The desk clerk hesitated for a moment, then moved to his computer terminal … coincidentally placing himself farther from Phule’s reach.
“Yes, sir. I have it here. Willard Phule … the penthouse.”
“And a hundred rooms.”
“I … I’m sorry, sir. My records only show the penthouse.”
The commander’s smile tightened slightly, but aside from that he showed no annoyance.
“Could you check again? I made the reservation a week ago.”
“Yes. I remember it coming in. It seems to have been canceled.”
“Canceled?” Phule’s voice hardened. “By whom?”
“You’ll have to speak with the manager about that, sir. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll get him.”
Without waiting for a reply, the clerk bolted through the door behind the desk, leaving Phule to fidget impatiently as the lobby behind him began to fill with Legionnaires.
Lawrence (never Larry) Bombest might be younger than most wielding his title and power, but early in his career it was apparent that he was a born hotel manager. He ruled the Plaza with an iron fist, and though the employees chafed under his tyranny, they were nonetheless grateful of his unshakable certainty when crisis struck, as so often happens in the hotel business, and, as now, were quick to duck behind him in times of trouble. Many a wave of tired, angry traveler had broken against this rock without moving or altering it in the slightest, and he brought the sureness of a veteran with him as he emerged from his office and took in the situation at a glance.
“I am the hotel manager. What seems to be the trouble, sir?”