Perpetual Motion by Jeff Fulmer

came
on the other line. “Reception. This is Darren. How may I help
you?”
    “Hey Darren,” Cynical said, his voice cool
and calm and an octave deeper than usual. “I stayed at your hotel
two nights ago, in one of Penthouse Suites, under ‘Pascal.’” For
some reason, he found himself throwing in a subtle Southern accent.
“It’s an alias - for security reasons. I had to leave in a hurry to
get back to LA for work and, this is embarrassing, but I’m not sure
I paid. I don’t want there to be a rumor that I’m broke.”
    “We would have just charged your credit
card,” Darren said quickly but, out of curiosity, was looking up
who had been in the Presidential Suite two nights ago.
    “That’s the thing,” Cynical said. “I don’t
think I gave you a credit card. It’s a security thing.”
    “Yes sir,” Darren said, having found the
account in the computer. “I have you here for two nights. It looks
like you paid cash up front and were upgraded by the casino.” As he
scanned the bill, he sounded almost apologetic. “Um, actually, you
do have a few unpaid incidentals.”
    “Could you go over those with me?”
    There was the sound of upset voices in the
background. “I’ll be right with you!” Darren scolded a
check-in.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, coming back on the
line with the preferred customer. “Okay, there are some room
service charges, a Swedish massage, a pay-for-view movie, a long
distance phone call, and a bottle of Jack Daniels.”
    It sounded like the type of bill a
self-indulgent celebrity could rack up, especially the contribution
of Jack he had made.
    “My accountant will want a copy of that, so
could you fax that to me and I’ll get a check over-nighted to you,”
Cynical said reassuringly. “And you’ve been so nice; would it be
okay if I included a gratuity for you Darren?”
    “Ah, sure, I guess you could do that, ‘Mr.
Pascal,’ Darren said, pleased.
    Cynical gave him his fax number; a Hollywood
area code wouldn’t hurt the charade.
    “And should I put it to anyone’s attention?”
Darren asked, trying to get a name he could write home about.
    “You don’t need to put my actual name on it,”
Cynical said. “Just make sure that the bill is detailed with
everything itemized. My accountant is a stickler.”
    “Your voice sounds so familiar,” Darren
asked, growing desperate.
    “Oh?” Cynical said cryptically. “Well, I’ve
been in a few films.”
    “I knew it!” Darren exclaimed.
    Through the receiver, the detective could
hear a guest demanding that the front desk clerk help him or get a
manager.
    “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?!” Darren
snipped; then was back in his sweetest, almost conspiratorial
voice. “I’m so sorry sir. People can be so rude. Okay, what films
have you been in?”
    “Well – there have been a few,” Cynical
mumbled, scrambling to come up with something plausible. He hadn’t
thought he’d have to go this far.
    “Wait, don’t tell me,” Darren cut him off.
“Any chance you were in Oceans 11?”
    “Maybe,” Cynical said hesitantly.
    “I knew it!” Darren exclaimed. “Fight Club,
Troy, Moneyball?”
    Cynical forced a laugh. “Wow, I guess you
nailed me.”
    “I’d recognize your voice anywhere,” Darren
gushed. “I’ve seen all your movies. I’m a huge fan, Mr. Pitt.”
    “Hey, thanks, Darren. Whoa, one of my kids
just fell in the pool so I got to go.”
    “Sure, I understand, Brad.”
    “Fax the bill, okay?”
    “Oh, sure and if there’s-”
    Mr. Pitt hung up, leaving Darren to bask in
the glow of long distance super stardom. He almost felt bad for
tricking him, even if the kid had mostly deceived himself. It
wasn’t like he was trying to sound like anyone; it was amazing how
people heard what they wanted to hear.
    A few minutes later, the phone rang, followed
by the grueling fax machine tone. Slowly, pieces of paper emerged.
First was a cover sheet from the Mirage with a note about how much
Darren