The Penthouse by Susan P. Blevins

Crowds with flags lined the city street waiting for the motorcade to arrive.  In the early evening light, swallows darted over the people’s heads, snagging insects that were fatally attracted to the street lighting.  Quiet murmurs and some laughter could be heard, as everyone awaited the arrival of the man. 

The armored limousine appeared in the distance, its pennants dancing on either side of it, cleaving a path between the curious crowds.  It pulled up in front of the new luxury hotel built by the man, his latest in a string of hotels and resorts that stretched across the globe.

The hotel honor guard stood to attention beneath the garishly lit hotel name, a red carpet in place.  The manager hurried to his position alongside the limousine and opened the door for
the man himself, traveling alone.  His tall, bulky figure eased itself out of the vehicle in his customary ill-fitting suit, his curtain of hair blowing across his puffy red cheeks, temporarily obscuring his familiar truculent expression.  He turned to wave to the crowd that he saw before him, ignoring the signs protesting the construction of the hotel. Hundreds of families had been forced to evacuate their homes in order to make way for this new vision of steel and glass, and their compensation was more a gesture than one of substance.  There were other signs there too, protesting a multitude of various things he’d done which had hurt people, but the man was blessed with selective vision and hearing, so he smiled and waved, always at his best before a crowd.  He shook hands with the manager, and strode rapidly into his new hotel.  Alone in that moment, his slightly slumped shoulders betrayed possible awareness of the subdued hostility the crowd was afraid to display, for fear of being arrested.

The manager ushered him through the ostentatious lobby, a glittering statement of wealth and poor taste, emptied of people for the occasion.

“Please allow me to offer you a cocktail before dinner in our magnificent Victory Bar, and then I’ll show you to your penthouse,” murmured the manager with a touch of subservience.

“You’ve forgotten that I don’t drink, but I’ll take a look,” was his impatient, clipped response.

He peered round the corner and surveyed the partially filled space.  Seated at the richly appointed mahogany bar itself, was an extremely beautiful and alluring woman, revealing her ample charms in a dress that she must surely have poured herself into, her cleavage an overt invitation to any man of substance.

“Don’t go anywhere,”  said the man, “I’ll be down in a few minutes after I’ve washed my hands and checked my penthouse, and I’d love to offer you a drink on the house.”

He followed the manager to the bank of elevators, and watched as the operator tapped the button for the seventy-fifth floor.  The elevator ascended, silent as an illicit whisper, and in a moment they stood inside the lobby of the gaudily decorated penthouse.

“Allow me to show you your bedroom,” said the manager quietly, leading the way across the ample space, filled with faux Louis XV furniture,  upholstered in gold brocade,  yet another testament to the vulgarity of the man.

The manager reached the door and held it open, his hand resting on the back of the man’s shoulder in an apparently deferential and protective manner.

The man angrily shrugged off the intrusive hand, and entered the room. He turned to address the manager, but he was gone, and instead he heard only a click as the door locked behind him.  He looked around, saw the drapes were drawn, and went to open them.  They revealed no windows.  He looked more closely at the room, and felt his blood pressure rise precipitously as he realized where he was.  He felt a stabbing pain in his chest as the oppressive fear, that only a bully can feel, swept over him.

He had just entered a padded cell, and he knew he would never leave it.