Shorty—"I'm awful sorry, fellas, but..."
Shorty stamped out, cursing, too murderously furious to trust himself in the young man's presence. We were rooked, he said, as we headed back to town. There was nothing we could do but take it and forget and concentrate on finding a quick job to make up for our loss.
"I don't know," I said. "It probably won't do any good, but I think I'll go up to the state offices of the project and give them an argument."
"Power to you," he shrugged glumly. "Me, I know when I'm licked."
The project headquarters were in a major downtown office building. I spent the better part of the day there, shuttling from one hack to another, and of course I got no satisfaction at all. Late in the afternoon, I gave up and walked back to the elevators.
The door to one of the cars slid open. I was about to step into it when the operator barred my way. I had seen him and the other two operators staring at me while I was in the project offices. They had left their cars alternately and wandered down the corridor, glancing in at me through the open office doors. Now this man barred my way, a sly smile spreading under his deadpan expression.
"Can't carry you, chief," he said briskly. "Have to use the service elevator."
"What?" I said. "But I'm no delivery boy. I've got as much right to—"
"Sorry. Got my orders. Down the end of the hall and to your right. Man there will take you down."
It was an insult, a slur brought on, as I saw it, by my shabby appearance. In the south, a self-respecting person does not swallow such affronts. I tried to shove my way past him, and was firmly shoved back. Before I could force my way into the car, the door slammed in my face.
I punched the signal button. Another elevator came, and its operator treated me exactly as the first one had.
"Have to take the service elevator, fellow. Down to the end of the corridor and to your right."
"Now what the hell is this?" I said angrily. "Who the hell told you to do this? I'm here on legitimate business. If you think you can shove me around just because I'm not well-dressed—"
"Aahh, look fellow,"—he grinned at me pleadingly—"it's kind of a joke, see? An old friend of yours had us pull it on you. Me and the other boys are just doin' what we're told to."
"Joke?" I said. "An old friend of mine? But—"
"You'll see. And don't tell him I tipped you off, huh?"
The door closed. Bewildered, I went down the hall and pressed the bell for the service elevator. It arrived instantly, operated by a frail, blond, blue-eyed young man. The word STARTER was emblazoned across the jacket of his tuxedo-style uniform.
"What took you so long?" he said. "Been arguing with my hired hands?"
"I might have known it," I said. "Allie Ivers!"
13
Allie had caught a glimpse of me when I entered the building that forenoon. Being his own boss, practically speaking, and with very little real work to do, he had chosen this elaborately backhanded way of renewing our acquaintance.
"About time, too," he declared, as he headed the car upwards. "A smart guy like you hanging around relief job offices! I'm going to have to take you in hand!"
He stopped the elevator at roof level and motioned for me to follow him. I did so, and he unlocked the door of a penthouse with his pass key and waved me inside.
It was a very elaborate layout, a beautifully furnished combination apartment and office. Stepping over to the bar, Allie selected several bottles at random and mixed us two huge drinks. We clinked glasses and, rather cautiously, I sat down next to him on one of the leather-upholstered stools.
"Whose place is this, Allie?" I said. "And don't tell me it's yours!"
"Belongs to
Shorty stamped out, cursing, too murderously furious to trust himself in the young man's presence. We were rooked, he said, as we headed back to town. There was nothing we could do but take it and forget and concentrate on finding a quick job to make up for our loss.
"I don't know," I said. "It probably won't do any good, but I think I'll go up to the state offices of the project and give them an argument."
"Power to you," he shrugged glumly. "Me, I know when I'm licked."
The project headquarters were in a major downtown office building. I spent the better part of the day there, shuttling from one hack to another, and of course I got no satisfaction at all. Late in the afternoon, I gave up and walked back to the elevators.
The door to one of the cars slid open. I was about to step into it when the operator barred my way. I had seen him and the other two operators staring at me while I was in the project offices. They had left their cars alternately and wandered down the corridor, glancing in at me through the open office doors. Now this man barred my way, a sly smile spreading under his deadpan expression.
"Can't carry you, chief," he said briskly. "Have to use the service elevator."
"What?" I said. "But I'm no delivery boy. I've got as much right to—"
"Sorry. Got my orders. Down the end of the hall and to your right. Man there will take you down."
It was an insult, a slur brought on, as I saw it, by my shabby appearance. In the south, a self-respecting person does not swallow such affronts. I tried to shove my way past him, and was firmly shoved back. Before I could force my way into the car, the door slammed in my face.
I punched the signal button. Another elevator came, and its operator treated me exactly as the first one had.
"Have to take the service elevator, fellow. Down to the end of the corridor and to your right."
"Now what the hell is this?" I said angrily. "Who the hell told you to do this? I'm here on legitimate business. If you think you can shove me around just because I'm not well-dressed—"
"Aahh, look fellow,"—he grinned at me pleadingly—"it's kind of a joke, see? An old friend of yours had us pull it on you. Me and the other boys are just doin' what we're told to."
"Joke?" I said. "An old friend of mine? But—"
"You'll see. And don't tell him I tipped you off, huh?"
The door closed. Bewildered, I went down the hall and pressed the bell for the service elevator. It arrived instantly, operated by a frail, blond, blue-eyed young man. The word STARTER was emblazoned across the jacket of his tuxedo-style uniform.
"What took you so long?" he said. "Been arguing with my hired hands?"
"I might have known it," I said. "Allie Ivers!"
13
Allie had caught a glimpse of me when I entered the building that forenoon. Being his own boss, practically speaking, and with very little real work to do, he had chosen this elaborately backhanded way of renewing our acquaintance.
"About time, too," he declared, as he headed the car upwards. "A smart guy like you hanging around relief job offices! I'm going to have to take you in hand!"
He stopped the elevator at roof level and motioned for me to follow him. I did so, and he unlocked the door of a penthouse with his pass key and waved me inside.
It was a very elaborate layout, a beautifully furnished combination apartment and office. Stepping over to the bar, Allie selected several bottles at random and mixed us two huge drinks. We clinked glasses and, rather cautiously, I sat down next to him on one of the leather-upholstered stools.
"Whose place is this, Allie?" I said. "And don't tell me it's yours!"
"Belongs to
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