a bad wheel, Rumpy had come to master steering anywhere she wanted to go. She could move surprisingly fast, slow down at a moment’s notice, and even spin it around. It was like watching a mini– carnival ride.
Maple slipped ahead to check out the final turn before the elevator, and we were just about to start the last leg when her hand poked around the corner like a traffic cop’s, signaling me to stop.
Someone was coming. This was not unusual. It was part of the drill. Rumpy knew to position herself against the wall next to a room door. I always had a soccer magazine in my back pocket, and I would pull it out and act as if I were a typical self-involved New Yorker heading for an elevator.
This time, Rumpy made her move to the nearest door, and I brushed past the table to join up with Maple. I smelled trouble before I even got there.
The vile traces of Turkish-cigarette smoke came from only one source — Boucher. Suddenly I heard the crackle of voices coming from walkie-talkies. Could it be the police, too?
Maple and I did an abrupt about-face and headed back past Rumpy’s table, hoping to get to the nearest emergency exit. We didn’t make it.
“Stop!” I heard Boucher shout, and we did. We were quickly surrounded by four very large men in black suits with guns on their belts and headphones in their ears. Uh-oh.
The Hunchback from Hackensack stood among the men. He was talking with a tall, skinny man dressed in jeans and a long fur coat — obviously not an animal lover. One of the big men spoke into a microphone on his lapel. “Hold the package. I repeat, hold the package.” Something told me he wasn’t the FedEx guy.
“Do you know these kids?” the skinny man snapped at Boucher.
The chef clearly did not like the man’s condescending tone, but he was nervous. “They live in the hotel. They belong to my help.”
Help? What a jerk. Mom was one of the main reasons the restaurant was so popular. I started to get hot under the collar and had a brief fantasy of grabbing the table, accelerating Rumpy to ramming speed, and sending Boucher on an unscheduled flight back to France or New Jersey or wherever he came from. However, this was not the time or place to defend my mother’s good name.
“Well, get them out of here.” In a nasty voice, the skinny man added, “I told you this passageway from the elevator to the Presidential Suite was to be sealed and cleared, especially of pesky little fans. Royal T has no contact with anyone in this hotel. What about those instructions? Did you not comprehend, Monsieur Boucher?”
Whoa. I looked beyond Boucher and saw Maple mouth the words “Royal T!” So that was who was checking in. Royal T was a former child star on the Disney Channel who had blossomed into one of the biggest pop stars in the world. I knew she was one of Maple’s favorites, and I had seen her videos. Maple said she didn’t sing that well, but her outfits were outrageous. She had taken to dressing in wigs and long dresses from the old days, which were ripped and cut in some pretty revealing places. I didn’t know much about Royal T, but I did know that her boyfriend was the star rookie goalie for the New York Rangers. I wondered if he would be coming to see her.
Recoiling from his tongue-lashing by the man in the fur coat, Boucher snarled at us. “You must leave here at once!”
“At the Grammys, Royal T wore a House of Wu dress! How cool is that?” Maple cooed.
“Who said that? Who mentioned her name?” the skinny man shrieked. The men in black suits pointed at Maple. “Out of here. N-O-W!”
The guys in black weren’t cops. They were bodyguards for the young diva. As they made their way toward us, they were followed by an odd procession of hotel workers who were rolling a big, round awning down the hallway. It looked like one of those tubes the players run through at the beginning of a football game. It was very strange to have one in the hallway of a four-star hotel.
Two of the
Maple slipped ahead to check out the final turn before the elevator, and we were just about to start the last leg when her hand poked around the corner like a traffic cop’s, signaling me to stop.
Someone was coming. This was not unusual. It was part of the drill. Rumpy knew to position herself against the wall next to a room door. I always had a soccer magazine in my back pocket, and I would pull it out and act as if I were a typical self-involved New Yorker heading for an elevator.
This time, Rumpy made her move to the nearest door, and I brushed past the table to join up with Maple. I smelled trouble before I even got there.
The vile traces of Turkish-cigarette smoke came from only one source — Boucher. Suddenly I heard the crackle of voices coming from walkie-talkies. Could it be the police, too?
Maple and I did an abrupt about-face and headed back past Rumpy’s table, hoping to get to the nearest emergency exit. We didn’t make it.
“Stop!” I heard Boucher shout, and we did. We were quickly surrounded by four very large men in black suits with guns on their belts and headphones in their ears. Uh-oh.
The Hunchback from Hackensack stood among the men. He was talking with a tall, skinny man dressed in jeans and a long fur coat — obviously not an animal lover. One of the big men spoke into a microphone on his lapel. “Hold the package. I repeat, hold the package.” Something told me he wasn’t the FedEx guy.
“Do you know these kids?” the skinny man snapped at Boucher.
The chef clearly did not like the man’s condescending tone, but he was nervous. “They live in the hotel. They belong to my help.”
Help? What a jerk. Mom was one of the main reasons the restaurant was so popular. I started to get hot under the collar and had a brief fantasy of grabbing the table, accelerating Rumpy to ramming speed, and sending Boucher on an unscheduled flight back to France or New Jersey or wherever he came from. However, this was not the time or place to defend my mother’s good name.
“Well, get them out of here.” In a nasty voice, the skinny man added, “I told you this passageway from the elevator to the Presidential Suite was to be sealed and cleared, especially of pesky little fans. Royal T has no contact with anyone in this hotel. What about those instructions? Did you not comprehend, Monsieur Boucher?”
Whoa. I looked beyond Boucher and saw Maple mouth the words “Royal T!” So that was who was checking in. Royal T was a former child star on the Disney Channel who had blossomed into one of the biggest pop stars in the world. I knew she was one of Maple’s favorites, and I had seen her videos. Maple said she didn’t sing that well, but her outfits were outrageous. She had taken to dressing in wigs and long dresses from the old days, which were ripped and cut in some pretty revealing places. I didn’t know much about Royal T, but I did know that her boyfriend was the star rookie goalie for the New York Rangers. I wondered if he would be coming to see her.
Recoiling from his tongue-lashing by the man in the fur coat, Boucher snarled at us. “You must leave here at once!”
“At the Grammys, Royal T wore a House of Wu dress! How cool is that?” Maple cooed.
“Who said that? Who mentioned her name?” the skinny man shrieked. The men in black suits pointed at Maple. “Out of here. N-O-W!”
The guys in black weren’t cops. They were bodyguards for the young diva. As they made their way toward us, they were followed by an odd procession of hotel workers who were rolling a big, round awning down the hallway. It looked like one of those tubes the players run through at the beginning of a football game. It was very strange to have one in the hallway of a four-star hotel.
Two of the
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