A TALL WOMAN STUMBLES IN HIGH HEELS
Broken Hill Hotel--Episode #5
The Blue Room, Room #213
The wind howled across the parking lot, tearing snow up from the ground and blanketing the large windows facing it. The temperature on the barometer outside read minus twenty celsius. He could use that blast of ice. He couldn't stop sweating. She was heavier than she looked when she'd first arrived. A big boned girl in a size six.
She was a compact girl and the bag was awkward and much heavier than he thought it would be. Dragging it along the carpet of the hallway had left a long, thin brown streak that he would have to clean up himself. His back ached and he could smell his pits. His skin smelled like onions. Adrenaline ran hot and fast through his heart like a fire poker.
He made it to the end of the hall and opened the steel exit, the blast of cold air and snow falling on his skin, the ice instantly sizzling on his cheeks and turning to water. He near collapsed as he approached the dumpster. With a grunting heave, he hoisted the black garbage bag and its obvious contents up and over his shoulder and into the open maw of the steel bin. A massive cloud of flies erupted from the impact despite the cold November night.
Winter showed up early this far north. He should have known.
He still had to fully clean up the Blue Room. He couldn't let Gladys near it. At least this one was easy and had made as little of a mess as the others.
How many was this now? Three?
Was it four?
Concierge Rinaldo of the Broken Hill Hotel was under a lot of pressure these last couple of weeks. Head Office was coming in for an inspection and he was killing himself to make a good impression of how he was running things.
Well, no, not killing *himself*.
No one understood the pressure. He couldn't be blamed for going on a bender to cope. It's a massive building and too much of a responsibility for one person to manage alone. It was the size of an inner city hospital for hell's sake, every corridor a liminal space that seemed to stretch two football fields. Those boar heads affixed twenty feet up in an open concept boardroom didn't dust themselves. He had to make sure everything was pristine and perfect, he had to be polite with ignorant Yelp reviews, he had to screen guests and ensure their stay was pleasurable, he had to make sure the missing women weren't from anywhere around here.
The beige linens were trickier to keep clean than the easily bleached white ones. Their young twin (they are, aren't they?) Japanese housekeepers were run off their feet keeping up with all the chores. They did them with a terrifying efficiency and cheerful orderliness that he could never emulate. Gladys must be one hell of a tyrant.
Amy was gone. Not his problem, oddly enough.
Three. No, four. He'd done it four times in one week. After promising himself this was his fresh start, he would not do it anymore.
He was under so much stress.
The cloud of flies lazily buzzed beneath the thick snowflakes, already dying from exposure.
Head Office was relying on him. Their visit had to be perfect. He can't let his resolve slip one bit, not with the threat of Head Office walking in here looming over him like a doom cloud and watching his every move. He had an entire wing of the hotel prepared, just in case, along with the specifications for the boardroom. He added on free chilled champagne, and a specialized menu that Chef whined about. He wasn't sure how long they were going to stay, he assumed at least overnight and into the morning, though they did only specify the boardroom had to be prepared, exactly, precisely how they wanted it. It wasn't easy finding all that black cloth.
The floors were freshly polished, the furniture steam cleaned, linens cleaned and ironed, he had gift bags made, lots of fruit filled swag...
He slipped up. He knew it. But they weren't the wiser, and he was pulling out all the stops. He wasn't getting fired.
He needed to be here. The isolation is perfect, tucked away from everyone, he can stop, he can...
He didn't, though.
The gentle chime of the front door indicated a new visitor. One he had summoned.
Number five.
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Mandy checked her lipstick in the rear window of her beat up Ford truck and lamented that she hadn't brought a redder shade. This one was too pink. She wiped the excess off the edges of her smile with the pad of her index finger and fluffed her carefully styled, thick and wavy dark hair, making sure the locks neatly draped over her shoulders before opening the door and leaving her truck. Her high heels nearly skidded on the thick, slushy ice below. She cursed over navigating across the small area with such impractical shoes. They were part of her uniform, this kind of work demanded it, and she hated wearing them.
Yes. Work.
She hated having to do this.
Mandy has done it a few times now to make ends meet, but she'd not used to this kind of life. She had a masters in business and a further diploma in hospitality, she should be a CEO for a major hotel chain. She has brains and education. But the world is a stupid place and contrary to what idealists tell you, it's what's on the outside that counts.
She fixed her lipstick again and pocketed her lip gloss in the smart, long leather coat she wore. She knew she looked more high executive professional call girl than downtown hooker and she was going to charge accordingly.
She paused as a long, black limousine with opaque windows rolled up in front of the main entrance of the hotel. The hotel itself was a massive, Victorian era structure that had all the homey atmosphere of Dracula's tomb. The limousine stopped and six men in perfectly tailored, iridescent blue suits got out of it, sporting identical haircuts, their body shapes and even their mannerisms a mirror of each other.
She paused even though her feet were freezing where she stood. They were a creepy collection, this stamped imprint that marched together. They walked into the hotel, and she quickly joined them, one holding open a door which she slipped through, her high heels tracking in slush. One clone glanced at the way her heels left small dots of water on the marble floor. She couldn't tell if this displeased him or not.
The concierge fussed over the suited men, and he snapped his fingers at the two bowing young Japanese women in maid uniforms. They guided the group towards the far left of the building, into a specified hallway, a collection of silver balloons and a tacky 'Welcome' sign plastered over the entrance as if it was a grim birthday party. She craned her neck and saw a cart full of chilled wine in large silver bowls of ice and various silver platters full to bursting with food. The suits ignored it, heading straight for the boardroom.
She was also ignored as this parade of excess happened and she leaned on the front counter and opened her leather coat, the mustard coloured power suit she wore beneath it an unpleasant contrast to the bluish greys and sea foam green that surrounded her.
The concierge's gracious smile slipped as he turned and marched towards her. "Shit, they're a day early," he muttered under his breath. He glanced at her and looked her up and down as if finding her both lacking and a nuisance. "And you are?"
"Mandy Pearson," she stated. "I'm here to meet Rinaldo."
He didn't hide his anger. "Shit!"
He paced back and forth, his black eyes darting towards the hallway where the suits gathered in a boardroom, the large door shut behind them. He ran behind the counter and grabbed a FOB key, practically throwing it at her. "Blue Room, #213." Then, looking her up and down again and seething with frustrated disappointment, he said: "I wanted a woman."
Mandy braced her shoulders back. "I *am* a woman."
"I want an organic one, you stupid bitch."
Mandy clasped her fist around the FOB, expecting trouble. "I can leave," she said. "No refunds."
Rinaldo swore under his breath. "Just go to the room. I'll be there in a minute. Shit, shit, shit, why did they have to come *today*?"
She wasn't sure if he meant the suits or herself.
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It was an ugly room and even with the scent of harsh cleaning chemicals there was still an underlying, musty scent within it that reminded her of dead leaves and wet earth. A full-length mirror put her in its frame and she turned her head away. At six foot two she filled its entire frame. She knew she looked good, but the cut of her jaw had tipped him off and this worried her. Tricks who didn't like extra surprises were unpredictable.
Not anything she couldn't handle, though. She shed her leather coat, then peeled off her thin wool jacket and draped it on the back of a chair near the kitchenette. It lay there like a smear of mustard, incongruous with every colour in the room. She kept her heels on and in two long strides settled uneasily on the edge of the bed.
These were the moments when she contemplated why she was trapped here, turning tricks in a fancy hotel in the middle of nowhere instead of working as a hotelier. She had a master's degree in business, owned a couple of small B&B's in the past, only to sell it all up to live her truth. It was cruel how hard she had to fight to become herself, losing everything. She wondered how people could think she was the one who made the decision, that it was on a whim, when so much of her life was decimated in order to achieve it.
She had medical bills to pay. The truth wasn't cheap. The sale of her business barely covered it and the work, which she thought she'd get (she keeps her degree in a desk drawer these days). The work didn't come. She didn't know if it was because she didn't pass well enough in the interviews or if the heads up was given to the CEOs beforehand. She was routinely told she was overqualified (yes, of course) and they wanted to hire a more 'junior' candidate they could 'mould'.
Watching trust fund babies take the spots she coveted was enough to make her tear out her hair. So OnlyFans with extras was how she made ends meet these days, all while fine tuning her resume and seeking an in. She rented a room in a crowded house on the outskirts of the city and there was more than one night she'd spent in her truck, praying for the morning to arrive. Or not.
The Blue Room is foul. The decor is cheesy, late 1970s chic, and the carpet is stained with dark purple blotches. Her date picked the most disgusting room in the entire hotel, it seems.
Dates who made no effort were the worst kind, she reminded herself.
She clenched her fists.
She gracefully stood up and walked to the kitchenette, hoping to make herself a cup of coffee since it was the least this prick could offer after she travelled so far and in the snow. She debated charging him a travel fee to offset the cost of gas.
The coffeemaker wheezed and gurgled as she opened the cupboard door above it, seeking a mug.
She found a purse instead.
There's something you need to know about Mandy. She was top of her class all the way through university and had the highest GPA ranking four years in a row, toppled from the zenith in her final year by a Ukrainian med student and even then by one percent. A health care firm offered her a six-digit salary upon graduation, but she turned it down to start up her own B&B which brought in a healthy half a million in profit every year, even during the down times in winter. She was a beloved philanthropist, featured in art magazines and wine tours, A true success story. She was no trust fund baby, she'd used money earned from investors who were paid back handsomely and who were willing to invest further to expand her franchise. Her B&B's specialty was authentic Victorian chic paired with Michelin starred chefs in intimate country settings. Members of the royal family were regulars. Tilda Swinton rented out an entire floor of the first B&B for a year.
The rest of her clients were conservative, old money, and they had a lot of unnecessary opinions on her new look.
The old boy club who once patted her back and called her their own is meaningless. That she was abandoned by business and art alike in the end is besides the point, the point is Mandy is ferociously intelligent and Mandy just found a genuine Prada purse in a dingy cupboard above a dollar store grade coffee maker.
If there's one thing every woman knows, it's that *no* woman would leave a Prada bag behind.
She heard the beep of the FOB.
He opened the door.
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When Mandy set up her OnlyFans account, she did it with a sense of defeat and dread. No woman wants to be in this position, no matter how much they say sex work is real work. Yes. It's work. Terrible work. Especially for those not suited for it or who view their clients with that unfortunate mixture of pity and disgust. She always made it very clear what her clients were getting. Lots of trans hashtags. A trans flag. Links to trans services and blog sites. Articles about trans people. Book reviews written by trans people. TikToks and discussions about *being* trans. She didn't enjoy having to the hammer the concept home, she just wanted to live her life, but the world outside of herself refused to believe in her, treating her brand of normal as if it was some rabid unicorn set to attack the very foundations of society. Mandy is perfectly aware she is not a unicorn. She's just a person, wanting to exist, like everyone else.
Survival is universal among all species. Among all chromosomes, no matter how they are arranged.
Rinaldo walked in the door and she grabbed the closest thing to her and it was a lamp with a cast-iron base. She swung it up and brought it down on him, all six-foot-two, 170lbs of her, and then swung it up and down again just to be sure.
He was on the ground, and he wasn't getting back up.
Dammit, she should have known. He'd brought her out here in the middle of nowhere and plunked her sight unseen into a dingy room in what looked like a five-star hotel, and he wasn't looking for a good time he was looking to harm and from the streak of blood she found on that abandoned Prada bag she knew what that entailed: Her death.
The heel of the lamp cracked his head open. Blood seeped thick and black out of the wide gash. Mandy caged her mouth with her fingers, gagging, only to give up and toss her last meal into the tiny kitchenette sink. With shaking hands she turned on the tap and took a few gulps of water. Trembling, she stood up, shaking the droplets from her fingers. She reached for her purse, for her cell phone, ready to call the police.
She stopped.
The cops here were hardly going to be understanding. She was deep in the woods. The nearest town was two hours away. The local cops would take one look at her and assume this was a date gone wrong and she would be arrested, first for soliciting and second for first degree murder. They'd strip search her, they'd decimate what shreds of dignity she had left. They'd treat her and her body like trash. The cops had done it before, when she had an issue with her meth addicted housemate who kept threatening her with a knife. The snarling blond rookie mis-gendered her on purpose and laughed over her trauma.
That was in the city and this was good old boy country. No one around these parts would care about a stray Prada bag. They'd assume some rich guest left it behind.
No way. She lived in a cage her entire life. She wasn't going back to one.
She heard the maid trolley and quickly locked the door. She hoped the blood wasn't seeping past the bottom of the door and she grabbed Rinaldo's inert legs and pulled him away from the entrance. She thought she heard him groan, but couldn't be sure. She contemplated hitting him again, but there was no time for that. She had to put her problem-solving skills to good use and this was one hell of a problem.
She was going to have to get rid of him.
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Finding supplies was surprisingly easy, though she chided herself for it since it was clear the bastard had bad intentions. She found a zippered black suit bag and lots of duct tape and rope. A couple of unnaturally large dildos. A black gimp mask. A scalpel and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
She shuddered.
He was a full sized man and getting him into the suit bag was an effort. His spilled blood squelched beneath her heels. She zippered him up and then duct taped him coroner style. The lamp was already in the sink, the rubbing alcohol beside it. She had to find the trash and toss his sorry ass into it.
Was that movement near his mouth, his breath in and out, finding only black plastic instead of oxygen?
Never mind. Get him out, get him into the trash, clean up. That was the plan.
Quick, quick, quick.
She gingerly opened the door and glanced out into the dimly lit hallway. No sign of the maids, but there was a large laundry bin conveniently close by in a small alcove used by housekeeping. Lots more cleaning supplies in clear view.
How convenient.
Rinaldo would wholeheartedly agree if he could speak freely. Rinaldo would tell her all about the many women he murdered over the past week alone, the fun he had with them, the useful proximity of this forest and the plethora of sad, broken, discarded girls who he'd called to this place and torn apart. He was lucky to have this job. He was supposed to be in prison in Brazil for doing the same thing, for a much longer time and to many more women than he was found guilty of. He was very grateful to the Broken Hill Hotel for giving him the opportunity to grow in his career and in his interests. He was hoping to go cold turkey. Retire. But, you know...Old habits...
Rinaldo would have told her all these things and more, but between his head being split in half and the lack of oxygen, he simply sighed and died.
Mandy didn't notice. She needed to find a good place to dump him and she wasn't convinced the dumpster was it. There was too much risk the staff would find him, and she hadn't exactly been subtle in how she wrapped him up. She headed for the 'Exit' sign at the end of the hallway, through the solid steel and out into the still, cold darkness. She wedged the laundry cart out of it and then, just before it slammed shut, she kicked a small piece of wood against the frame of the door, blocking it open.
Beside her was the dumpster. A cloud of flies competed with the falling snow.
There was a clearing that led into the forest. Snow collected on her shoulders and down the back of her neck, her whole body shivering against the frost.
She didn't have to go far.
The abandoned well was right there.
Just beyond the copse of trees, like it was waiting for her. It had a thick, cast iron grill over top of it along with a complex layer of dead branches and snow. As long as no one looked, and clearly no one had for a very long time, he could sink in there and rot. It was a risk. The well was obvious and if he went missing, wouldn't they look here?
Her gut told her they wouldn't.
Degrees are great.
Smarts are an asset.
But like many women, it was Mandy's gut that routinely saved her life.
Mandy is strong, and she didn't so much as break a nail as she cleared off the well and lifted the big rusted iron lid, dropping it to one side and revealing the inky black water, thick with leaves and chunks of ice floating within. It wasn't easy hauling him up and over the rim and into that black water where he sank into its depths, hopefully never to be found again.
She stood back. She fixed her hair. The strands felt crunchy.
Her hands were soaked in blood.
Time for a cleanup.
It was too easy. But then, he'd left her with everything she needed. There was the rug shampooer she made good use of and it brought the Blue Room back to pristine order. She scrubbed the lamp clean with Bartender's Friend, along with all surfaces. She luckily missed the bed, but she tore the coverlet off to wash it, anyway. She showered, then she washed the bathroom, scrubbing the drains with rubbing alcohol. She picked her hairs out of the tub drain. She bleached the toilet and sink.
It took exactly two hours and fifteen minutes, slightly over the time limit she'd placed on the date.
Her mustard coloured suit was ruined, but the events of the night were easy enough to hide beneath her long, black leather coat. She buttoned it up tight and made sure to add a silk scarf at her neck to hide any errant glimpses of her blouse that might still have brain matter smeared on it.
She eyed the Prada purse in the cupboard above the coffeemaker.
Fuck it. She deserved to be paid, at least.
She grabbed the bag and yanked the door to the Blue Room open.
A small, dainty, polite Japanese girl in a maid's uniform smiled up at her.
"Ms. Mandy Pearson," the girl said, enunciating every syllable. "They are ready for your interview."
Mandy paused, Prada purse dangling in the crook of her arm. She glanced up and down the hallway beyond the young maid in front of her. "Who is?"
"Please, Ms. Mandy Pearson. You must follow me."
"I don't understand. I don't have an 'interview'." Mandy stood up to her full height and tried to keep the tremor from her voice. "I'm leaving." She handed the FOB key to the maid.
She didn't take it. The girl continued to smile sweetly.
"Ms. Mandy Pearson if you do not come with me there is nothing that can help you."
Mandy shook where she stood. She stumbled, her heel snagging into the wet carpet. Giving her a knowing, sweet smirk, the young woman nodded towards the laundry cart.
The laundry cart she'd forgot to wash out.
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She followed the young woman to the boardroom where she'd seen the suits arrive like a hive of silent, efficient insects. She clutched the Prada bag close to her as though she had a weapon inside of it. Owning the bag did nothing for her case. They were going to accuse *her* of being the serial killer, of maiming and killing OnlyFans rivals and luring innocent-ish men to their deaths. X was going to have a field day. TikTok murder hashtags were going to go full Maggot.
She was led into the boardroom and before she could ask any questions, the door was shut behind her. She could still smell bleach on her skin, mixed with the flowery remnants of hotel soap. The boardroom was not an open room, but a space with heavy black, silky curtains sectioning areas off in a thick, muffled maze. Mandy wasn't sure what direction she was supposed to take.
"Ms. Pearson, how good of you to come."
She followed the clipped, masculine voice down a long corridor lined with those black curtains, an impossible distance, for surely the room couldn't be this big, like the entire length of a high rise floor? It ended at a desk where a man in an iridescent blue suit sat, his hair plastered tight to his scalp with gel or oil, and parted fiercely to one side. He glanced up from his papers when she arrived and he bid her to take the seat in the oak chair across from him.
She obliged. The chair was solid, and she felt small and vulnerable in it.
"First, I must extend Head Office's apologies for bringing you here via such an inappropriate method. We did not want to take any chances that you would say no. We have observed you since your arrival and you are exactly as described by your resume and have proven yourself exemplary when working under pressure." He flicked through a few papers and, when he was satisfied all was in order, he pushed the pile towards her. "Please read and sign. Your salary is 82K per year. Full health coverage, though this region is already universal, so it's just additional dental and cosmetic procedures. A perk of being rural in this part of the world. You will have all weekends off as well as all holidays, barring special events. You are not permitted to leave the Broken Hill Hotel between the months of March to January, but February is your choice if you chose to remain here or not. We do not impinge on a sunny holiday."
"I...I don't understand. What is this?"
"What do you mean, Ms. Pearson? This is your new job. You are now the concierge of the Broken Hill Hotel." He extended out his hand. "Congratulations."
Mandy pushed the papers back. "I don't understand. You've been watching me since I arrived and you know about my OnlyFans account and...You did this? You arranged all of this on purpose, knowing that man was..."
"Rinaldo was an excellent concierge, but he had some bad habits. Guests are meant to come and go from a hotel, Ms. Pearson, they are not meant to check in only. We would prefer repeat customers. You understand our position, of course. A hotel survives because of its flow of guests. He was a dam. He simply had to go."
"But..."
"We also have a profit sharing option. Participants have earned over 50% in their investment returns and many of our employees now have a nice nest egg to add to their 401K."
"Oh."
He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "The thing is, Ms. Pearson, we are very impressed with your ability to clean up messes and we would be very happy to tap into that well of talent you possess. We have great difficulty understanding why you have not attained further success and can only surmise it is through the shortcomings of that most basic of human functions; the ability to think critically and understand that packaging does not make for a star employee. You, Ms. Pearson, are the making of not only a star employee, but one who would in future rise in the ranks of our Head Office." He extended his hand again. "We wholeheartedly welcome you to the team."
She thought about killing Rinaldo, her current life, her horrible room in that crowded house, the knife wielding flatmate, the OnlyFans account that gave her nothing but anxiety and depression, the friends and family who disappeared when she transitioned, the world that told her everything about her was wrong and she was sick and she needed to wake up and be what they wanted her to be and be always on display, always having to explain herself over and over, to detractors and sympathizers alike.
She was so fucking tired of being unique.
She stood up and shook his hand.
"It will be a pleasure working with you."
We hope you enjoyed your stay at the Broken Hill Hotel. Lost items are kept in our Lost and Found for twenty-four hours before being discreetly discarded. The privacy of our guests is of the utmost importance and we do love a return visit. Be sure to inform all of your family, friends and acquaintances of the lovely time you had with us and encourage them to also visit. We are a remote getaway just off of highway 11, past the logging camp. If you need a place to be alone with no witnesses, consider staying with us! Weekday getaway packages are now on sale.