Room 702 (18 page)

Borderline A list, and only barely holding onto his status, Brendan Sullivan knows his current lifestyle will eventually catch up with him.
 
It’s been too many drugs, too much drinking, too many late nights.
 
He checked in to the Winchester tonight to escape the sheer emptiness of his large house in the Hollywood Hills.
 
He knows he should feel lucky.
 
He’s one of the one percent.
 
He’s made it.
 
On Monday, he starts principal photography for his new film, one of the largest budgeted he’s been attached to.

 
He should have spent this weekend cleaning up, getting the drugs and alcohol out of his system.

 
Instead, he is already well into one of his more epic benders.

 
Instead of learning lines and concentrating on the nuances of the character he is about to embody, he is clad in his underpants in a fancy hotel suite.
 
He can barely remember the name of the character he is supposed to play.

“I’m a cliché,” he says to the room.

Needing a sound, anything other than the jumbled mess of depressing montage in his mind, he mindlessly flips through the channels, barely hesitating as he goes from one next station to the next.
 
The colors and images blur past him in an endless cycle.
 
Having worked tirelessly for the past ten years, each channel seems to be a reminder of the success he once had, a film or co-star he’s worked with previously.
 

He stops suddenly and staggers towards the bed.

There on the screen is his first film.
 
His big break.
 
The movie that made him a household name.

Even through the haze of booze and drugs diluting his ability to think clearly, he remembers being on set, the friendships he made.
 
He recalls tediously researching and getting into character.
 
He thinks back to before everything went wrong and he married the wrong woman.
 
Before he screwed people over.
 
Before his ego spiraled out of control.
 
Before the drugs and excessive drinking.

Walking up to the flat screen, he pauses the image and begins tracing the outline of his face.
 
What would he do, if he could go back in time and talk to his younger self?
 
What would he tell that young man to do?
 
What roles to take?
 
What women to sleep with and which to avoid?

Moving aside the comforter, he sits down heavily on the corner of the bed.
 
The film brings up his biggest regret – the one which may be the root of his problems, and the source of all his guilt.
 
When he first started in the industry, he chose to crap on the one person who had fought for him.
 
His first agent, Ken Petersen, had done everything for him – had fought for him to get the film that was frozen on the screen – had put his very reputation on the line.
 
Reston Heights
had been an independent film, but one that went on to do very well on the festival circuit and crossover into mainstream.
 
The film had gone so far as to get him on the award circuit, to get noticed by the studios.

And what had he done with his success?

Signed with the next slimy agent from a big agency and forgotten Ken ever existed.
 
He never returned his former agent’s call or letters.
 
He hadn’t bothered to tell Ken he was changing representation and had forced his new agent to send the letter instead of calling or having lunch.

Brendan suddenly feels sick.

The realization takes his chemically altered brain a few moments; he is actually going to be sick.

Dashing for the bathroom, he violently vomits partially digested remains of picked over room service in the pristine porcelain commode.
 
Wiping his lips and flushing his mouth with water from the sink, Brendan staggers back to the mini bar and looks for something to rid the taste from his mouth.
 
Not finding anything he likes, he looks to the top of the bar at the snacks and starts chewing on mints.

Looking at the screen again, he is overcome with guilt and digs through his bag and finds his last baggie of cocaine.
 
Hoping to completely numb his lingering feelings, he scrapes out a line on the desk, and quickly snorts the drug.
 

Feeling relief as the drug spreads through his system, Brendan tells his character, still frozen on screen, “I should call him!”
 
The role had been a period piece, and Brendan had played a tough greaser, circa 1952.
 
He thought his character, Richie Chambers, would agree.
 
Richie had been a challenge.
 
The character had been struggling with homosexual feelings in a blue-collar town in an era where men were supposed to be men.
 

Throwing pillows aside, Brendan uncovers his Blackberry and frantically goes through the contacts.
 
Unsurprisingly, Ken is not to be found.

“Damnit!”

Brendan knows there are other ways of contacting his former agent.
 
He knows actors that Ken, now a very successful agent, represents.
 
And still, he cannot bring himself to make the call.

 
“How can I turn my life around?” he asks his younger self.
 
Brendan stumbles to the desk and pulls out a piece of the letterhead.
 
Using the hotel branded ballpoint pen, begins scribbling out nearly incoherent thoughts.
 
Finishing the letter and signing his name with a flourish, feeling suddenly manic and terrified, Brendan frantically scans the room, then folds the paper and slips it behind the giant black and white picture of James Bond.

 
Looking at the glossy framed movie poster, he says, “Richie and I will come back for the letter, Mr. Bond.
 
Your mission, should you choose to accept it is to protect it until I can come back.”

 
James Bond does not respond to this missive.

 
Brendan snaps his fingers and says, “Precisely, Mr. Bond!
 
We have to make sure the enemy isn’t spying on us.”

 
The actor begins tearing the room apart, desperate to find a hidden camera or device – convinced the paparazzi or other secret agents are somewhere close by.
 
Scrambling about, his heart rate accelerates, moving to unhealthy levels.
 
Brendan pauses.
 
He’s had a similar reaction once – enough to scare him into the first of a handful of unsuccessful rehab stints.
 
As if his heart is going to beat out of his chest, the actor falls to the ground.

This time he is not so lucky.

His heart goes into an irreversible arrhythmia.
 
His organ stutters, then shuts down, refusing to beat.

Without oxygenated blood flowing to his vital organs, Brendan limply raises his hand, unable to make a move towards the phone.

As he gasps for his last breath, in the end, his death is not as painful as it could be.
 
Still frozen on the screen, young Brendan silently watches.

The next morning, a knocking sounds on the door of the suite.
 
As with every time Brendan Sullivan checks into the Winchester, he immediately places the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door.
 
The housekeeper knocks a few times, but then goes about her business and cleans the other rooms on the hall.
 

Another hour passes, and, alerted to the non-response, the manager, Julian, knocks again on the door of room 702.
 
They have tried, unsuccessfully, for the past hour to reach the occupant by phone (both in the room and on his mobile device).
 
He is joined by their security agent, Dante.
 
Brendan has stayed with them before, and while occasionally messing up rooms and sometimes leaving drug paraphernalia behind, he is still a good guest and genuinely liked by the staff.
 
Brendan tends to stay at the Winchester when he is particularly stressed, claiming the chi is better in the hotel than his mansion in Malibu.
 
Although the staff do like the celebrity, some of them gossip the real reason he comes to stay is that the actor is lonely and likes to interact with people.
 
Brendan’s on a first name basis with the bar staff, and while not over the top, is known for leaving decent tips to everyone.

In fact, Julian personally escorted the celebrity to his suite the previous day.
 
He tries to recall if there were any issues at check in, but cannot remember anything out of the ordinary.
 
Julian thinks back to the previous day and remembers Brendan only had a small duffle bag, so Julian didn’t believe he planned on staying for long.

Not wanting to disturb any of the other guests on the hall or draw any attention that a famous actor is refusing to answer his door, Julian taps his key card on the door and again asks, “Hello?
 
Mr. Sullivan?
 
Is everything okay?”

Julian looks to Dante and says, “Let’s go in.”

Sliding his all access card into the slot, the door beeps but when Julian moves to open the door further, they are blocked.

While the key card releases most of the locks on the door, after the manager moves to go inside, it becomes apparent Brendan has latched the decorative chain.

“I’ll get this.”
 
Dante produces a pair of small bolt cutters and precisely snips through them.
 
With the chain swinging, he says, “After you.”

The pair cautiously step through into the room.
 
To date, Julian has been fortunate to only deal with one death while he’s been on duty.
 
He hopes today will not double his list.
 
Brendan gave them a bit of a scare the previous year, when he had come close to severe alcohol poisoning, but fortunately a bar employee had found him before the actor had unceremoniously choked on his own vomit.
 
When the cleaner had come back and mentioned Brendan had failed to open the door in the morning, the entire staff had gone on alert.
 

Unfortunately, the sight which greets the pair is the last they would prefer to see.
 
A body, unclothed, lays prone on the floor.
 
Even from a distance, from his bluish gray skin tone, it is quite apparent Brendan Sullivan is dead.

Standing a safe distance away, Dante asks, “Suicide?”

Julian, preferring not to look at a dead body, turns aside and answers, “I’m not sure.
 
He seemed relatively happy when he checked in yesterday.”

They stand a moment longer.
 
The weight of the realization of what has happened settles over them.
 
There are protocols to follow and this is not the first time someone has died in the Winchester.
 
However, this is the first time a celebrity has passed away.

The hotel manager picks up his walkie-talkie and, on the manager’s specific channel, says, “Dawn, can you come up please?
 
We have a floral emergency in Room 702.”

The term ‘floral emergency’ is code for a death at the Winchester.
 
Dawn’s voice immediately crackles back, “Be there in two.”

With efficient Dawn on her way to help monitor the room, Dante places calls to the Beverly Hills and Los Angeles police departments respectively.
 
As a former police officer and detective, he has contacts in both areas, and wants to ensure this event will go as smoothly, quietly, and professionally as possible.
 
In addition to directing all traffic to the back entrance of the hotel, he efficiently notes to the Beverly Hills branch that an ambulance is necessary.
 
As he hangs up the call, a sharp knock on the door alerts them that Dawn has made it to the floor in record time.
 
As she enters the room, she says, “Who…?”
 
Sighting the body, her voice dissipates.
 
Dante looks at the shocked pair and says, “I need to get downstairs and greet the police.
 
Y’all going to be okay in here?”
 
“We’ll be fine,” Julian says and straightening up, continues, “Head down to the loading bay and do not inform anyone what is going on.
 
If you must say anything, please tell everyone it is a medical emergency.
 
Do not mention who it is.”
 
“You got it, boss.
 
I’m sure you’re both aware that we need to protect the chain of evidence in here – so no one in or out.”
 
“Thanks for the reminder,” Dawn says to Dante’s retreating figure.
 
While they wait for the authorities to arrive, Dawn comments, “It’s a slow news day.
 
This event is going to play big.
 
Have you called Mr. Mohammed?”

Mr. Mohammed Osman was the owner of five Winchester hotels in the United States.
 
With most of his business in other far more profitable industries, the Winchester chain is a small project in his large conglomeration.
 
The GM sighs and says, “Not yet.”

The relationship the hotel has with their owner is one of near benevolence.
 
They understand he has plenty of money and does not particularly seem to care if the hotel runs at a profit or a loss.
 
Mr. Mohammed did have highly specific demands, but for the two times a year or so he visits the hotel, they were easy enough to keep.
 
Not having experienced something like the level of the media circus that was about to unfold, everyone is a bit hesitant about how to proceed.