dripped from the awning of a drug store, next to the hotel, and drummed on the roof of the cab.
The driver scowled across the black, glistening sidewalk at the entrance to the hotel. A dim, yellow light showed in the transom of the double swing doors leading into the hotel. Six worn, dirty steps led from the doors down to the street It wasn't often that he brought a fare to Lamson's. He couldn't remember when he had brought the last one. The people who stayed there hadn't money to waste on cabs. They either walked or took a bus. It was the cheapest and the most sordid hotel in Los Angeles: a joint that was used chiefly by streetwalkers and crooks just out of jail in need of a roof until they planned their next petty theft.
The driver's fare got out of the cab, shoved a five-dollar bill into the driver's hand and said in an odd-sounding voice, “Keep the change. Buy yourself a new cab with it. You need one.”
The driver was so astonished that he leaned out of his cab to stare at his fare. He hadn't expected a tip. He had been prepared for a wrangle about over-changing. Five bucks! The guy must be crazy!
His eyes took in the tall, bulky figure, wearing a shabby trench coat and a dark brown, shabby hat. Massively built he was at a guess around forty-five; a fat, tough-looking customer with a straggling blond moustache, a nasty-looking scar that ran from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth, puckering the skin and slightly pulling down his right eyelid, giving him a sinister appearance. In his left hand, he carried a shabby fibre suitcase, and in his right, a thick walking stick, tipped with rubber.
“This for me?” the driver said blankly, looking at the bill.
“There's only a buck twenty on the clock.”
“If you don't want it,” the fare said, “give it back to me and you can whistle for your goddamn fare.”
His voice sounded as if he had something in his mouth, an odd, strangled sound. Maybe, the driver thought, he's one of those guys who hasn't a roof to his mouth. When he spoke, he showed gleaming white teeth, like the projecting teeth of a horse. They thrust his upper lip and his moustache forward, giving him an aggressive, hostile expression.
“Well, it's your money,” the driver said and hurriedly put the bill in his pocket. “Thanks, mister.” He hesitated, then went on, “Are you sure you want a dump like this? I know a place that's cleaner further down the road. It's not much more expensive. Here the bugs don't wait to come out at night. They're with you all the time and they've got teeth like a bear trap.”
“If you don't want your snout pushed through the back of your head,” the fare snarled, “keep it out of my business.”
He moved across the sidewalk, limping badly, and leaning on his stick. He climbed the steps and disappeared into the hotel.
The driver stared after him, frowning. A nut, he concluded.
Five bucks and staying at a joint like Lamson's! He shook his head, thinking of the oddities he had driven in his cab; this was another for his memory book. He engaged gear and drove away into the rain.
The lobby of Lamson's hotel was even more dingy than its exterior. Three wicker chairs, a dusty palm in a tarnished brass pot, a strip of coconut matting with several holes in it, and a fly-blown mirror made up its furnishing. Over the whole dismal scene there brooded a smell of stale sweat, cabbage water and defective plumbing. To the right of the lobby, facing the main entrance, was the reception desk behind which sat Lamson, the owner of the hotel, a fat man, wearing a derby hat at the back of his head. He was in shirt sleeves which were rolled back to show hairy, tattooed arms.
Lamson eyed the limping man, not moving. His small, hard eyes took in the heavy, sun-tanned, scarred face, the straggling moustache and the limp.
“I want a room,” the limping man said, setting down his suitcase. “Your best room. How much?”
Lamson glanced over his shoulder at the row of
The driver scowled across the black, glistening sidewalk at the entrance to the hotel. A dim, yellow light showed in the transom of the double swing doors leading into the hotel. Six worn, dirty steps led from the doors down to the street It wasn't often that he brought a fare to Lamson's. He couldn't remember when he had brought the last one. The people who stayed there hadn't money to waste on cabs. They either walked or took a bus. It was the cheapest and the most sordid hotel in Los Angeles: a joint that was used chiefly by streetwalkers and crooks just out of jail in need of a roof until they planned their next petty theft.
The driver's fare got out of the cab, shoved a five-dollar bill into the driver's hand and said in an odd-sounding voice, “Keep the change. Buy yourself a new cab with it. You need one.”
The driver was so astonished that he leaned out of his cab to stare at his fare. He hadn't expected a tip. He had been prepared for a wrangle about over-changing. Five bucks! The guy must be crazy!
His eyes took in the tall, bulky figure, wearing a shabby trench coat and a dark brown, shabby hat. Massively built he was at a guess around forty-five; a fat, tough-looking customer with a straggling blond moustache, a nasty-looking scar that ran from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth, puckering the skin and slightly pulling down his right eyelid, giving him a sinister appearance. In his left hand, he carried a shabby fibre suitcase, and in his right, a thick walking stick, tipped with rubber.
“This for me?” the driver said blankly, looking at the bill.
“There's only a buck twenty on the clock.”
“If you don't want it,” the fare said, “give it back to me and you can whistle for your goddamn fare.”
His voice sounded as if he had something in his mouth, an odd, strangled sound. Maybe, the driver thought, he's one of those guys who hasn't a roof to his mouth. When he spoke, he showed gleaming white teeth, like the projecting teeth of a horse. They thrust his upper lip and his moustache forward, giving him an aggressive, hostile expression.
“Well, it's your money,” the driver said and hurriedly put the bill in his pocket. “Thanks, mister.” He hesitated, then went on, “Are you sure you want a dump like this? I know a place that's cleaner further down the road. It's not much more expensive. Here the bugs don't wait to come out at night. They're with you all the time and they've got teeth like a bear trap.”
“If you don't want your snout pushed through the back of your head,” the fare snarled, “keep it out of my business.”
He moved across the sidewalk, limping badly, and leaning on his stick. He climbed the steps and disappeared into the hotel.
The driver stared after him, frowning. A nut, he concluded.
Five bucks and staying at a joint like Lamson's! He shook his head, thinking of the oddities he had driven in his cab; this was another for his memory book. He engaged gear and drove away into the rain.
The lobby of Lamson's hotel was even more dingy than its exterior. Three wicker chairs, a dusty palm in a tarnished brass pot, a strip of coconut matting with several holes in it, and a fly-blown mirror made up its furnishing. Over the whole dismal scene there brooded a smell of stale sweat, cabbage water and defective plumbing. To the right of the lobby, facing the main entrance, was the reception desk behind which sat Lamson, the owner of the hotel, a fat man, wearing a derby hat at the back of his head. He was in shirt sleeves which were rolled back to show hairy, tattooed arms.
Lamson eyed the limping man, not moving. His small, hard eyes took in the heavy, sun-tanned, scarred face, the straggling moustache and the limp.
“I want a room,” the limping man said, setting down his suitcase. “Your best room. How much?”
Lamson glanced over his shoulder at the row of
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