SPN FIC - Of Course Not, Dear, Tuxedoes Are For Waiters (Part 1 of 9)
I'm going to try something a little bit different with this one. Starting on Thursday at lunchtime, I've got an extended 4th of July holiday (5 1/2 days), which means LOTS of writing time. And I've got this particular project underway, as a birthday gift for
july_july_july . Rather than hold on to it until it's finished, I'm going to dole it out under the installment plan and give you a little bit each day. Yes, yes, I know some of you hate WIPs with a colorful and abiding passion, but this'll all be wound up by next Tuesday. And in the meantime, should you decide to indulge, you'll have something to read.
Timeline? Well...call this a standalone episode, wherever you think it fits.
The premise? Dean receives an unexpected bequest from someone he worked for for a month, seven years ago. A generous gift, one he decides to wallow in like a pig in...you-know-what. Because he deserves a little pampering. A little relaxation. A little luxury. Especially if he's got his bro at his side. But things aren't always what they seem -- and Dean will come to realize how very much he needs Sam beside him, keeping watch over him, and protecting him from someone who wants to make sure that he pays for this unexpected gift -- with his life.
july_july_july -- happy birthday, dude! (A couple days early.) Hope you enjoy this little escapade. And thank you for the reading pleasure you give to me.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam, and various OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: Remains to be seen; this part is 2275 words
OF COURSE NOT, DEAR, TUXEDOES ARE FOR WAITERS
By Carol Davis
Dean came out of the FedEx office in Clovis, New Mexico, bearing a Flat Rate envelope and an unreadable expression, head cocked, mired hip-deep in thought, as if he was trying to figure out the shortest route to someplace he'd never been, or the square root of pi. He was still three or four steps from the car when he stopped walking, as if his battery had run dead.
"Hey," Sam said through the open window.
There was a lapse of a few seconds. Earth to Dean, Sam thought. Then his brother resumed walking, pulled open the car door on the driver's side, and slipped in behind the wheel with the Flat Rate envelope firmly clutched in his right hand.
"Did you open it?" Sam asked.
For a moment, Dean seemed not to understand the question. Then he said, "No."
The envelope had come from Bobby, from his place in South Dakota. Where the contents had originally come from, Sam didn't know, and no one seemed inclined to tell him. Whatever they were, they were important enough to prompt an overnight shipment and an hour-long drive into Clovis. It was nothing bad, Sam assumed, since Dean didn't seem worried or upset, but beyond that, he was a man without a clue.
"Last time I did that," Dean said in a convivial tone that popped up out of nowhere like a dandelion showing itself after a spring rain, "I spent half an hour picking up owl bones off the floor. You got any idea how many bones an owl's got? And they're friggin' tiny, lemme tell you. Had to get down on my hands and knees and practically sniff the damn floor like a bloodhound."
He paused, a heavily pregnant moment of silence.
Then he squinted over at Sam. "Half a friggin' hour," he said.
"Okay," Sam allowed.
The two of them were damp with sweat, the armpits of their t-shirts ringed dark by the day's baking heat. The longer they sat there, in a car that felt more like a kiln with every minute that ticked by, the more Sam was tempted to go into the FedEx office and park himself for a while - on the floor, if necessary - until the air conditioning could chill him down to something approaching a decent level of comfort. They'd been in New Mexico for eleven days, and it had been exactly that long since he'd felt anything less than cooked.
If Dean remained distracted for a little longer, he might go along with the idea of staying in Clovis, rather than making that long drive back to Sunnyside. Clovis was a decent-sized town, Sam figured. Might have overnight accommodations with functioning AC, unlike the place they'd been staying at for the last week and a half, where the AC did nothing other than clank and spew lukewarm air that smelled like cottage cheese.
"Stuff just kinda blindsides you sometimes," Dean mused.
"I guess."
"Never figured in a million years - I mean, shit, it was, what, seven years ago? And it was nothin'."
"Uh-huh."
Even completely shitfaced Dean was a lot less cryptic than this. Sam did have the option of demanding an explanation, but he'd stopped being anything approaching ambitious, or motivated, or even fully conscious, when they were still half an hour outside of Clovis. Figuring Dean wouldn't notice that he was no longer paying attention, Sam settled a little deeper into the heat of the Impala's front seat and closed his eyes.
And heard the recognizable zip of the Flat Rate envelope being opened.
"All I did was drive her around," Dean said.
Something less than curious, Sam cracked one eye and peered over at his brother, who was holding an unfolded sheet of paper in one hand and the FedEx envelope in the other. Clamped between Dean's thumb and what was obviously a letter was an American Express platinum card.
"Somebody… Whose is that?" Sam frowned.
"Mine."
"A platinum card? Dude, you never -"
"I do now."
Dean's thumb covered part of the name embossed on the card; the part Sam could read said GILLIS. Sam hadn't expected it to say Winchester; neither one of them had ever had a card in his own name. Dad had, once upon a time, but that account (a Visa card with a credit line of only a couple thousand dollars) had been closed long ago. Still - Gillis? Nothing about that name explained the rising level of amusement in Dean's expression.
"Somebody sent you a credit card," Sam said, still confused.
"They did."
"For a reason?"
"You betcha," Dean grinned. "Sammy, we're goin' to Vegas."
~~~~~~~~~~
It was a function of Vegas being…well, Vegas, that Dean could pull up in front of the Diamond Resort Hotel and be greeted by the parking valet with anything other than outright disdain. True, the guy did cop a little bit of an attitude, but nothing about Dean (or Sam) said big tipper, and given that lack of promise of fistfuls of cash the guy could be excused for failing to grovel. Or sound enthusiastic. Or be anything other than a dick in an ugly red jacket. "How 'bout if I park it myself?" Dean suggested, and the guy gestured limply toward a ramp that said SELF PARK.
"Awesome," Dean told him.
He found a spot on the second level down, away from the security cameras, and gave the Impala a pat on the dash after he'd turned off the engine and let her settle down into softly clicking silence.
"We're here," he announced to Sam. "Try not to piss yourself with excitement."
"And 'here' is - where, exactly?" Sam asked.
"The lap of luxury."
Sam looked around, pointedly, as if the lack of amenities in the parking garage proved something.
"Dude," Dean told him. "I warned you."
Clovis to Vegas had been an eight hundred mile, ten hour roll through desert, desert, and (Dean thought with wry humor) no dessert. They'd stopped only twice for gas, snacks, and answering the call of nature, and Sam had frowned and groused and asked pointless questions through every last inch of it. Of course, Dean could have quieted Sam the hell down considerably if he'd surrendered to answering any of Sam's questions, but he'd decided before he pointed the Impala west that part of the fun of all this was the surprise factor.
Specifically, if the surprises were aimed at Sam and not him.
Humming softly to himself, he palmed the keys, cranked up the window, and hopped out of the car. Been a while, he thought, although yeah, it was all coming back - the feeling of living here, working here, being a part of Vegas.
"You remember?" he asked as Sam unfolded himself out of the Impala.
"What?"
"Being here."
"Dude. What was I, six?"
"Almost got us run out of town. Told you, Sammy, you gotta be a grown-up to play the slots."
"Oh yeah," Sam said dryly. "I do remember. I remember it was you who took me into the casino and gave me the quarters."
"Didn't figure you'd win."
They'd get some quarters back, he'd thought. Maybe a handful of them. Enough to buy something for themselves, and for Dad. Neither one of them had counted on that particular machine vomiting out eight grand's worth of coins.
Not that they'd been able to keep any of it.
"I love this town," Dean sighed.
Bellagio, Luxor, New York New York, the Venetian - he'd made at least one tour through all of them and knew pretty much what to expect when he got off the elevator on the ground floor of the Diamond, Sam a step behind him, still bitchfacing about his lack of information. Ahead of them lay a lobby large enough to accommodate the entire motel they'd stayed at back in Sunnyside, its entire expanse ringed with upscale shops offering everything from luggage and leather goods to lingerie to fancy chocolates. Holding pride of place at the center was an enormous crystalline fountain - Plexiglas, Dean could see as they got closer, strategically lit to make its facets sparkle.
The Diamond had still been a construction site the last time he'd put the Strip in his rearview mirror. It had been complete for several years, and was supposed to be the Jewel of Vegas, appealing to an elite crowd, but you couldn't tell that by looking around the lobby. The Winchesters, in their jeans and t-shirts, with button-downs hastily throw on to cover up the sweat stains, were by no means the bottom of the food chain. The long walk to the reception desk took them past a rainbow of polyester, shorts and baseball caps, a small assortment of business suits, and a trio of middle-aged women in bathing suits with beach towels wrapped around their hips.
"Somethin' else, huh?" Dean commented, and got a shrug in return from Sam.
Undaunted, he sauntered up to the desk and picked the only unoccupied clerk, a balding guy with glasses whose nametag read P. ARTHUR.
"May I help you, sir?" P. Arthur asked in a tone that made the parking valet sound like a model of universal tolerance.
"Maybe."
"Do you have a reservation?"
Smiling, Dean laid on the desk the platinum AmEx card and slid it toward P. Arthur with the tip of his index finger, turned so that the man could easily read the name imprinted on its face.
"Mr. - oh."
"Yeah," Dean said. "That'd be me."
P. Arthur actually twitched. Took a long look at Dean - at least, as much of Dean as the view from behind the desk would allow - and twitched again. "Mr. Gillis," he said with a wobble in his voice. "We've been expecting you."
"Yeah?"
"Yes…sir."
"That's awesome, P."
"If you could - could you excuse me for just one moment, Mr. Gillis?"
"Knock yourself out."
Sam moved in closer to his brother as P. Arthur wobbled down to the far end of the desk and consulted in whispers with one of his colleagues. "Is there something wrong?" Sam asked, close to Dean's ear. "What's all that about?"
"Don't know."
"Maybe we should leave."
"Not goin' anywhere, Sammy. We were invited. I was, anyway."
Ms. Carlisle's wish was that you enjoy thirty days…
A month. At the Diamond. Of course, Sam would be all over his ass for a variety of reasons long before a month was up, but, Dean figured, why not take a stab at it?
"Mr. Gillis?"
"P?"
The clerk flushed noticeably in the sharp light of the quartet of crystal chandeliers hanging over the desk. "As I mentioned, sir, we've been expecting you. The management is delighted to welcome you as our guest at the Diamond."
"You got a pool here, P?"
"Yes, sir," the clerk coughed. "Indoor and outdoor."
"Excellent. Gonna need two beds. For me and my brother," Dean said, gesturing to include Sam.
P. Arthur's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "We - sir, you'll be staying in the penthouse."
"Seriously?"
"Those were our instructions."
Dean half-turned. Smirked at Sam. "Dude. Penthouse."
"How -" Sam began.
He was going to ask How much does that cost? It was written all over his face. A raised eyebrow from Dean did little to tamp down the raging inferno of Sam's Need to Know; not until P. Arthur took possession of the platinum card and began to fuss with the equipment behind the lip of the desk did Sam begin to settle down.
"Ain't our problem, Sammy," Dean murmured.
"But -"
"Mr. Gillis?" That was the guy P. Arthur had been gossiping with at the far end of the desk. He looked to be in his fifties, tall, too thin for his height. Management type, complete with fussy haircut, manicure, posture so ramrod-straight it looked freakin' painful. "We hope you'll make full use of the Diamond's many amenities. All of our shops and restaurants will accept your card, and of course anything you'd like to order from room service, or in-room delivery from the shops, will be brought up to you promptly. If you'd like tickets to any of the shows on the Strip - limousine service - dry cleaning - anything at all, simply say the word." With a smile as firmly etched into his features as if he'd been a head on Mt. Rushmore, the man gestured to someone behind Sam and Dean. "Rodney will take your bags, if you like. And" - he dropped his voice slightly - "we've been instructed to add all gratuities to the card. You needn't worry about that."
"Phenomenal," Dean replied. "'Cause, you know, it's a serious pain in the ass makin' sure I've always got a stock of ones in my pocket."
The smile still didn't waver. "Of course, sir."
Five minutes later Rodney and the Winchesters were in the elevator on their way to the penthouse, Rodney in full charge of a trio of dirty, frayed duffel bags containing an assortment of jeans and t-shirts, underwear and socks, guns, knives, ammunition, bottles of holy water, containers of salt, John Winchester's journal and a two-quart Ziploc bag of charms, herbs, and animal bones. If the weight of the bags - or the aroma of long-unwashed clothing - bothered Rodney, he made no sign of it.
The elevator doors opened on the 51st floor to reveal a short hallway. "Gentlemen," Rodney said, and gestured for them to precede him out. He then stepped quickly ahead of them, paying no attention to the clanking contents of the duffels suspended from his broad shoulders, and used a plastic key card to unlock the double doors at the end of the hallway.
"The penthouse," he announced.
Part 2...
july_july_july . Rather than hold on to it until it's finished, I'm going to dole it out under the installment plan and give you a little bit each day. Yes, yes, I know some of you hate WIPs with a colorful and abiding passion, but this'll all be wound up by next Tuesday. And in the meantime, should you decide to indulge, you'll have something to read.
Timeline? Well...call this a standalone episode, wherever you think it fits.
The premise? Dean receives an unexpected bequest from someone he worked for for a month, seven years ago. A generous gift, one he decides to wallow in like a pig in...you-know-what. Because he deserves a little pampering. A little relaxation. A little luxury. Especially if he's got his bro at his side. But things aren't always what they seem -- and Dean will come to realize how very much he needs Sam beside him, keeping watch over him, and protecting him from someone who wants to make sure that he pays for this unexpected gift -- with his life.
july_july_july -- happy birthday, dude! (A couple days early.) Hope you enjoy this little escapade. And thank you for the reading pleasure you give to me.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam, and various OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: Remains to be seen; this part is 2275 words
OF COURSE NOT, DEAR, TUXEDOES ARE FOR WAITERS
By Carol Davis
Dean came out of the FedEx office in Clovis, New Mexico, bearing a Flat Rate envelope and an unreadable expression, head cocked, mired hip-deep in thought, as if he was trying to figure out the shortest route to someplace he'd never been, or the square root of pi. He was still three or four steps from the car when he stopped walking, as if his battery had run dead.
"Hey," Sam said through the open window.
There was a lapse of a few seconds. Earth to Dean, Sam thought. Then his brother resumed walking, pulled open the car door on the driver's side, and slipped in behind the wheel with the Flat Rate envelope firmly clutched in his right hand.
"Did you open it?" Sam asked.
For a moment, Dean seemed not to understand the question. Then he said, "No."
The envelope had come from Bobby, from his place in South Dakota. Where the contents had originally come from, Sam didn't know, and no one seemed inclined to tell him. Whatever they were, they were important enough to prompt an overnight shipment and an hour-long drive into Clovis. It was nothing bad, Sam assumed, since Dean didn't seem worried or upset, but beyond that, he was a man without a clue.
"Last time I did that," Dean said in a convivial tone that popped up out of nowhere like a dandelion showing itself after a spring rain, "I spent half an hour picking up owl bones off the floor. You got any idea how many bones an owl's got? And they're friggin' tiny, lemme tell you. Had to get down on my hands and knees and practically sniff the damn floor like a bloodhound."
He paused, a heavily pregnant moment of silence.
Then he squinted over at Sam. "Half a friggin' hour," he said.
"Okay," Sam allowed.
The two of them were damp with sweat, the armpits of their t-shirts ringed dark by the day's baking heat. The longer they sat there, in a car that felt more like a kiln with every minute that ticked by, the more Sam was tempted to go into the FedEx office and park himself for a while - on the floor, if necessary - until the air conditioning could chill him down to something approaching a decent level of comfort. They'd been in New Mexico for eleven days, and it had been exactly that long since he'd felt anything less than cooked.
If Dean remained distracted for a little longer, he might go along with the idea of staying in Clovis, rather than making that long drive back to Sunnyside. Clovis was a decent-sized town, Sam figured. Might have overnight accommodations with functioning AC, unlike the place they'd been staying at for the last week and a half, where the AC did nothing other than clank and spew lukewarm air that smelled like cottage cheese.
"Stuff just kinda blindsides you sometimes," Dean mused.
"I guess."
"Never figured in a million years - I mean, shit, it was, what, seven years ago? And it was nothin'."
"Uh-huh."
Even completely shitfaced Dean was a lot less cryptic than this. Sam did have the option of demanding an explanation, but he'd stopped being anything approaching ambitious, or motivated, or even fully conscious, when they were still half an hour outside of Clovis. Figuring Dean wouldn't notice that he was no longer paying attention, Sam settled a little deeper into the heat of the Impala's front seat and closed his eyes.
And heard the recognizable zip of the Flat Rate envelope being opened.
"All I did was drive her around," Dean said.
Something less than curious, Sam cracked one eye and peered over at his brother, who was holding an unfolded sheet of paper in one hand and the FedEx envelope in the other. Clamped between Dean's thumb and what was obviously a letter was an American Express platinum card.
"Somebody… Whose is that?" Sam frowned.
"Mine."
"A platinum card? Dude, you never -"
"I do now."
Dean's thumb covered part of the name embossed on the card; the part Sam could read said GILLIS. Sam hadn't expected it to say Winchester; neither one of them had ever had a card in his own name. Dad had, once upon a time, but that account (a Visa card with a credit line of only a couple thousand dollars) had been closed long ago. Still - Gillis? Nothing about that name explained the rising level of amusement in Dean's expression.
"Somebody sent you a credit card," Sam said, still confused.
"They did."
"For a reason?"
"You betcha," Dean grinned. "Sammy, we're goin' to Vegas."
~~~~~~~~~~
It was a function of Vegas being…well, Vegas, that Dean could pull up in front of the Diamond Resort Hotel and be greeted by the parking valet with anything other than outright disdain. True, the guy did cop a little bit of an attitude, but nothing about Dean (or Sam) said big tipper, and given that lack of promise of fistfuls of cash the guy could be excused for failing to grovel. Or sound enthusiastic. Or be anything other than a dick in an ugly red jacket. "How 'bout if I park it myself?" Dean suggested, and the guy gestured limply toward a ramp that said SELF PARK.
"Awesome," Dean told him.
He found a spot on the second level down, away from the security cameras, and gave the Impala a pat on the dash after he'd turned off the engine and let her settle down into softly clicking silence.
"We're here," he announced to Sam. "Try not to piss yourself with excitement."
"And 'here' is - where, exactly?" Sam asked.
"The lap of luxury."
Sam looked around, pointedly, as if the lack of amenities in the parking garage proved something.
"Dude," Dean told him. "I warned you."
Clovis to Vegas had been an eight hundred mile, ten hour roll through desert, desert, and (Dean thought with wry humor) no dessert. They'd stopped only twice for gas, snacks, and answering the call of nature, and Sam had frowned and groused and asked pointless questions through every last inch of it. Of course, Dean could have quieted Sam the hell down considerably if he'd surrendered to answering any of Sam's questions, but he'd decided before he pointed the Impala west that part of the fun of all this was the surprise factor.
Specifically, if the surprises were aimed at Sam and not him.
Humming softly to himself, he palmed the keys, cranked up the window, and hopped out of the car. Been a while, he thought, although yeah, it was all coming back - the feeling of living here, working here, being a part of Vegas.
"You remember?" he asked as Sam unfolded himself out of the Impala.
"What?"
"Being here."
"Dude. What was I, six?"
"Almost got us run out of town. Told you, Sammy, you gotta be a grown-up to play the slots."
"Oh yeah," Sam said dryly. "I do remember. I remember it was you who took me into the casino and gave me the quarters."
"Didn't figure you'd win."
They'd get some quarters back, he'd thought. Maybe a handful of them. Enough to buy something for themselves, and for Dad. Neither one of them had counted on that particular machine vomiting out eight grand's worth of coins.
Not that they'd been able to keep any of it.
"I love this town," Dean sighed.
Bellagio, Luxor, New York New York, the Venetian - he'd made at least one tour through all of them and knew pretty much what to expect when he got off the elevator on the ground floor of the Diamond, Sam a step behind him, still bitchfacing about his lack of information. Ahead of them lay a lobby large enough to accommodate the entire motel they'd stayed at back in Sunnyside, its entire expanse ringed with upscale shops offering everything from luggage and leather goods to lingerie to fancy chocolates. Holding pride of place at the center was an enormous crystalline fountain - Plexiglas, Dean could see as they got closer, strategically lit to make its facets sparkle.
The Diamond had still been a construction site the last time he'd put the Strip in his rearview mirror. It had been complete for several years, and was supposed to be the Jewel of Vegas, appealing to an elite crowd, but you couldn't tell that by looking around the lobby. The Winchesters, in their jeans and t-shirts, with button-downs hastily throw on to cover up the sweat stains, were by no means the bottom of the food chain. The long walk to the reception desk took them past a rainbow of polyester, shorts and baseball caps, a small assortment of business suits, and a trio of middle-aged women in bathing suits with beach towels wrapped around their hips.
"Somethin' else, huh?" Dean commented, and got a shrug in return from Sam.
Undaunted, he sauntered up to the desk and picked the only unoccupied clerk, a balding guy with glasses whose nametag read P. ARTHUR.
"May I help you, sir?" P. Arthur asked in a tone that made the parking valet sound like a model of universal tolerance.
"Maybe."
"Do you have a reservation?"
Smiling, Dean laid on the desk the platinum AmEx card and slid it toward P. Arthur with the tip of his index finger, turned so that the man could easily read the name imprinted on its face.
"Mr. - oh."
"Yeah," Dean said. "That'd be me."
P. Arthur actually twitched. Took a long look at Dean - at least, as much of Dean as the view from behind the desk would allow - and twitched again. "Mr. Gillis," he said with a wobble in his voice. "We've been expecting you."
"Yeah?"
"Yes…sir."
"That's awesome, P."
"If you could - could you excuse me for just one moment, Mr. Gillis?"
"Knock yourself out."
Sam moved in closer to his brother as P. Arthur wobbled down to the far end of the desk and consulted in whispers with one of his colleagues. "Is there something wrong?" Sam asked, close to Dean's ear. "What's all that about?"
"Don't know."
"Maybe we should leave."
"Not goin' anywhere, Sammy. We were invited. I was, anyway."
Ms. Carlisle's wish was that you enjoy thirty days…
A month. At the Diamond. Of course, Sam would be all over his ass for a variety of reasons long before a month was up, but, Dean figured, why not take a stab at it?
"Mr. Gillis?"
"P?"
The clerk flushed noticeably in the sharp light of the quartet of crystal chandeliers hanging over the desk. "As I mentioned, sir, we've been expecting you. The management is delighted to welcome you as our guest at the Diamond."
"You got a pool here, P?"
"Yes, sir," the clerk coughed. "Indoor and outdoor."
"Excellent. Gonna need two beds. For me and my brother," Dean said, gesturing to include Sam.
P. Arthur's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "We - sir, you'll be staying in the penthouse."
"Seriously?"
"Those were our instructions."
Dean half-turned. Smirked at Sam. "Dude. Penthouse."
"How -" Sam began.
He was going to ask How much does that cost? It was written all over his face. A raised eyebrow from Dean did little to tamp down the raging inferno of Sam's Need to Know; not until P. Arthur took possession of the platinum card and began to fuss with the equipment behind the lip of the desk did Sam begin to settle down.
"Ain't our problem, Sammy," Dean murmured.
"But -"
"Mr. Gillis?" That was the guy P. Arthur had been gossiping with at the far end of the desk. He looked to be in his fifties, tall, too thin for his height. Management type, complete with fussy haircut, manicure, posture so ramrod-straight it looked freakin' painful. "We hope you'll make full use of the Diamond's many amenities. All of our shops and restaurants will accept your card, and of course anything you'd like to order from room service, or in-room delivery from the shops, will be brought up to you promptly. If you'd like tickets to any of the shows on the Strip - limousine service - dry cleaning - anything at all, simply say the word." With a smile as firmly etched into his features as if he'd been a head on Mt. Rushmore, the man gestured to someone behind Sam and Dean. "Rodney will take your bags, if you like. And" - he dropped his voice slightly - "we've been instructed to add all gratuities to the card. You needn't worry about that."
"Phenomenal," Dean replied. "'Cause, you know, it's a serious pain in the ass makin' sure I've always got a stock of ones in my pocket."
The smile still didn't waver. "Of course, sir."
Five minutes later Rodney and the Winchesters were in the elevator on their way to the penthouse, Rodney in full charge of a trio of dirty, frayed duffel bags containing an assortment of jeans and t-shirts, underwear and socks, guns, knives, ammunition, bottles of holy water, containers of salt, John Winchester's journal and a two-quart Ziploc bag of charms, herbs, and animal bones. If the weight of the bags - or the aroma of long-unwashed clothing - bothered Rodney, he made no sign of it.
The elevator doors opened on the 51st floor to reveal a short hallway. "Gentlemen," Rodney said, and gestured for them to precede him out. He then stepped quickly ahead of them, paying no attention to the clanking contents of the duffels suspended from his broad shoulders, and used a plastic key card to unlock the double doors at the end of the hallway.
"The penthouse," he announced.
Part 2...