“The trick,” Scarlett said, “is that they won’t know about it. How often do any of us even go into the basement, except to get to the washing machine or the recycling?”

Spencer thought this over.

“I go down there,” he said. “Because that’s where I keep my bike. That’s about it.”

“So, if we make sure that we’re the only ones taking the recycling down or doing the wash, no one will actually see.”

There was silence for a few moments as Spencer did a little feasibility test in his head. Scarlett could see him sitting straighter as it dawned on him that this just might work.

“Everyone can come in through Trash Can Alley,” Scarlett thought aloud.

That was the nickname for the service entrance to the basement, which was a set of concrete steps leading down to a dark doorway. They kept the hotel trash cans chained up to the railing that protected it.

“I can stand by the front door and give you the all clear. As long as you all go in and out at the same time, it should work.”

Spencer was looking more and more hopeful every second. He spun the wheel with his hand.

“We might not be seen,” he said. “But could be heard. We scream and yell.”

“Who pays attention to screaming and yelling in New York? It’ll be muffled. No one’s going to think it’s coming from the basement. It’ll at least buy you a few days.”

A preliminary test brought excellent results. It would be relatively easy to get everyone in and out of the side entrance with the door propped open. Scarlett sat in the lobby while Spencer went down and screamed for a while. She could hear him, but as she suspected, it didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary. They sat in his room to work out the finer details.

Spencer’s bedroom was the Maxwell Suite. It was a small, simple room designed for single, professional men—back when people used to live in hotels, as they sometimes did. It was his private hovel, filled with all the things that made Spencer, Spencer. There were pieces of bike, dog-eared scripts, bizarre pieces of old costumes, a massive pile of books on acting, and a few truly mysterious boxes and containers that Scarlett divined, just by instinct, she never wanted to know the contents of.

“If Lola has to take Marlene somewhere by seven,” he said, reaching into one of these and pulling out a crumbled contact sheet, “then we should be good from maybe six-thirty on.”

Scarlett’s brain was already moving on now that Spencer was working on the details. If the show was coming to the hotel, that meant that Eric was coming, too.

“I’ll clear all the crap out of the front room,” Spencer was saying. “That’s big enough for everyone, right?”

Someone like Eric had to have a girlfriend. Some humans are so beautiful, so perfect, that other humans are instantly drawn to them like magnets. And they always stick.