An
Incident Halfway to Hell
By Ian De Shils (Ernest
Shields)
Chapter 5
That grin was long gone from Scotty's face by the time he arrived in
Chicago. It was seven forty-five in the morning on a cold, wet, dreary day.
The flight was terrible. Rough weather made even napping impossible. 'I
really need some sleep,' he thought as he caught a cab into town. Checking
into the Hilton using Hoot's credit card, he was quickly guided to a tenth
floor room was far nicer than he would've picked for himself,--- ah,
the perks of an expense account he thought as he unpacked a suit and laid
it on the bed. The bed looked inviting. He gazed at it longingly, even bounced
on it a couple of times.
“Better not.” he muttered, glancing at the clock on the elegant night
stand. It was all ready eight forty-five. There just wasn't time for anything
but a shower and a quick breakfast at the hotel dinning room. Hoot's meeting
was scheduled for ten A.M. and Scott had no idea how far away the Center
Stage booking offices were. "Just get the contracts signed," Hoot
told him,---"no big deal!" Yet, in a way it was a big deal. If he screwed
it up, then this whole exercise was a waste of time and effort.
When Hoot first brought up the idea of trading places, it sounded like
a bit of harmless, James Bond type fun. Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe he
was just tired, but it became abundantly clear to Scotty he wasn't much
of an actor, especially after the hotel clerk called him 'Mr. Houtsagen'
three times before he responded. The guy had Hoot's name turned around,
first name last, but it set him to worrying; what if I couldn't fool the
people at the meeting today? The music business wasn't his bag, in fact,
he knew diddley about it. Hoot explained this get together had nothing to
do with music, only logistics, but still, if they asked questions,--- he
shook his head, the closer he got to this meeting, the less he liked the
idea. True, it wasn't a matter of life or death, but if he didn't do it
right, Hoot's little scam would come to a screeching halt, and from what
he gathered, Hoot's very job hung on Scott's unknown ability to act out
the part.
Chicago was cold. An icy spring drizzle slicked a city that had only recently
given up it's winter snow covering. The roads and walks held treacherous
slippery spots and when he got out of the cab, the famous Chicago breeze
whipping around the downtown buildings, cut through him like a knife. He
promised himself once back in L.A., he was going to take a week and just relax
on the beach,--- soak up some of those warming rays.
Tiredly, he ate a hurried breakfast, tossed down his heart medication
with a cup of coffee, and lit a morning cigarette he wasn't supposed to
have. Patting his pockets to make sure his reading glasses were with him,
he hailed a cab and headed for the meeting. It had gotten colder.
The morning drizzle turned into freezing rain. As he rode, ice tears slowly
slid down the cab windows building up until they obscured half the view.
To Scotty's relief the building he sought was only a couple of blocks away.
Hopefully, he could get the concert dates settled by lunch time and maybe
even catch an afternoon flight. A couple of weeks in California and he
was all ready acclimatized. Northern weather did absolutely nothing
to improve his spirits. In fact, the only ice he ever wanted to see
again was in glass ,--- with something warm and mellow poured over it.
One man was late arriving, another couldn't make it at all and sent a
replacement. Getting started seemed to take forever. A different company
handled the east-coast dates, Hoot set those a month earlier. Scotty pulled
out that list and he and the Center Stage representatives went over it trying
to blend the existing structure with openings available in the mid-west.
As Hoot said, it was logistics; you can't perform in New York on Saturday
and in St. Louis on Sunday, unless you're jet propelled. Bussing takes time
and while Melva might fly, the show itself came by truck. It wasn't difficult,
just time consuming.
His luck held. No one asked questions he couldn't answer and not once
during the entire meeting did anyone doubt his identity. Finally at two-thirty
P.M., Scotty lay his glasses on the table and they all shook hands. The contracts
were signed. He tucked the paperwork away in his briefcase, shared a single
congratulatory drink with the men and took his leave; only, to discover
in the intervening hours, the city had come to a stand still. The freezing
rain turned into a major ice storm. Now, everything in sight, the lampposts,
even the building canopies, groaned under a heavy icy coating. There wasn't
a taxi on the street, nor even a city truck out spreading sand. They probably
couldn't get through, Scotty realized. Both streets and sidewalks were treacherous
and with abandoned cars sitting everywhere. Unable to negotiate the ice,
the owners simply left them wherever they came to a halt. Carefully, Scotty
picked his way along the slippery sidewalk back to the hotel, getting soaked
in the process. According to the desk clerk, it didn't look good for catching
an afternoon flight out of O'Hare, in fact more flights were being canceled
by the minute.
"It's not supposed to last,” the man said cheerfully, “There's a warm
front moving in from the west. This should all be over by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” Scotty groaned.
“Well,--- look at the bright side,--- at least you're not stuck at the
airport.” The clerk replied, “And you have a room for the night.”
Scotty took his second shower of the day, this time a long, hot one. He
watched a little T.V., ordered an early dinner from room service and by
six P.M. was sound asleep. Thirteen hours later he was awake watching the
sun come up and was amazed to see the ice completely vanished. He flipped
on the T.V. The temperature was fifty-two degrees with a high expected
near seventy.
“Crazy weather,” he muttered, “Why would anyone live in Chicago!”
It was noon before he got a confirmed booking for a flight to L.A.
At O'Hare, it was first come, first serve for the overnight stranded passengers
so it was near one P.M. before he actually boarded a plane. Four
hours later, at three P.M. Pacific Time, he disembarked at LAX and headed
for the parking lot feeling confident his masquerade had been a success.
Now, all he had to do was get the contracts to Hoot and that would be the
end of it.
* * * * * * *
At three P.M. Sunday afternoon Manny called Melva, “Your little problem
seems to have disappeared. Got any ideas where he might be?”
“He didn't go home?”
“Nope, the place was staked all weekend.”
“Well,--- keep looking. He's got to come back someday. Say,--- wait
a minute,--- you're not going to do it right there are you? Look,
Manny, I don't want the cops coming around here,--- “
“Jesus, Melva, I'm not an idiot! Once we locate him and figure out his
habits, he'll have a little run in with a couple of strangers, maybe over
a parking space or something. It'll be just like the other times, neat, sweet
and untraceable. Okay?”
“Okay, Manny, I trust you to do it right. If I hear anything, I'll let
you know.”