This story is submitted as part of the
"One Night in XXX"
story event—a collection of stories that all take place in a single night in a specific place.
"You're going to kill us both, Zhang," I told the cabbie in his native Mandarin as he whipped across two lanes to pass a Maserati on Al Asayel Street.
"You don't want to die all alone, do you?" Zhang asked, taking his eyes off the road to grin at me in the rearview mirror.
I shook my head with a smile and held my parcel steady in the seat next to me. Zhang was the best cabbie I knew in Dubai, and I called him whenever I needed to get around town fast. Not safe—fast.
I checked my wristwatch and knew I needed speed more than safety. Madame Martin and her daughter were departing this morning and I had to be back in time to see them off. They'd wait for me if I asked, but I hate making guests wait.
To complicate things, I'd gotten a text message that Mr. Varghese's guests were already en route from the airport. I needed to greet them as they arrived, but I couldn't do that if I was still tending to the Martins. The window between them was closing rapidly, and I needed Zhang to thread that needle.
My phone buzzed, and I braced myself for bad news, but the name that popped onto the screen was just my friend Nick from the Embassy. I declined the call. No time to socialize with the ex-pat crowd right now.
We roared past a trio of limousines, and squealed around a corner as I kept my parcel upright in the lurching taxi. My phone buzzed again with a text message that the Martins' car had arrived.
"Zhang, you're going to have to drop me off in front this time. Put me right under the Porte-cochère."
"Are you sure you're not Chinese?" he asked, looking at me skeptically in the rearview mirror again. "You speak better Mandarin than I do."
"Three of my grandparents were born in California," I assured him, dialing the front gate to tell the guard to let us right through. "Eyes on the road, please."
"Oh yeah, you're American," he decided with a smirk in his tone. Zhang accelerated up an exit ramp, squealing around a left turn through a red light. Now he was just showing off. I sent a text to the head of housekeeping asking to have Nylah waiting outside.
We pulled up in front of The Emerald of Dubai hotel and Zhang stood on the brake.
In front of us, a bellhop had finished loading suitcases into the trunk of a Mercedes S-Class sedan. I passed a five-hundred dirham note up to Zhang to cover the two-hundred thirty-seven dirham fare. It was a generous tip, but that's why Zhang always answers when I call. Jumping out of the cab, I waved him away before Mr. Varghese's guests arrived.
Nylah approached me tentatively in her black uniform. Management doesn't like the housekeeping staff to be seen. They usually stayed in their own back corridors, so she was plainly nervous to be so visible at the front entrance.
"These are the flowers Mr. Varghese requested for his suite," I explained in Arabic, pushing my parcel into her hands. "Put a large bunch in the foyer and spread the rest through the other rooms. They'll be here any moment. Hurry."
French lavender won't bloom for another month and a half. I had to call a dozen florists before I found one who had a supplier that could have it flown in fresh-cut from I-don't-care-where. The one who came through for me earned himself a place in my contact list as my new go-to florist.
Nylah nodded curtly with a flirty smile. She knows her job and has a good eye for decor. I'm not just saying that because we hook up occasionally. Nylah is too bright to be a housekeeper forever; she'll go far in the hospitality industry if she chooses to. I had every confidence she'd manage on time and made a mental note to make sure she was rewarded.
As Nylah raced in, Mme. Martin and her daughter sauntered out. My phone buzzed again, but it was only an incoming text from Nick. I ignored it.
Crossing under the carriage porch, shaded from the heat of the late-morning sun, I palmed the small pill vial I had in my pocket. Making a conscious effort to slow my breathing and relax my stride, I intercepted one of my favorite guests just in time to open the back door of the Mercedes.
"Mme. Martin, you're looking especially lovely this morning. I'm so sorry to see you go," I told her in French, pressing the vial of Xanax into her hand. "But I'm sure you will have a very
restful
flight." The sleeping pills are illegal in the United Arab Emirates, but I know a guy. He's Russian.
"Ah, Rowan dear boy, thank you so much!" she gushed as she kissed my cheeks. "We'll see you again when the heat is... less aggressive."
The heiress to a smallish cosmetics empire, Mme. Ginette Martin always stays with us whenever she has business in Dubai. Keeping her happy is a simple matter of flattery, having the spa staff on call at all hours, and keeping Mademoiselle Sophie entertained.
"I really don't know how you stand the summer's here, Rowan," Mlle. Sophie mused, taking the hand I offered and kissing my cheek. "You must have grown up in Arizona."
Keeping her amused is more of a challenge. Sophie enjoys exclusive discotheques, cocaine, and gang-bangs with swarthy men. I provide all three, but I only tell her mother about the discos.
"San Francisco, actually," I replied. "But attending to you two beautiful ladies is a breath of fresh air that keeps me cool all summer," I smiled as Mlle. Sophie slid into the back seat.
"You're a shameless flirt and a charmer, Rowan," Mme. Martin teased and handed me an envelope before sliding into the car next to her daughter. "Don't ever change."
"
Adieu Madame, Mademoiselle. Au revoir.
" I bid them farewell, closing the car door, and gesturing the driver on his way. I gave them a final wave as they rounded the corner before tucking the envelope into my jacket pocket.
There was no need to open it. I had every reason to believe it held the ten-thousand dirham in cash that Mme. Martin typically left as my tip.
Normally, I'd have a day off after catering to a VIP like Mme. Martin, but Mr. Varghese had asked for me personally, and Mr. Varghese's tips are legendary. Don't get me wrong—I get a thrill from fulfilling a seemingly impossible request for a guest and basking in their gratitude. But I do this for the money.
My parents weren't too happy when I dropped out of college to work a concierge desk in Las Vegas. The first time a Chinese guest tipped me a thousand dollar poker chip convinced me I'd made the right move and that the years I spent learning Mandarin and Canto were well worth the effort. Vegas lead me to Monaco, which is where I met Mr. Varghese.
Salim Bin Nasser Al-Varghese is a distant relative to the Qatari royal family. His place in the line of succession is somewhere close to three digits. While he'll never sit on the throne, he has parlayed his influence into a multi-billion dollar real estate company. He owns this hotel, and is not someone I ever say 'no' to.
In a city of global superlatives—the tallest building, the largest man-made island, the longest mass transit system—The Emerald of Dubai is the most exclusive hotel. You can't book us through your favorite travel app; you have to be invited by a previous guest. And if you have to ask how much it costs, well...
There was only a moment to catch my breath before the front gates parted and a limousine pulled through. I glanced over my shoulder to be sure the bellhops were waiting, but I needn't have bothered. Mohammed, the bell captain, has his team drilled with military precision.
Giving the passengers a moment to unload and straighten themselves out, I quickly deduced that the man in the long kandourah robe and bisht cloak was Mr. Farhad Jamshidi, an Iranian government official of the sort not accustomed to this level of luxury.
He was accompanied by another younger man in a kandourah and a heavy-set man in an ill-fitting American-cut suit. The former was most likely an aid or secretary; the later, obviously a bodyguard.
All three men wore keffiyehs and sunglasses.
They were joined by two women in dark niqabs with only their eyes visible. The elder woman appeared deferential to the younger, a chaperone perhaps. Mr. Jamshidi helped the younger woman out of the car, suggesting she was related, perhaps a wife or daughter.
Once everyone was out of the car, it was time to introduce myself.
"Mr. Jamshidi, hello," I called in my best Farsi, approaching the party. "Welcome to Dubai. My name is Rowan Lee. I'll be your personal concierge for your stay."
"Your Farsi is terrible," Jamshidi frowned shaking my offered hand. He looked to the woman he'd helped from the car. "Jaleh, ask the
