House or Stevens. A gent you wouldn’t know if you met him on the street five minutes later.
Sailor asked quickly, “Senator Douglass? Willis Douglass?”
The clerk knew without looking. He gave the room number. Sailor turned around and picked up the house phone, letting the clerk see him pick it up, hear him ask the room number. The switchboard girl wouldn’t have needed earphones to get the number; she was sitting on the other side of the desk, only a square pillar between them. If this had been a big hotel with more than one house phone and them around a corner, out of sight, he wouldn’t have to go through this hocus-pocus. Heaven help the small-town peasants. Everything was made tough for them, inconvenient. You couldn’t have any secrets in a village.
He could hear the ringing and he had a moment’s shock that maybe the Sen wouldn’t be in at nine-thirty on a Sunday morning. Maybe he’d be dressed up in his velvet panties marching to bells and band into the cathedral for more Fiesta. The Sen in the cathedral was a laugh. Sailor held his left hand tight around the instrument; his right hand, automatic, digging his right-hand pocket. It was another shock after the ringing when the Sen snarled, “Hello.”
Sailor cupped his hand over the instrument, spoke silkily through it. “We are sending up a package, Senator Douglass.”
He hung up without waiting to hear the Sen start cursing. He would imagine well enough the way the Sen would talk to a hotel clerk who dared wake the ex-senator of Illinois to bring up a package. The smile on Sailor’s lips felt good as he cut down the left-hand portal. The portal separated the dining rooms from the patio. There were a couple of people sitting in the patio this early. He wouldn’t mind sitting out there himself in a bright-covered swing. At a table under a striped umbrella with a cold beer bubbling. Later. Right now a little business. The smile twisted. He wouldn’t waste time standing in the corridor pounding on a door; the Sen would be up and waiting. The good old Sen!
He didn’t know the whereabouts of the elevators, he only knew they weren’t in sight in the front lobby so they must be somewhere at the rear. There had to be at least one elevator or the Sen wouldn’t have a room on the fourth floor. The Sen wouldn’t be climbing any four flights to a room if there were a flock of Fiestas going on.
He turned right where the portal angled into a wider one. Big couches and chairs here and a fireplace big enough to roast a sheep. This one has glass doors opening out to the patio too, and more big potted bushes in the corners. He didn’t see any elevators and he walked on to where the right portal met this one. There was a blue-smocked boy with a dark stupid face cleaning the ash trays on a table.
“Where’s the elevators, Bub?” Sailor asked.
The boy looked more stupid than ever pointing a brown finger. He didn’t say anything.
Sailor followed the finger direction. He wasn’t sure the boob knew what he was after; maybe he thought Sailor was inquiring about the can. This didn’t look like elevators, it looked like a Spanish palace, dark beams and big rich chairs and on a dark polished table a brass bowl filled with little chrysanthemums. He looked in the open door-way of an immense sunken room, rich and somber, grand piano, red velvet chairs, a fireplace. Opposite the door tiled steps and a wrought-iron balustrade led upwards. He was wondering whether this was up when he saw the check girl leaning against the wall beyond.
”Hey there,” he began and then he saw it wasn’t the check girl. Another dark-haired, dark-eyed kid; another glittering Spanish costume. He went up to her. “I’m looking for the elevators,” he said and in saying he reached that turning and saw the elevator, just one.
She didn’t say anything. She giggled soundlessly and stepped into the carved cage. He followed her. “Four,” he said. If there was trouble he’d sure
Sailor asked quickly, “Senator Douglass? Willis Douglass?”
The clerk knew without looking. He gave the room number. Sailor turned around and picked up the house phone, letting the clerk see him pick it up, hear him ask the room number. The switchboard girl wouldn’t have needed earphones to get the number; she was sitting on the other side of the desk, only a square pillar between them. If this had been a big hotel with more than one house phone and them around a corner, out of sight, he wouldn’t have to go through this hocus-pocus. Heaven help the small-town peasants. Everything was made tough for them, inconvenient. You couldn’t have any secrets in a village.
He could hear the ringing and he had a moment’s shock that maybe the Sen wouldn’t be in at nine-thirty on a Sunday morning. Maybe he’d be dressed up in his velvet panties marching to bells and band into the cathedral for more Fiesta. The Sen in the cathedral was a laugh. Sailor held his left hand tight around the instrument; his right hand, automatic, digging his right-hand pocket. It was another shock after the ringing when the Sen snarled, “Hello.”
Sailor cupped his hand over the instrument, spoke silkily through it. “We are sending up a package, Senator Douglass.”
He hung up without waiting to hear the Sen start cursing. He would imagine well enough the way the Sen would talk to a hotel clerk who dared wake the ex-senator of Illinois to bring up a package. The smile on Sailor’s lips felt good as he cut down the left-hand portal. The portal separated the dining rooms from the patio. There were a couple of people sitting in the patio this early. He wouldn’t mind sitting out there himself in a bright-covered swing. At a table under a striped umbrella with a cold beer bubbling. Later. Right now a little business. The smile twisted. He wouldn’t waste time standing in the corridor pounding on a door; the Sen would be up and waiting. The good old Sen!
He didn’t know the whereabouts of the elevators, he only knew they weren’t in sight in the front lobby so they must be somewhere at the rear. There had to be at least one elevator or the Sen wouldn’t have a room on the fourth floor. The Sen wouldn’t be climbing any four flights to a room if there were a flock of Fiestas going on.
He turned right where the portal angled into a wider one. Big couches and chairs here and a fireplace big enough to roast a sheep. This one has glass doors opening out to the patio too, and more big potted bushes in the corners. He didn’t see any elevators and he walked on to where the right portal met this one. There was a blue-smocked boy with a dark stupid face cleaning the ash trays on a table.
“Where’s the elevators, Bub?” Sailor asked.
The boy looked more stupid than ever pointing a brown finger. He didn’t say anything.
Sailor followed the finger direction. He wasn’t sure the boob knew what he was after; maybe he thought Sailor was inquiring about the can. This didn’t look like elevators, it looked like a Spanish palace, dark beams and big rich chairs and on a dark polished table a brass bowl filled with little chrysanthemums. He looked in the open door-way of an immense sunken room, rich and somber, grand piano, red velvet chairs, a fireplace. Opposite the door tiled steps and a wrought-iron balustrade led upwards. He was wondering whether this was up when he saw the check girl leaning against the wall beyond.
”Hey there,” he began and then he saw it wasn’t the check girl. Another dark-haired, dark-eyed kid; another glittering Spanish costume. He went up to her. “I’m looking for the elevators,” he said and in saying he reached that turning and saw the elevator, just one.
She didn’t say anything. She giggled soundlessly and stepped into the carved cage. He followed her. “Four,” he said. If there was trouble he’d sure
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