San Francisco whirred past the taxi’s windows, skyscrapers and bright sun and somehow even more people than Seattle. San Fran was the only big PNW city Henry Isaacson hadn’t visited. Until today. Bubbles danced under his skin and his belly fluttered with butterflies. He couldn’t keep the smile from his lips, not that he tried all that hard.
The cabbie—a twisted tree-trunk troll of a man—didn’t pull over to the curb, stopping instead in the street in front of the Hotel Majestic, a cracked-stucco building that didn’t even begin to live up to its name. “Here, right?”
Henry glanced up, double-checking the sign to make certainthiswas actually the Hotel Majestic. And it sure appeared to be, in spite of the overwhelming weight of irony. “As far as I know.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”
The cabbie pointed a gnarled finger at the red-numbered counter mounted on the dashboard: $24.57.
Frisco is spendy. And I called it Frisco. Off to a great start.Henry thumbed out a ten and a twenty and handed them through the tight opening in the plexiglass shield. “Keep the change. Just let me get my suitcases out of the back?”
“Sure. Hurry, though.”
Henry jumped out and ran to the back. The trunk popped open, and he hauled out three new suitcases and a duffel bag that was embarrassingly ratty and worn.I haven’t been to the gym in two years. You’d think it would be in better condition.
A couple of people whizzed around the parked cab, middle fingers extended.
He slammed the trunk closed and waved through the back window. Off drove the beaten-up yellow chariot. Henry lugged his stuff onto the sidewalk, doing his best to make apologetic faces at everyone who had to go around him. Not easy. He could hardly feelbadabout what he was doing. In spite of his churning stomach acid, joy buoyed in his chest more and more with each step closer to the revolving hotel door.
Once he reached the entrance, Henry set everything down and gazed across the tableau around him. The buildings shot up high, but a single two-story across the street was low enough to leave him a perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge, which stood bright red against the sea, and truly massive.
“Can I help you with your bags?” An older white gentleman stepped up, pushing a faux-brass bell cart in front of him. “You look like you're laden down pretty well.”
“Thank you. Stopped to take in the city. Probably shouldn’t block up all the foot traffic.” Henry loaded his suitcases and duffel bag onto the carpeted base of the cart, then slid his wallet free again. He handed the... in his fifties could he be called a bellboy? He handed the man a couple of bucks. “Have a good day.”
“You as well, sir. You as well.”
There was no line at the desk—a stroke of luck.Maybe it’s a good omen. If the rest of Henry’s trip went so smoothly, he wouldn’t be caught complaining. He pushed the cart up to the front desk. “Hi, I’m checking in. Name’s Isaacson.”
The woman behind the desk—ruddy-skinned with sleek black hair—tapped her keyboard a few times. “First name?”
“Henry. I’m here forGet Baked.”
“We get that a lot since they legalized weed. Just don’t do anything stupid. Public intoxication’s still illegal.”
“No...Get Baked. The competition? We’re supposed to tell you when we check in.”
She finally looked at him, nodding rapidly and smiling. “Right. My bad. The coffee machine is broken, so I’m running on empty.” She glanced at the screen again, made a few more entries. “There you are. They hide these room blocks behind special codes. Stupid system, but you’re definitely here. I will need a credit card.”
“Yeah. One second.” He dug his card out of its pocket and laid it on the faux-granite laminate. He hadn’t necessarily planned on paying for the visit—a network like Eatery TV should have had plenty of money to comp a few hotel rooms—but it would be a drop in the bucket once he took home that prize money.
She ran the card. “So, big bad baker man. You going to win? Should I get your autograph now, while it’s still free?”
“I didn’t come all the way down here to walk home with empty pockets.” Henry chuckled, leaning against the bell cart. “And as for my autograph, you can always give me a receipt to sign.” He certainlywantedto win. A competition for the best bakers and pastry chefs in America, and put on by Dexter Wilson of all people? Money aside, the sheer clout that victory could award was dizzying. Not that he was about to turn down the prize money, either.
The clerk handed back his card. “Okay, we’ve got that on file in case there’s any damage, but it looks like the costs of the room are covered for your stay. So, nothing else to worry about.” She grabbed a key card and put it into the little encoding machine, then passed it across. “You’re on the fourth floor, wing two. Away from most of the noise and bustle. They booked the whole wing, so you’ll probably get a peek at who you’re up against.”
Henry grinned, both at her and at the notion that he could spy on some of his competition. “Have a nice day.”
“You too. And good luck.”
She said the last of it to his back as he pushed his cart to the elevator doors. Henry pressed Up and the doors slid open. No wait there, either.Auspicious. He tapped Four. The whole carriage shuddered and a faint smell of smoke filled the space. Henry only spent a few seconds imagining himself hurtling to his death.
Eventually, the doors slid apart to reveal a tacky hallway: Overactive party-vomit wallpaper and muted, paisley floors bedecked with the odd divot or cigarette burn to break things up.
Henry followed the faded signs to Wing Two, then he checked the key sleeve for his room number: 4208. Down toward theendof the wing. It did seem fairly quiet, though. God knew he’d probably need his sleep if he was going to keep up with the competition.
Henry was good at what he did. He’d built a successful pâtisserie in Seattle with his own damn hands and a pastry bag. That was apparently why the network had approached him in the first place. Young, gay baking entrepreneur with a well-reviewed business and a handful of awards under his belt. What wasn’t to like? But he was facing the worst sort of opponents he could imagine: the unknown. Maybe all of them had gone to Le Cordon Bleu or worked at Le Cinq or did something else French that he couldn’t translate.
Then again, the whole point was to overcome the impossible foe. He wanted to test his mettle against the best of the best. That was what Eatery TV had promised him when he’d gotten the invite. That was what they’d promised in that promo trailer making the rounds online too. So they could throw all that at him and more: Henry was there to fight. And he liked his odds.
