house,” he called. “My word is good.”
The door closed and I finished shaving. I put on my blue tie with white stripes. It was either that or the black one with the pink roses. Neither one went with my brown suit.
I ran my fingers through my hair, stood on the bed, put my .38 in the ceiling fixture, and then got down. I moved the bed back near the window and looked up. The gun didn’t show. Then I went out to breakfast.
I picked up a New York Times for three cents and took it into the restaurant coffee shop, where I ordered a stack of pancakes for a quarter and a cup of coffee. There was good news and bad news in the paper, and some I couldn’t decide on. The good news was that Pee Wee Reese got married in Daytona Beach, and General Grigorenko not only vowed that the Nazis would never take Moscow but that a Russian offensive would soon begin to drive the Germans out of Russia. The bad news was that the Japanese were moving up the Bataan Peninsula.
The bad news was that another ship had been torpedoed by Nazi subs. The good news was that a baby had been born on one of the lifeboats and was doing well.
“Look on page three, right-hand column,” came a man’s voice behind me. I turned and saw this chunky guy with a false-tooth smile, pointing over my shoulder with his chin. I turned to page three.
“Right there,” he said, inching closer. “Australia is drafting married men up to the age of thirty-five and unmarrieds up to forty-five.”
“So?”
“So?” he said. “So even if they start that here, people like you and I are safe. Some people fall between the cracks. We fell between the wars.”
“I’m forty-three,” I said.
“Hell you say,” he said, backing off. “You look …”
“And I’ve got two sons in the Pacific right now,” I added, putting down the Times and turning to face him.
“No offense, no offense,” the chunky guy said, backing off, hands up. “Just idle chatter. Got a brother in the navy myself. I got a bad ticker too.”
“And flat feet?” I asked menacingly.
“Flat feet, sure,” he said. “Four-F even if I wasn’t forty-six.”
The son-of-a-bitch was two years younger than I was. This was turning into a depressing day and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. I turned back to my coffee and paper and made my plans, while the artful dodger slipped away.
Ten minutes later I stood in front of Room 1324 and knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Alex Albanese was out. I pulled the metal band from my wallet, checked the corridor, and then went to work on the lock. Five minutes later I still wasn’t in. I was about to find another plan when a cleaning woman came down the corridor, humming “Make Believe.” I pulled out the key to my room, fumbled at the door, and dropped the key. When she was about ten feet away, I clumsily kicked the key under the door. “Damn,” I yelped, pretending not to see her.
“What you do?” she asked, halting her cart of towels.
“Can you believe it?” I said with a bitter laugh. “I kicked my key under the door.”
“I’ll let you in,” she said.
She was a rotund, tiny woman with her hair back in a bun. Her chubby fingers pulled a passkey out of her apron, and she stepped in front of me to open the door. It popped open and I reached down quickly to retrieve my key.
“Thanks,” I said, stepping in.
“Be careful with those,” she said, returning to her cart. “People pull ’em right out of your pocket, they do.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said, closing the door. And I meant to be.
6
Albanese was neat. According to the register, he had been at the Taft for almost two months. There was almost nothing in sight to show that Room 1324 was even occupied. I had been in the hotel only one night and my room was a war zone of broken doors, windows, clothes all over the place, tooth powder and shaving cream staining the sink. The one trace of an inhabitant in 1324 was a newspaper article taped to the mirror in the bathroom. The
The door closed and I finished shaving. I put on my blue tie with white stripes. It was either that or the black one with the pink roses. Neither one went with my brown suit.
I ran my fingers through my hair, stood on the bed, put my .38 in the ceiling fixture, and then got down. I moved the bed back near the window and looked up. The gun didn’t show. Then I went out to breakfast.
I picked up a New York Times for three cents and took it into the restaurant coffee shop, where I ordered a stack of pancakes for a quarter and a cup of coffee. There was good news and bad news in the paper, and some I couldn’t decide on. The good news was that Pee Wee Reese got married in Daytona Beach, and General Grigorenko not only vowed that the Nazis would never take Moscow but that a Russian offensive would soon begin to drive the Germans out of Russia. The bad news was that the Japanese were moving up the Bataan Peninsula.
The bad news was that another ship had been torpedoed by Nazi subs. The good news was that a baby had been born on one of the lifeboats and was doing well.
“Look on page three, right-hand column,” came a man’s voice behind me. I turned and saw this chunky guy with a false-tooth smile, pointing over my shoulder with his chin. I turned to page three.
“Right there,” he said, inching closer. “Australia is drafting married men up to the age of thirty-five and unmarrieds up to forty-five.”
“So?”
“So?” he said. “So even if they start that here, people like you and I are safe. Some people fall between the cracks. We fell between the wars.”
“I’m forty-three,” I said.
“Hell you say,” he said, backing off. “You look …”
“And I’ve got two sons in the Pacific right now,” I added, putting down the Times and turning to face him.
“No offense, no offense,” the chunky guy said, backing off, hands up. “Just idle chatter. Got a brother in the navy myself. I got a bad ticker too.”
“And flat feet?” I asked menacingly.
“Flat feet, sure,” he said. “Four-F even if I wasn’t forty-six.”
The son-of-a-bitch was two years younger than I was. This was turning into a depressing day and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. I turned back to my coffee and paper and made my plans, while the artful dodger slipped away.
Ten minutes later I stood in front of Room 1324 and knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Alex Albanese was out. I pulled the metal band from my wallet, checked the corridor, and then went to work on the lock. Five minutes later I still wasn’t in. I was about to find another plan when a cleaning woman came down the corridor, humming “Make Believe.” I pulled out the key to my room, fumbled at the door, and dropped the key. When she was about ten feet away, I clumsily kicked the key under the door. “Damn,” I yelped, pretending not to see her.
“What you do?” she asked, halting her cart of towels.
“Can you believe it?” I said with a bitter laugh. “I kicked my key under the door.”
“I’ll let you in,” she said.
She was a rotund, tiny woman with her hair back in a bun. Her chubby fingers pulled a passkey out of her apron, and she stepped in front of me to open the door. It popped open and I reached down quickly to retrieve my key.
“Thanks,” I said, stepping in.
“Be careful with those,” she said, returning to her cart. “People pull ’em right out of your pocket, they do.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said, closing the door. And I meant to be.
6
Albanese was neat. According to the register, he had been at the Taft for almost two months. There was almost nothing in sight to show that Room 1324 was even occupied. I had been in the hotel only one night and my room was a war zone of broken doors, windows, clothes all over the place, tooth powder and shaving cream staining the sink. The one trace of an inhabitant in 1324 was a newspaper article taped to the mirror in the bathroom. The
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