remove his drink, but he avoids my hand and takes another giant slug.
‘Remarkable brew, quite remarkable.’ He empties his glass and slams it down on the table so hard that the stem breaks. But does he notice? Does he fucia! ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he yodels. I think he might mean photography but my worries are groundless. He swills olive oil on his mitts and goes at Carmen’s knockers like he is trying to smooth out her chest to plant radishes.
A few moments later he is looking around for more customers. ‘Next!’ he hollers. Audrey’s bikini is torn away as if by a great hurricane and all the girls start giggling and closing in for the kill.
‘You’ve got to get your exposures right, eh?’ Roger nudges me in the ribs and obviously reckons it is the funniest thing anybody has ever said. ‘Who cares about the ball, let’s get on with the game. To think, that for all those years I was concentrating on my camera.’
June has taken umbrage at being left out of the action for so long and presses forward, her mouth an inviting inch from Mr Instamatic. But not for long! Like a lost piglet catching up with its milk supply, he launches himself on to her lips and I can see that in a couple of seconds the whole point of my carefully laid plans will be blunted in another gang bang. Carmen is already beginning to undo Richards’ belt and dear, loyal Audrey is fiddling with mine. Get orf! ‘What about Mrs Richards?’ I pipe above the uproar, pulling her old man off June before they can get any closer involved.
‘I thought she was joining us?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, so she was.’
He tries to turn back to June but I grab her by the shoulder. ‘You’d better find out what has happened to her,’ I say, dragging him towards the door that joins the two apartments. Before he can say any more I have flung it open and bundled him through. There, strictly according to instructions sits Mrs R. filing her nails on the edge of the bed. She is wearing a black bra and panties set with suspender belt and black silk stockings. Gor!! I am on the point of throwing back Mr R. and going myself. Luckily, my native sense of decency gets the better of me and closing the door on my impulses I drop to my knees and peer through the keyhole. Well, I want to see that everything is alright, don’t I? I need have no fears. Mr R. falters for a moment, and then his eyes light upon the goodies spread out for him. In three strides, he has swept wifey back on to the bed and is fighting his way out of his trousers like an angry ferret escaping from a paper bag. Mrs R’s panties whip over her heels and like a bee late for an appointment with its queen he whips into the hive before you can say honeypot.
I would like to watch more, but you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you? I wish someone would tell that to Carmen, Audrey and June. Regretfully, I turn away from the keyhole to see Carmen tilting the Randy Shandy bottle to her lips. Oh, no! If they have that lot inside them–I spring to my feet and sprint for the door.
‘Oh no you don’t!’
‘But girls–’
‘Getting us all excited and then ratting on us.’
‘Yes, but. Put me down! Stop doing that!’
‘If you’re not a good boy, we’ll go next door. We’ve got a fan there.’
That was the argument that clinched it. I mean. I could not allow my scheme to be spoilt at the last moment, could I? Let Mr R. get used to one bird first of all. Then he can build up later.
‘Is there anything left in that bottle?’ I say, as my jeans hit the carpet.
I don’t see the Richards again until they leave the hotel. Nine days and they never leave their room once! When Mrs R. sails through the front entrance on her way out, she looks a changed woman. I mean, she looks like a woman! Her old man slips me a fiver and gives me a big wink. ‘Buy the camera club a drink on me,’ he says, ‘they’re doing a grand job.’
I watch the two of them snuggle down in the back of a taxi and I feel almost moist-eyed with pleasure. Almost, I hasten to add. The last time I cried was when England got beaten by West Germany in Mexico. Oh, that one’s good deeds could always be so pleasurably accomplished. I exclude from that statement the last part of the exercise. Exercise! By the cringe. When I finally escape from the Terrible Trio, my willy wonker feels like a tassel that has been in a hassle with an electric fan.
In the next few days I steer clear of the birds and concentrate on my duties. As a waiter I learn how to order up courses that people don’t want and put them on one side for consumption later. You would think that in a large hotel there would be plenty of spare grub about but often the stall’s food is diabolical and the chefs watch for nicking like hawks. If anybody is going to have a bit of spare, it is going to be them.
My most instructive period is that which I spend with Dennis the barman, or head barman as he prefers to be called. He is a grade one tealeaf and I am certain I only get wise to a fraction of his little dodges. For example: he leaves the spirit measure to soak in a bowl of water. Very hygienic, but every time he picks one up to dish out a drink he makes sure he scoops up some of the water in the bowl so that the booze is diluted and he is getting extra mileage out of every bottle. The number of shots per bottle is an established figure so every tot over the top is money in the barman’s pocket. It is also fairly easy to take the odd bottle from the stock room without signing for it. Provided the books usually balance, nobody is going to get too fussed about the occasional discrepancy. And, if you are catering for a party, why not buy a few bottles of booze from the local cash and carry and sell them as well as the hotel’s stuff? You make a much bigger profit that way. Again, if you have got a bar going at a private party, and you have to do the accounts afterwards, you have to be dozy not to be able to top up a few bottles with what people have left lying about. This way you don’t have to account for so much money and the surplus goes into your own pocket.
The softest touch of all is short-changing people. After a while you can tell at a glance the people who count their change. Any business man buying a large round of drinks for his superiors or potential clients is only going to look at the change in order to select a tip twice the size of the one he normally gives. Some poor jerk taking out a girl he wants to impress is also unlikely to start making a fuss. Whether you add a bit to the cost of a round, or indulge in a spot of short-changing, the chances are that you will rarely be challenged. Dennis’s speciality, I observed, was to serve a round of drinks and keep some of the change back under the bill which he held out on the tray for the customer to see. Like as not the customer would push some more change over for a tip and if he did notice a discrepancy, the missing change would appear from under the bill where it had ‘accidentally’ got lodged. Jumbo-sized grovelling from Dennis and a temporary drop in his fringe benefits.
Quite how much Dennis made out of his fiddles I don’t know but he was rumoured to own a house in the South of Spain, and keep an expensive flat in London. Working with him made me realise that you can never put a stop to all the fiddles but, at least, you can get a bloody good idea of what to look out for if you ever have the misfortune to try and control some of the fly boys who hang out in the hotel business. The trouble is that if you sack one, you stand a good chance of getting someone even worse next time. And it could take you months to get to know all his fiddles! That is what Sid decides anyway, and I reckon he is probably right.
Incidentally, one last word while I am on the subject of fiddles. If you order a gin and tonic or a whisky and dry ginger and it arrives with half the mixer slopped into it, send it back and tell the barman you would rather mix your own drink. Chances are that he has given you a half measure of spirit and topped up with tonic.
Although Sid has fallen for Miss Ruperts’ upper crust charms and is prepared to tolerate Mrs Caitley because of her, he has definitely got the needle with Superpoof, the head waiter, and it is fortunate that the spaghetti bolognese incident brings matters to a head–literally as it turns out.
As already reported, Mrs Caitley takes umbrage whenever Bentley tries to step into her sphere of influence and he is taking his life