavian war crimes, a black thick loaded black backpack hanging from his shoulders, hood up, a beard peaks out from the shadow of his hood. The man crosses the threshold with a swivel on, full survey, the south lounge, Edith on the rondels is passed over, the south stairs, crossing over and Arthur could swear making eye contact with himself in spite of not being able to see the man’s face, then the north stairs, north side rondels, and the dining hall. “HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?” the woman is yelling, still dancing. Occurring to Arthur that she dances like a dancer, which means she’s coordinated, and her dance is smooth, which with her built probably by Crossfit look and near six feet of tall means she’s either dumb and green to whatever line of work she’s in or completely stark raving mad.
The man though, now fully inside the hotel and closing the doors behind his companion, who seems intent on producing an entire broadway musical dance number to one song that has all of two lines of lyrics, that she has on repeat if Arthur has heard right, the song rolling over, the man closes the doors behind him and then turns back to the dining hall. Rufus reclining in repose, the twisted cigarillo smoking a halo around his head that drifts off the top of his hat like snow coming off a mountain in wind, and this statue in the Yugoslav Green down coat pulls down his hood, revealing sharp features a heavy brow and short cropped hair, but in dull brown, this man speaks, he speaks to Rufus. Not only does he speak to him but he speaks to the ghost of the lobby, the man who never takes a room, in a very, very familiar tone.
“Prpospector,” the man says and gives a nod. Rufus nods back. “Since I have seen you it has been long.” The man’s speech comes out measured, a barely Russic accenture, revealed mostly in his diction and syntax. Arthur cocks his head, interest peaked. HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?
Rufus takes his feet down from the table, leans forward on his elbows, “Vlado” is, is that actually a familiar tone? “What you going by now Butcher? Tiger? The Ghost of Grozny? Ghostface?” Rufus’s voice sounds Arthur would swear on edge of amusement, teetering at the brink anyway.
“Vladimir I am in these halls friend,” Definitely Russian, this behemoth, but does Arthur detect that he is actually playing UP the mild accent.
“Vlado, thought you were 86’ed from the 9 by the man upstairs, what, over a decade ago?” Rufus points up. No doubt meaning the proprieter. Pinch has been here for over a decade and then a bit more and never seen this Vladimir nor his insane accompaniment, which would put it at at least.
“Thirteen years ago, yes friend, it was then that the owner banned me from the hotel,” Vladimir nods.
“Too bold showing up uninvited the way you got thrown out. I don’t know if you’re making the wisest of decisions here Vlado. It’s a shame, I always liked you.” Rufus takes back to reclining, puffing on his cheroot.
Vladimir waves around the lobby, “I agree. But when the owner of the Nine Hotel himself calls you to parlay for your services, who are you to turn him down but a fool if you do, and then a dead one at that.” Rufus nods approval.
The silver haired woman with the sharp face that matches Vladimir’s pops across Arthur’s window on the world, dead center, one brown eye, one blue, black lipstick, striking, aquiline nose, one brow arched, smiling, the music fading, about to open her mouth to speak but not before Arthur can contain as much of the boil he feels inside of him, which is a rare boil indeed, at this torrent of unexpected and unforeseen information, this dervish of a bitch, and this statue of a man who somehow knows Rufus, who has just addressed him as some sort of, some sort of familiarity, receiving in turn the sort of respect that Rufus is never wont to show anyone, let alone a stranger. Arthur swallows a ball of burning lead and in his own shock says between gritted teeth “and who the fuck do you think you are?” before she can open her mouth. Her eyes go wide and she cocks her head to the side like a feral raccoon trying to convince you to give it some candy. If nothing else looking like she may be hurt.
“This is Xenia Popova, my wife.” In the time it took Arthur and Xenia to have this moment, Vlad closed the distance to the front desk and was looming behind her, staring Arthur in the eye from under a thick brow, deep set eyes, not blue Arthur notes immediately, but so grey they feel to him as if they glow. This is not the stare of a diletante. “And I am Vladimir Leonidov Krovopuskovic. If you look reservations will be made for us under X Dowe and V Dowe. If I am correct it will be for my usual,” Arthur wants to scoff. Usual? In over a decade he’s never seen this man and he says usual? “Room, 303. Like the rifle cartridge.”
Arthur takes a sharp breath and cracks the red leather guest ledger with the gold inlaid “9” on the cover. Flips to the current page, and sees it there, “RM303, res. X+V Dowe. Comp.” it’s a sticker… A white sticker from a label maker in the ledger. Who the fuck would, and he scans the line for the length of stay, another sticker “TBD AS NECESSARY” more spaces, more white stickers with black sans serif lettering, “COMP” “COMP” “COMP” “COMP” Every service the hotel offers is on the house to these Russian swamp people.
Arthur had opened the ledger ten times since he took his post for the night, those stickers, that line of bright fresh hot labels, hadn’t been there. A small oversight. A sharp exhale from Mr. Pinch’s nose and he looks back up, “well, it appears that you do indeed have room 303, Mr Vladimir and Mrs Popova. Just let me.” Rattled, he reaches for the key board, down three rows from the top, in three from the left, two sets of keys already hanging from the peg? It’s always just one unless a guest asks for another one. A small oversight again. Arthur Pinch grabs the brass knob and slides open the window to push the keys across to the mystery couple with friends in high places. Just the tip of his right finger crosses the threshold of the line across which the window closes, and snap, his hand is pulled through the hole. Just his hand, just to the wrist, faster than a hummingbird can flap a wing, Xenia has his hand gripped in hers.
“Mr Arthur Pinch,” She says. He doesn’t wear a nametag and never gives out that name. “Desk man, concierge,” she says. Her grip is gentle in its firmness. Not trying to hurt, to threaten, she is asserting power. Her palm lies on top of his hand and tree sap slow she turns his hand over so she can see his palm, he moves with her. Doesn’t want to test how firm gentle can be here. “Extractor,” she hisses. They lock eyes. She’s unsettling. She’s vile. The sort of stranger who knows too much already. “Your services for us during our stay, I have been informed already, are to be provided gratis.” She leans down and sniffs his palm, one long inhale. “You smell like many secrets.” She glances down at the lines criss-crossing his paw “Blessed, your life line is very long.” She studies the outside of his hand below his pinky, “your intuition is weaker than you think. You have reached a level of success that you are comfortable with and…” she squints at the lines on his palm, little trenches. “You will never marry.” Looking back up at him, a smirk cracks so Arthur can see her tonguing a silver canine tooth “you will never marry a person, you are already married, but you are married to things greater than people, aren’t you Mr. Pinch? As for love, you will have of it what you will.” She drops his hand. For one second it lies like a numbed object he doesn’t own. “You’re handsome enough and well spoken, women throw pussy at you. The skinny guys like you all have big dicks.” She drops from the ledge she was standing on and turns, shoulders past Vladimir, and walks away. Arthur pulls his hand back inside and closes the window in the space of a short blink. “Your services will not be gratis Mr. Pinch. We will make sure you are well paid” she says loud, booming back over her shoulder as she walks up the curve of the north side of the great stairs. “I like staying on the north side of the building Vovka,” she’s yelling now. “North, the direction of death in so many cosmologies.”
And Arthur notices that somewhere in there she took the keys, but he has no idea how she would know where to go except this Vlad character still looming in the window taking up the whole scene may have told her.
Vladimir shrugs and shakes his head. “Mr Pinch, for the theatrics of my wife I apologize. Eh.” He pretends to struggle for words while rolling his hands in front of his chest, fingers opening and closing “eh, eh, it could say, she is dramatic. Again, I apologize. It is very nice to meet you.” Vladimir’s pleasant normal person poker face is immaculate until it isn’t, when his voice drops two octaves and rolls out like black clouds before a storm front “do forgive her, we will be working together in a professional capacity in the very near future.” the storm passes that fast. “But for now my friend, Mr. Pinch, I have been on a long travel, very tired, we will take to bed for the night.” Turns to follow his wife. “Make sure that there are no disturbances to room 303. You will find a note under the ledger. Poka, dobray noche” Vladimir makes no sound when he moves.
Pinch stares at his palm for a full ten even breaths. They’ll be in their room by the time he’s done examining the lines. He’s never thought of them before.
“Those two,” it’s Rufus bellowing just a little from the dining hall, “are a fuckin’ trip. Vlad’s OK though. Xenia can be a lot. But if they’re back at the 9 and the man asked for ‘em here.” This is more than Arthur has heard Rufus talk in days, and louder than maybe ever. Rufus off in the shadows shakes his head. “Listen, people act scared of me around here. Give me a wide berth.” Pinch’s need for more information always lets people keep talking. “Vladimir, Leonidov, Krovopuskovic” Rufus Balthazar draws out each word. You don’t have to shout when the lobby is this empty, just talk a bit loud, whole room can hear. “In Russian that name means Vladimir: peaceful Ruler, Leonidov: from the Greek, like the Spartan king, Leonidas, from that 300 flick,” Arthur makes note that some parts of the popular culture are not lost on the Prospector, “Kro-vo-pusk-o-vic” every syllable deliberately spoken. “His last name, Russians call that a patronymic, literally means son of bloodletters.” Rufus points at Pinch with his nearly burnt-down gnarled tree root cigarillo, “There’s one less picture of that man you just saw than there is of me. Something in the 9 is on the stove. I don’t know I want part of it, nothing that has to do with old Vladko.”
“I thought they were nice,” Edith says from her seat, reading her book.
Arthur points at Rufus “That man is obviously younger than you, and Edith, do kindly keep your opinions to yourself. Fuck.”
“They were. I liked the way she danced.” Edith says, eyes never leaving the page.
“She’s a fucking crazy person and he’s a fucking golem.” Arthur says. “And it’s always something in this place isn’t it? There’s one picture of you Prospector, are you saying,” and Rufus interrupts.
“Yes, I’m saying there are none of that man, Vladko is a ghost,” he shrugs. “Now Xenia though.”
“Is a witch of a manish looking ink covered golem fucker, and who even likes that song? She must have played it three times.” Arthur’s discordant anger shocks him. He would find it crass under any other circumstances to speak like this while behind the desk in his official capacity.
“Listen Pinch, man says check for a note under the ledger I think, you check for it.” Those will be Rufus’ last words for the night as he stubs out one cheroot, produces another, and lights it with a match.
Arthur rubs his temples and closes his eyes until he sees pinwheels, opens them to see his wide beautiful semicircular teak desk, his pedestal, how he should not have been staring Vlad in the eye is a thought, how fast that woman had his hand is a thought, a note under the ledger is a mystery though. He lifts the ledger with one hand and grabs under it with the other. A three-by-five index card with a watermark and a small paragraph in Courier 12pt in the middle of it, signed personally. Arthur’s pulse starts to beat his heart against his ribs as he struggles to keep his breath from shaking while he inhales and exhales through his nose, large nostrils over his fine manicured pencil mustache, the points it ends in. But still, the breath shakes.
“Anyone ever tell you you look sorta like Adrien Brody Pinch?” Edith asks.
“Shut the fuck up Edith.” Arthur yells at her..
And “fuck” he mouths silently to himself.
Fascinating to read the WIP afterwards. Nice little nuggets buried for future reference.
Gonzo lore