This post is part of StoryADay May (https://storyaday.org/) #StoryADay #StoryADayMay @storyadaymay #freeshortstory

I’m so very sorry for the fans of Steffie — no mayhem in this one. Not on-screen, anyway. They can’t all be ghastly, apparently.

Steffie Makes A Call

The hotel was more of a club — in fact, it was named The Yacht Club. Members of the various nearby marinas (not the public ones, obviously, but the ones you needed either/or old family or old money to join) had their own wing. Lesser mortals could cough up an outrageous amount to breathe the air in the common rooms and restaurants and to stay in rooms that got remodeled a quarter as often as the “real” ones.

Blair had stayed in one of those interloper rooms, so Steffie did, too.

Blair had — well, his body had — been found ten years ago in several other states, and the information he had gathered to pass on to his handler hadn’t been found in any of those places.

Recently, the death of a retired postman and the subsequent clearing of his attic had turned up several boxes full of undelivered mail, including a registered, overnight delivery letter from Blair to his handler. The letter had said that he thought he was being watched, and that he had stashed his information in the phone.

No phone had been found with any of him. No phone had been left in his room or in the hotel — excuse me — the CLUB’s lost and found. It had been ten years, but people who knew how to search had searched the land-line in Blair’s erstwhile room and found nothing.

Phone records and cell tower pings and so forth were checked, in case Blair had left the information by text or email or voice message or code, but no joy was forthcoming.

So Steffie had checked into the Club.

She prowled the common rooms, but there were no phones available to just anybody.

Dithering and helpless at the front desk, frantic because she had left her phone in her room and HAD to make an urgent call, was there a public phone she could use, was offered the desk phone and had to make a quick change of plans with the voice recording of a local cinema’s offerings and times.

Should she ask in the restaurant, the grill, or the breakfast room? No. Not even a spy could fiddle with a landline telephone without drawing attention.

The searchers discreetly spread out, but there were no public phones to be found. Everybody had had a cell phone for so long, the phone company couldn’t afford upkeep on the vandalized dinosaurs. Had there been any around ten years ago? Was there any way to retrieve any from this particular area?

Steffie sat in the downstairs common room, wondering if Blair had left his information near the front desk, where the phones available to the public were, tucked behind a bit of loose architectural detail or in a decorative sconce or something. The agency might be reduced to announcing a disease outbreak at the Club so they could close it down and dismantle it and put it back together.

One of her fellow guests had been speaking loudly into his phone, intent on impressing everybody with how important his business was — “Obviously not a Member,” Steffie thought, then wondered if Snob was a medically diagnoseable condition — but stopped when one of the desk managers came and murmurred discreetly into his ear, gesturing toward the back of the Club.

The guest told the phone, “I’ll call you from the room,” and stalked off to the elevators.

Steffie intercepted the manager.

“What’s back there?” she asked, gesturing in the same direction he had.

“We have booths for private conversations in the common area,” he said. “It’s rather charming, actually.”

He led the way down the hall. Ahead was the barber/beauty shop. To the left was a display of former members and their favorite yachts. To the right were … two phone booths.

“The telephones haven’t worked in decades, obviously,” the manager said, “but the booths are sound-muffling and perfect for keeping private conversations private.”

Steffie pulled out her phone and wiggled it. “May I use one?”

“Of course!” The manager seemed delighted. “That’s what they’re for!”

He toddled off and left her alone. Alone with the phones.

Steffie hadn’t known Blair, but she had been trained by the same people. It didn’t take her long to find what she’d been looking for. A few snapshots, a quick SEND, and the lost information was safely in the hands of those who needed it, with a hard copy in Steffie’s secret pocket to be delivered in person.

“Jolly old Club,” Steffie thought, as she tipped the valet who brought her car around and loaded her suitcase for her. “But they let anyone in. Spies and blowhards and such riff-raff. I should write a strongly worded letter to the Committee.” And she laughed and laughed.

MY PROMPT FOR TODAY: This photo, and the privacy ex-phone booths at the wonderful Columbia Club in Indianapolis.

MA