Stan 4
Stan didn’t really mind taking the train from the airport to Victoria Station. It was probably faster than sitting in traffic. But he wondered what Barb was doing when she started down the stairs to the Underground. “Was that like the subway?” he wondered. “Geez.”
“Come on old man!” she yelled. Easy for her to say, since Stan, being the gentleman that he was, was struggling valiantly with all of their large bags while Barb was burdened only with her small suitcase filled with her personal items. Not to mention that his back was killing him. But he was damned if he would give Barb the pleasure of letting her see that exiling him to the chair had caused him pain.
As Stan had suspected, the Underground was indeed London’s version of the subway, and it wasn’t really any more comfortable than New York’s when you are toting large pieces of luggage. And they had to transfer to a second train to get to Hyde Park Corner, which Stan could swear was not the Underground station listed for the hotel their British publisher had booked for them.
Nevertheless, he followed Barb up the stairs and along the sidewalk, like a servant during the British Raj following the Memsahib through the market of Old Delhi with her purchases. But the consolation was that he got to look at her waggling tight little in her very short tan skirt. Stan wondered idly what the well-dressed passersby in this tony neighborhood would think if they knew that bottom was so nicely marked with welts from last night’s whipping. Then he remembered he was in England and figured they wouldn’t be all that shocked.
But shocked Stan was when Barb left the sidewalk and led the way into the very swank-looking Dorchester Hotel. Stan was pretty sure that wasn’t the name on the email the publisher had sent them regarding the arrangements for the London part of their tour. Unfortunately that shock was as nothing compared to the shock Stan got when Barb nonchalantly gave his name to the desk clerk, who produced a registration form.
Stan looked at it like it was a summons from his ex-wife. £500? For one night? That was about $650. What the hell was she doing? Stan looked around at the elegantly appointed lobby, bustling with wealthy Gulf potentates and well-dressed business types from all over the world. He supposed it would be gauche to make a scene, so he meekly completed the form and handed over his credit card. But he resolved to give it to Barb when they got to the room.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he yelled after the bellhop had left. “This isn’t where the publisher put us. And $650 a night?”
“Relax Stan,” Barb told him. “I spoke with them. They’ll reimburse us for the $200 the place they wanted to put us costs, so it’ll only set you back $450.” Somehow, Stan didn’t feel comforted by that. “Besides, we’re best-selling authors now, not poor cops. We can afford to live a little.”
“At the rate you’re spending it, not for long, sweet cheeks. And if that’s the case, what was with the Underground? Who the fuck takes the subway to a $650 a night hotel?” Suddenly, Stan felt a sharp pain shooting through his lower back. He winced.
“What’s the matter, Stan?” Barb asked, looking vaguely concerned. “You’re not having a heart attack on me, are you?”
“You wish. No, my back is killing me from sleeping in that chair last night.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” Barb replied. “Why would you do a thing like that? Oh, that’s right, because you were an asshole pulling that stunt on me so I kicked you out of bed.”
“Come on Barb. You enjoyed every minute of it. I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I’m not a total idiot. I’ll tell you one thing though; since I’m shelling out for this room, if anyone is sleeping in the chair tonight, it’ll be you, my dear.”
Stan felt another shot of pain and moaned. That seemed to finally elicit some sympathy from Barb. “Sure I enjoyed it Stan,” she admitted, smiling a bit. “Mostly. Though making me suck off a guy I had just met was going a bit too far. But it wouldn’t be like me not to make you suffer in return, would it?”
“I suppose not,” Stan replied, grumpily.
“I tell you what, Stan. How about a little massage for your aching back? Take your shirt off and lie down on the bed.”
“You won’t tie me to the bed and flog me with one of those British Navy cat o’ nine tails, will you? We are in England after all.”
“No, you silly man,” Barb replied, looking like she meant it. And she did, and the back rub really did feel pretty good, so by the time they had to leave to go to the BBC studios to be interviewed about the Bronx Crux case and their book, Stan’s back was feeling much better. Though he couldn’t help wondering why Barb took his phone into the bathroom and closed the door and stayed in there for a good half hour while she spoke with her old college roommate. He wondered what they were cooking up. But two could play at that game. He picked up the room phone and dialed his old pal from Scotland Yard, Bill Pritchard.
Nothing but the best 
I'll take mine in the bathroom ... we aren't sharing right now, Goldman, remember? You are in the doghouse!
That's where Goldman had us booked before I re-booked us at the Dorchester. I would not have even wanted to undress in the sleazy Trump property. I heard there were hidden cameras everywhere, the plumbing didn't work, and the staff hadn't been paid for months.
