More Tales from Behind the Concierge Desk
By Jack Appleford
SmashWords Edition
The Trashy Novel Corp 2011
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1) The Chrome Harley Davidson
Stuart McCarthy was in a horrible car crash and he is now recuperating at this small boutique hotel in Beverly Hills snuggled behind the Peninsula. The plastic surgery clinic he visits is across the street. He's a very wealthy businessman, and always has interesting tasks for the concierge desk. Whether it's finding venues to host a Beatles Tribute Tour or tracking down Kevlar dealers to discuss a new hip urban line of clothing or finding the advertising reps at certain firms to help promote his wife's beauty line, there is never a dull moment when Mr. McCarthy is around.
Today is exceptional because he has seen a chromed-out Harley Davidson for sale in a bike shop along Lincoln Boulevard in Marina Del Rey. He tells me it's “gorgeous.” It's just what he needs to wake up the neighbors back home. It's $90K.
Mr. McCarthy asks me to call the shop and offer some ridiculously low figure. I tell him I've never been in this league before and to reconsider having me conduct this deal. He says he has faith in me, so I take a deep breath and make the call.
"Hello. Motorcycle Arcade, what can we do for you?" asks the guy at the other end of the line.
"Hi there. My name is James and I work for Mr. Stuart McCarthy. We want the Chrome Harley in the window."
"Yes, the $90K bike, it's not ours but we're selling it for a guy."
"Will he take $30,000 cash? Today?" I just spit out the sum in my nervousness.
Silence.
"Ha! Shit!” the motorcycle clerk laughs out loud. “Well, let me call him. Call me back in an hour."
"Okay,” I answer. “We will. We can bring in the money today."
"Let me call him first! Ha! $30K!"
I hang up the phone and look at Mr. McCarthy to see how I did. He slaps me on the back, and hands me $100 bill, saying he'll see me in an hour. When I call back, the motorcycle clerk tells me we have a deal. Mr. McCarthy almost drops the drink he is sipping while standing at my desk. The clerk gives me the owner’s number and tells me he wants us to call to make the final arrangements. Mr. McCarthy takes over from there, gives me another $100 and whispers that I should have offered $25,000.
We both laugh.
2) Tokyo Dreaming
At a very chic hotel in downtown Los Angeles, our very special guest Isuji Honda is staying with us for a couple days over the holiday season on business. He wants to know if somehow we can set up a Skype call on a big screen so that he can celebrate New Years Eve in Tokyo with his friends and family.
No Problem, we've all been groomed as "Cyber Concierges" and received extra training to help guests with computer issues. Usually we just help people get online. I connect a projector to his MAC so that all he has to do is turn it on around 4:30AM (11:30PM Tokyo Time) and connect to whomever he wants with Skype and he's golden.
We put him up in one of the banquet rooms on the second floor mezzanine and borrow one of the balloon drop nets and another late night employee and I spend about twenty minutes filling it up halfway. Those things are huge! We get him some party hats and noise makers and tell him that he can make as much noise as he wants. He's far off enough from any guest rooms to get any complaints.
We remind him to order his alcohol before the bar closes at 2am because the hotel does not serve alcohol for four hours between 2am and 6am. He starts around 2am (10PM Tokyo Time) and is so loud and having such a good time that he catches some other revelers that have been sulking around the hotel. He's got maybe five other people in there by the time it's Midnight Tokyo time, when the rest of the hotel staff; maybe twenty of us, join him for a moment of fun.
The balloons drop and everyone's laughing and dancing and popping champagne corks and everyone's allowed one glass per the night manager.
3) Walking the baby.
Ms. Leavy loves our boutique hotel. Her little bungalow down the street has been flooded and she's been staying with us for over a month now. She's already bought all the front office staff pajamas. Her cousin makes them and she gets them at a discount and aren't they cute, she says. We should tell all our customers about them.
She has a little Jack Russell terrier named Spunky and he loves to bark and sit on the chairs and chew fliers. Ms. Leavy loves to boast that he tried out for the “Kramer” TV dog but was a little too excited that day to get the job.
She orders special food from the hotel restaurant and bottled water for the dog. I had to make a delivery to her room one day, and was surprised to see the space for the dog took up half the room. Wow, I thought, she seems to really love that little dog.
During a couple days of foul weather, Ms. Leavy asks me if I would be so kind to take Spunky out for his daily walks. She is just not feeling up to it today.
Not a problem. Dog walking is par for the course at this and any hotel in Beverly Hills. I pick up Spunky at the room at a designated time and am a bit surprised when Ms. Leavy walks with me down the hall, gets in the elevator, and then walks with us to the front door. She then watches us until we are out of sight.
Spunky is a good dog for the most part but he has his moments. We play ball in an alley against a wall and at one point when I'm trying to get the ball back, he bites my arm and won't let go. Spunky doesn't draw blood, so it's no big deal, but I can see where he gets his name. Finally, I throw the ball and then he lets go. Lesson learned. For the rest of our play time, I let him drop the ball and then I grab for it quickly.
We spend about fifteen minutes walking down the sidewalk for one block and then coming back up the alley to the hotel, and when we turn the corner to the hotel parking lot, Ms. Leavy is standing there, crying. She misses her little Spunky. She wants to know about everything that happened and when I mention he bit me, she laughs and quickly tips me, tells me she doesn't know if she can be without Spunky for another hour like that. I tell her it's only been fifteen minutes, but she disagrees again and so I end up agreeing that I'll do another hour tomorrow if she wants. I then make my way back to the concierge desk to answer the phone.
4) "Drive Faster"
It's another sunny day in Beverly Hills and James Arthur, a hedge fund manager from the UK, comes downstairs around noon and hangs out in the little bar area at the boutique hotel where I work. He orders some eggs and toast and a Bloody Mary and waltzes over to the concierge table.
"James, I like you, we've got the same name," he whispers in a conspiratorial manner. "I know the limit on the hotel’s car is to the edge of Bel Aire, but could you be a champion and drive me and my daughter down to the Pacific Palisades around noon today?"
"It's 12:14, right now, Mr. Arthur," I say.
"Oh, blimey! Call Rebecca, oh, and do you think that you could…” He hastily sets his drink on the desk and his voice trails off as he runs toward the elevator.
I follow him and say that I'll call his daughter to come downstairs, and I will get the car and meet him out front. He smiles a huge smile, calls me a champion, and shakes my hand until the elevator opens and he jumps in and feverishly pressing buttons. The doors close and I run out to the car, a new Mercedes R Class in shining black.
Within minutes, we're on the road.
I zigzag my way to Sunset Boulevard and then blast all the way down to Pacific Palisades in fifteen minutes. I’m driving about 80 MPH at some point, and Mr. Arthur and his daughter are calmly discussing what's happening at home and how is Cynthia (her mother and his ex) doing these days with the garden. He throws me $20 for every yellow light I run through, and I make $80 that way, then he gives me another $100 when we arrive.
Mr. Arthur says they'll get a ride back to the hotel and then he rushes into a large house. I take my time driving back to work.