Arctic Fire by Paul Byers

they say. If you miss something, you lose out on
a big tip; if I miss something, people could die.”
    “I bet you’re a lot of fun at parties.”
    Pike chuckled, “Yeah, I tend to get a little
over dramatic at times, but at least I don’t have a pocket
protector and wear my pants around my chest.”
    “You’re okay Mr. Pike.” Jimmy smiled, “I’ve been
doing this for about three years now and it’s a pretty good gig.
I’ve discovered that if you give people what they expect, as you
have already guessed, I usually get a bigger tip. So with the rich
snobs I play the good little servant and with regular people like
you, I’m just the hometown boy struggling to make it in the big
city.”
    “You’re a pretty sharp kid and I doubt that
you’re struggling much.”
    Jimmy gave him a slick, knowing smile as the
elevator stopped and the door opened on the 15 th floor.
He stepped aside and motioned for him to step through.
    “Welcome to the hallowed halls.” Jimmy said as
he took the lead. “If only these walls could talk. I’ve seen so
much stuff here it could keep a reality show going for ten
years!”
    “I bet you have.” Pike smiled.
    “Well, here we are sir.” Jimmy pulled the
key-card out of his pocket and swiped it through the reader. “It’s
just your standard swipe card lock sir.” Jimmy said, then handed it
to Pike and opened the door.
    Pike was no country bumpkin fresh off the turnip
truck, but when Jimmy opened the door to his room, he felt his jaw
drop again and hit in the same spot as it had in the limousine.
    Jimmy smiled to himself- he never tired of the
look on people’s faces when they saw one of the suites for the
first time. “The master bedroom with a king bed is there,” he said
pointing, “and the second bedroom with a queen is over there. Your
wet-bar, microwave and refrigerator are there and of course you
have your flat screens and internet along with Butler service.”
    “Butler service?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Who’s staying here with me?” Pike asked in
awe.
    “That would be up to you sir.” Jimmy replied,
doing his best to keep a straight face.
    “I mean this place is huge. It must be at least
1,200 square feet.”
    “1500 to be exact. It’ll do in a pinch.” Jimmy
said smiling.
    “You could say that.” Pike replied, slowly
recovering from his daze.
    “You’re a pretty sharp guy; I think you can find
your way around.” Out of habit, Jimmy reached into his coat pocket
and pulled out a business card.
    “They say that what happens in Vegas, stays in
Vegas. The same is true here in New York. In my spiel, this is the
part where I tell the lonely out-of-towner that if he wants to
experience the more personal pleasures of the Big Apple to call the
number on the back.” Jimmy hesitated for a moment then put the card
back in his pocket. “But you don’t seem to be that kind of a
guy.”
    Pike smiled and nodded his head in appreciation.
“Big Apple? I’ve heard that term all my life but never really knew
where the nickname came from. I know you probably get asked that a
million times but can you humor this lonely out-of-towner?”
    Jimmy chucked. “You’d really be surprised how
many times I don’t get asked that question. But when I do,
the answer I give usually depends and who’s asking. If it’s Marge
and Homer Simpson fresh from Springfield I usually tell them that
it came from a famous turn of the century brothel whose madam was
named Eve. That’s not true of course but it adds a little bit of
excitement to their trip here.
    In the real history lesson, the term is
generally credited to a sportswriter named John Fitz Gerald in the
1920s. Short version is he was talking to a couple of stable
hands
    who were taking their horse to New York telling
them they had better fatten it up or all they’d get from the apple
was the core. It’s also been associated with jazz musicians as the
Big Apple being the biggest and best place to go.” Jimmy headed
toward the