Chapter 1
British Columbia, 2004.
I raced dust devils down the empty main street in my California original, 1980 Dodge Custom Cruiser Van. I geared down, eased over the curb and parked around back of the Blue Star Hotel and Saloon. The peeling blue paint and rotted bone trim barely clung to its old sagging wood frame. I stepped through the saloon’s back door, my sneakers scuffing the worn threshold.
Afternoon sunbeams filtered through the grimy windows, the rays refracting off compact discs hanging above the booths, creating a kaleidoscope effect. Sarah Vaughan’s rendition of “The Boy from Ipanema” melodically played from a 1950’s Wurlitzer jukebox.
Arthur drew me here with the promise of cash and the prospect of adventure. The spry auctioneer with a perfectly trimmed white moustache, had offered me a job: help catalogue the contents of the hotel for a tax sale. The hotel owner, Mr. Mortimer, was a compulsive antique collector. Upon discovering the extensive collection of antiques hidden throughout the hotel, the tax authorities arranged an auction to sell them to the highest bidder. It wasn’t exactly glamorous work, but I needed the money to scrape by and keep my van running.
Raucous laughter cut through the sour haze of the saloon’s cluttered interior. I recognized Arthur in the corner booth and took a seat next to Mark, about thirty-five, with an imposing stature accentuated by his big bald head and strong jawline. His emerald eyes looked eager to get to work. He sat sprawled out, but straightened up to give me room. Chris hid under a shadow in the corner.
“David, this is Mark and Chris, my nephews. Guys, this is David, good guy, he’s done some other work for me,” Arthur introduced me.
Chris, about thirty was shorter than the rest of us but the most jacked and covered in tattoos. Prison ink? Must be, I thought.
I shook their hands. “Call me Dave.” I said. “You guys from here?”
“Fresh out of San Quentin,” Chris quickly confessed.
“I just came back from working in Vegas,” said Mark.
Arthur’s cell phone rings, he gets up to take the call.
“What do you do down there?” I asked Mark.
“Man, you don’t want to know. I take care of business. I work the doors. It’s hectic man, wild, too wild.” Mark fired off his words, hand rattling for punctuation then paused. “What’s your story? Art tells me you live in some crazy cabin way up on the mountain?”
Was this my story? Is this my story? “I work at the ski hill in the winter and do odd jobs right now. I came here from back east two years ago,” I said in a raspy voice, each word a little rough around the edges.
“So you’re up there in the winter, no running water, no power, no plumbing? No way Dave, I couldn’t hack it.”
With me in my baggy jeans and oversized t-shirt, the three of us were characters right out of Grand Theft Auto. Just the guys you want rummaging through your valuables before they hit the auction block.
Arthur of course was the distinguished one with his perfectly combed hair, white button up shirt and suspenders holding up his blue jeans. He outlined the plan, his voice, roughened by years of cattle rattle.
“For starters, be respectful,” he said. “The owner and his family are still living here. Today you’re going to tag everything. If you can’t put a tag on it, put it in something and tag that. Some of my team will come tomorrow and start itemizing while you guys keep tagging. I don’t want anyone working in a room alone. No funny business. You have until Tuesday night. By the end of Wednesday, we have to have it all set up for the Auction days- Thursday and Friday.”
We had to go through every dusty corner, treasure, trinket, cobweb-draped artifact, or funky old thing we could get our hands on. And the whole time the family that still lives here will be lurking and listening. Are there ghosts here? For certain. The saloon alone has two sitting over at the bar.
Mr. Mortimer, the befuddled hotel owner, an unlively figure lurking behind the bar, watched on through narrowed eyes. He served the two local holdouts at the end of the bar.
“What about behind the bar? We tag that too?” Chris asked Arthur.
“Yeah I have to go speak with him about that,” he replied.
Mr. Mortimer and Arthur exchanged harsh words over the liquor inventory and the jukebox. The owner stormed off, retreating deeper into the shadowy hotel.
As stated in the court order, rented guest rooms could not be gone through. Of the fourteen, the sole occupied room was strictly off-limits: number 304. And now, Art tells us, the liquor bottles are off limits too. As Arthur droned on about antique valuations, my curiosity flared. Who lives in that room? What secrets does this place hold, what treasures, or even troubles, await us in this old hotel? And what exactly had landed me, a drifter with more luck than charm, in this decaying relic of the past, surrounded by these enigmatic characters?
The jukebox starts up again with “Bye Bye Love” by The Everly Brothers. Arthur gives us each a box of tags and leads us from the booth to the inner entrance to the Hotel.
“Dave and Mark, you guys start in the Lobby. Chris, you come with me up to the owner’s suite, we’ll get that out of the way.” Art ordered as we each walked by and ogled the Wurlitzer jukebox.
Wow that’s cool, am I allowed to bid? I wondered. You don’t need it, you can’t afford it, what does it matter?
Arthur stops, “If they try to grab something or bother you guys, come and get me. The Wife’s away but the Son might be coming and going. Keep an eye on him.” He grabs a yellow tag and determinedly affixes it to the jukebox.
Lot #0001
Wurlitzer 2000 Jukebox (1956)
The Centennial - 200 Select
Cabinet Finish: Glacier White, Desert Haze, Persian Turquoise, Chinese Black
100 records - Partial list:
The Boy from Ipanema - Sarah Vaughan
Bye Bye Love - The Everly Brothers
Thriller - Michael Jackson
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