39 sixty, p.16
39 SIXTY, page 16
He parked in a public garage close to N. Clark Street. He left the vehicle and hobbled fast to the Catholic Church. As he approached the structure, he looked at the massive statue of Jesus hanging on a cross, installed in a gothic archway above three large bronze entrance doors. It had become his church of choice whenever he attended Mass on weekdays during Holy Days of Obligation, a primary source of spiritual comfort and refuge for him in the Loop.
The Church remained open for Christmas Eve Mass. He pushed through the middle door; most pews brimmed full of people. He found an empty location on the right side, where he knelt in prayer. Those around him, seeing his physical appearance, appeared concerned for him.
An older woman, who looked like Máire, approached him. “Is there something I can help you with?” she whispered. She smiled, the same smile Máire and Michael displayed.
“No, thank you. I’m here to pray,” he whispered.
The older woman smiled and walked away.
He turned back to his prayers. He lifted his head slightly, he prayed, Lord, I am sorry for being so mean to my family; I love them and I miss them so much. Please, point me in the correct direction and I will do the rest.
He looked at the front of the Church and to the left of a large framed image of Divine Mercy, where a tall Christmas tree stood. The star at the treetop seemed to be on fire; it gave off a red glow, which shined on the vaulted ceiling creating a cloud-like image along a frontal ridge—an inspired thought filled his mind. He grinned and lifted his head slightly, he prayed, thank you, Lord.
He stood, left the pew, knelt, he did the sign of the cross, and with silence, he walked from the church. He grinned; his mood had improved.
I have to verify this and I know the perfect place to go.
He jogged away from the church. With renewed energy, he ignored the pain in his left leg as he headed to E. Washington Street. He no longer felt the damage to his body—he operated on adrenalin.
He turned right on Washington and ran across the street to Daley Plaza, where Chicago’s outdoor Christmas tree stood. The sixty-foot tree shone like a beacon with 50,000 LED lights and several hundred ornaments. It was a favorite holiday stop for Chicagoans and tourists alike. He never paid attention to it despite working nearby.
He sat on a concrete planter and gazed at the festive sight. He looked at the massive star on top of the tree; mysteriously, it cast a red glow on the buildings to his right. The tree swayed back-and-forth in the wind, causing the red light to undulate, it appeared as a cloud ridge floating close to the building, with a reddish hue at its center. He laughed knowing he was getting closer to a solution. The image fluctuated; the red glow increased. His eyes drifted to the tree base where a sign read:
CHICAGO OFFERS ITS APPRECIATION TO THE PRESCOT HOTEL
FOR ITS GENEROUS CHRISTMAS SEASON GIFT
“There’s the answer,” he said too loudly. Several people looked at him as he stood.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of the Prescot.
He grinned, as he looked skyward. He prayed, Thank you, Lord.
He glanced at his watch. It was 08:00pm, four hours until Christmas. He ran from the plaza. He cut through the downtown sidewalks, weaving a path around the holiday throngs. He ignored the pain his body sent in waves to his brain; he gulped enormous breaths. He turned left and continued to the Prescot Hotel entrance doors. As he brought himself to calm, he walked into the hotel’s Grand Lobby. He tried to appear as if he belonged there though his clothes and overall appearance worked against that tactic. He sat in a chair and gazed around the impressive room. He could not recall anything from the time Michael dragged him there during the fierce winter storm. He glanced at the ceiling, which contained beautiful candelabras, gold inlays, and Greek frescoes.
Why haven’t I visited this hotel before? It’s gorgeous.
He continued to scan the vast space, attempting to create a plan to move beyond hotel security and up to the private ballroom on the top floor where Michael had brought him to get out of the storm. He was confident he would find the older man there, somewhere.
He loves this place; he has to be here.
The lobby bustled with people walking back-and-forth. Holiday decorations adorned the room, with a thirty-foot-tall Christmas tree standing close to the classic staircase, which extended to the second floor. Two large ceramic angels, resting on concrete pedestals, stood watch over the lobby.
A hotel employee walked to him. “Hello, sir. My name is Shirley. May I help you with something?”
“No, I am relaxing and taking in this fantastic view.” He grinned.
“Are you staying in this hotel?”
“Oh yes, I’m a guest; though, I do need to find my wife and son. I’m hoping they’ll be coming through the doors any minute. They walked to Daley Plaza to view the Christmas tree.” He grinned. He hated lying though he could not accept further delays since his time was running frighteningly short. He hoped the hotel staff would leave him alone.
“Please, let us know if there is anything we can do for you.”
“I will, Shirley, thank you.”
He noticed security personnel maintained a close watch on him. He understood the reason; he knew he looked a mess and that he stood out among the well-dressed people filling the space. He was convinced they thought he came into the lobby to get warm.
The elevators lay in the distance, across the Grand Lobby. He began walking in a normal gait toward them, but a security guard intercepted him.
“Sir, may I help you?” the guard said.
“No, I don’t need help.”
“Then, can you please tell me where you are going?” the guard said.
He frowned; he stared at the guard. “Why are you troubling me?”
“Sir, we would like you to speak with the hotel manager.”
“Why?”
“To verify your status as a registered guest of this hotel.”
“Is this how you treat guests?” he shouted. Various hotel patrons stopped to listen to the exchange. He smirked, hoping the commotion would cause the guard to leave him to his business.
“Sir, please remain calm; we want to verify your status as a guest. There is no need to trouble the others.” The guard squirmed.
“Why should I care if the other people are disturbed?” Aedan said with deliberate anger. “Maybe the others will see how you treat your guests.”
A tall, thin, graying man, sixty-five years old and dressed in an expensive suit, walked to Aedan. “Sir, my name is Jonathan Sheffield. I am the manager of this hotel. Will you please accompany me to my office?”
“Why? What have I done?”
Jonathan, a man with a business-like countenance, left no doubt he wanted the crowd to disperse. He glared at them. “Please, go about your business. This man requires our assistance and service.” He turned back to Aedan and moved close. He whispered, “I do not believe you are a hotel guest, and I do not want to embarrass you further. Follow me to my office.”
The people who were milling around dispersed.
He followed Jonathan to the second-floor balcony. They moved on to an office in the south corner, a large, but dull space.
“Please, take a seat,” Jonathan said. “What is your full name?”
“Aedan O’Beirne.”
Jonathan typed the name into the computer.
“Where did you get the framed photo behind the desk?”
The manager ignored him.
In the picture, Michael Williamson stood in the Prescot Hotel’s Grand Lobby with his left hand extended to a woman in her thirties. He was offering the woman a metal card, identical to the one he gave to Aedan Thursday morning after the snow and ice storm hit the area.
“Where did you get the framed photo behind the desk?”
Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. He glared at him. “That photo has been here for a long time; I am not sure how long. The man in the picture is Michael Williamson. He was a prime Prescot Hotel benefactor, and he was on the board for at least ten years. There are several framed photos of him throughout the hotel.” He viewed his computer monitor. He looked at Aedan. “As I expected, I did several searches using different terms and you are not listed as a guest in this hotel. You will be escorted from this establishment straightaway.”
“No Jonathan that is not going to happen. Instead, you’ll be escorting me to the top floor of this hotel, where I will enter the private ballroom.” He grinned as he viewed the photograph.
Michael sure is clever. I’ve no idea how he knew I would need the card, but he’s been ahead of me this entire journey.
“Mr. O’Beirne, I would prefer to do this the easy way by avoiding having the authorities called. If, however, you resist removal, I will have no choice but to call the police to have you arrested and taken from the hotel. Do I make myself clear?” Jonathan took on a severe appearance.
Aedan stood; he grinned and laughed.
“Do you think being arrested is funny?”
“Not at all.” He extracted his wallet from his rear pocket. He pulled the metal card from an inside sleeve where he had placed it Thursday morning. For the first time, he viewed the strange metallic piece. On the front, carved in wide block letters he saw: P H A. On the rear etched along the lower edge was the serial number: MM120025.
I didn’t think anything of this card when I received it from Michael. I forgot I had it until now. One way or another, Michael finds a way to help me.
“What do you have there?” Jonathan said. His eyebrows rose.
“What is the name of the private upper ballroom?”
“It does not have a name. It is known as Ballroom A.” He frowned. “Mr. O’Beirne, you will be arrested if you refuse to cooperate.”
He looked into Jonathan’s eyes. “You have such little trust. I am a guest of this hotel.” He handed the card to the manager. He grinned as he waited for a response. He did not know how the card would get him to the private ballroom; he only knew that it would.
Michael told me I might need the card. Amazing.
He waited for the manager’s response.
Jonathan looked stunned. “Where did you get this?”
“From a kind and influential friend.” He grinned as he looked at his watch; it was 08:30pm, two-hundred and ten minutes until midnight.
Aedan sat back in his chair. He grinned victoriously.
Jonathan twirled the metal card in his right hand. “I have seen only one of these cards in the twenty years that I have managed this hotel.” He frowned. He walked to an eight-foot tall by six-foot-wide safe, built into the wall at an angle in the left corner as seen from Aedan’s viewpoint. He unlocked the vintage safe. He pulled out an old manila envelope, with worn edges. He returned to the desk where he extracted a thin booklet.
“What is that?”
“It is a written protocol for approving the card you presented to me.” He handed the card back to Aedan. “I have several questions to ask. This is an authentication process to validate the card and to authorize the person holding it, that is you, Mr. O’Beirne.”
Aedan squirmed in his chair hoping he could answer the questions.
“What are the three letters engraved on the front of the card?”
“P, H, and A.”
“What is the serial number on the lower rear edge?”
“M, M, 1, 2, 0, 0, 2, and 5,” Aedan said.
“Please, give me the card.” Jonathan took the piece, and after flipping through several pages in the booklet, he visually verified the numbers against the protocol expectations. He looked at Aedan. “What was the first name of the person who gave you the card?”
“Michael.”
“Would you describe the man as middle-aged, or older?” Jonathan said.
“Older.”
“Did the man remind you of someone the first time you met him?”
“Yes.”
“At that time, was your life orderly or was it in disarray?”
He grinned. “My life was in disarray.”
“After meeting the man, did you experience a stressful incident?”
“Yes.”
“Did an unknown woman recently enter your life?”
“Yes.”
“What is her name?” Jonathan said.
“Máire.”
“Has an important moment in time drawn your attention?”
“Yes.”
“What is that time?” Jonathan said,
“Midnight tonight.”
“Combine the first letters of the first names of the two strangers who have entered your life with the important moment you just declared. State them in single digit format, now.”
Aedan smiled. “M, M, 1, 2, 0, 0, 2, 5.”
Jonathan looked at him with smug doubt. “The protocol recognizes that some of the answers you have provided can be easily deduced. However, there is no means to guess the response to this final question and it holds the key to confirming you as a valid card holder,” Jonathan said. “What are the four numbers in the authenticating sequence?”
Aedan grinned with relief. He thought about the last two days of his life, and he came to an instant conclusion there could be one possible answer to the question. “Three, Nine, Six, Zero.”
The hotel manager looked at him with a stunned expression.
Aedan smiled victoriously.
I sure took him off guard—he wanted to kick me out of the hotel. He probably thought I was a vagrant.
Jonathan fidgeted as he accepted the reality of the situation. “Mr. O’Beirne, under protocol rules you must provide the correct answer to every question. One wrong response results in rejection of the person presenting the card, and then the card must return to the hotel’s possession. Therefore, since you have answered all questions correctly, the hotel accepts you as a valid cardholder and you are now an honored guest of this hotel. I will escort you to the private ballroom whenever you are ready.”
“Thank you.” Aedan grinned. “Let’s go now. I’m in a hurry.”
Aedan stood inside the elevator as it sped to the highest floor. Soon, the unit slowed and came to a stop. The single door opened to a hallway. He viewed the hall, his face wrapped in confusion; he could not remember much after leaving Michael in the ballroom.
“Mr. O’Beirne, I am not allowed on this floor,” Jonathan said. “It is a strict rule in the protocol; people who are not holders of the card, cannot access this level unless there is an emergency in the building. I bid you farewell, and I hope you enjoy your stay at the Prescot Hotel.” He handed the metal card to Aedan. “This belongs to you, make sure you keep it safe, those cards are rare.”
He stepped away from the unit as the door closed. The elevator resided at the end of a hallway that was twelve feet wide, ten feet tall and one hundred and twenty-five feet long. At the far end, a solitary door opened into the private ballroom Michael had taken him to during the snow and ice storm.
Paintings and enlarged photographs, in doubled stacked frames, lined each side of the long corridor. The images hung in two rows on each wall, twenty-five per row. One foot separated the higher rows from, the lower. Each frame was forty-eight-six inches tall, and thirty-six inches wide and constructed of solid oak wood stained a dark brownish hue with small white angels carved in each corner of every frame. The angels appeared to float away from the frame.
He was stunned by the elaborate treatment given to the ballroom entrance space. He glanced down the hallway and made a rapid count. He noted there were one-hundred painted canvases containing images of various men and women adorning the walls.
With intense focus, he viewed the individuals captured in the paintings and photographs. The people represented many different professions, with each person seen working in their chosen occupation, career, or vocation. There were accountants working with spreadsheets. There were lawyers reviewing contracts. There were carpenters measuring boards and pounding nails. There were doctors examining patients, and two surgeons were performing operations. There were electricians installing new power circuits and plumbers installing new pipes. There were teachers writing on age old chalkboards and professors speaking in auditoriums filled with students. There were secretaries using typewriters and answering old rotary-style telephones. There were scientists delving into new theories and there were professions in the images he could not decipher.
What is the purpose of this place? What have I fallen into with them?
He walked in a left-leg-favoring gait along the wall viewing everything. He came to the end, and to the final frames along the right wall, several inches from the ballroom entrance door. His expression revealed his surprise as he viewed the second-to-last frame. It contained an enlarged photograph of Charlie, his friend and owner of the newsstand.
Why is this picture here?
He saw the frame below Charlie’s was blank, unused. No space remained for additional frames.
Why is there only one empty frame left? What is this place?
He looked at the entrance door. On each side hung a large framed image; each was seventy-two inches tall, by forty inches wide. On the left hung a painting of Michael, while on the right, hung a portrait of Máire. The image of Michael showed him working in his office at the original Metric & Inch location, his black fedora sat at the edge of the desk. The portrait of Máire showed her wearing a nineteenth-century nurse’s uniform and hat, which appeared similar to a Catholic nun’s habit. She stood by a sign, which read:
MÁIRE’S HOSPITAL FOR THE POOR
He could not make sense of the hallway, its purpose or function eluded him. In frustration, he pushed through the door. He smiled with joy, his body relaxed, and relief washed over him as his eyes settled on Michael and Máire sitting in vintage chairs across the room. “Oh man, it’s about time.” He looked at his watch; it was 08:50pm. He had one-hundred and ninety moments left.
Michael smiled and went to Aedan. He grasped the younger man by the shoulders. “I knew you would find your way back here. But you wasted too much time, son.”
