all he could think of now was release. All he wanted now was to escape from this friendly, helpful and terrifying little man.
"I'll – I hope I see you again," he mumbled weakly.
"Sure you will." Kossmeyer gave him a hearty clap on the back. "Any old time, kid. If it ain't convenient for you to come in, I'll look you up."
He held the door open, beaming, ushered Dusty through it. He shook hands again. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll keep in touch. You can depend on it, Dusty."
SIX
As it often did, after a scorching day, the night brought rain. It had started a Jew minutes before Dusty came to work; now, at three in the morning, it had settled down to a slow steady drizzle.
It was a quiet shift. No guests had come in on the late train, and there had been hardly a dozen room calls thus far. He and Bascom were practically through with their paper work; at least, there was little remaining that he could help with. Lounging at the side of the door of the lobby, he drank in the wonderfully cool clean air, watching the curtain of rain flow endlessly into the oily black pavement.
He was feeling good, all things considered, considering that he had had almost no sleep. It was cool, and Kossmeyer hadn't guessed anything – what the hell was there for him to guess, anyway? – and Bascom was being decent for a change. Bascom had been taking a lot out of him, Dusty decided. You were bound to be nervous and depressed when you had some guy riding you night after night.
Dusty flipped his cigarette into the street, and went back into the lobby. Bascom called to him pleasantly from the cashier's cage.
"How does it look, Bill? Still coming down pretty hard?"
"Not too bad. You can make it all right if you take an umbrella."
"Good. Think I'll go get a bite to eat, then."
Dusty went behind the desk. Bascom came out of the cashier's cage, locked the door behind him and got an umbrella. He opened the door at the rear of the keyrack, and emerged into the lobby.
"Well" – his voice was casual; he spoke almost over his shoulder – "I guess you're not going to go back to college?"
"I'm still thinking about it," Dusty said. "I want to, but it'll take time to work it out."
"I see," Bascom nodded. "At any rate, I don't suppose you could go back before the fall term."
"No, sir. Not very well."
"I'll be back in a few minutes," Bascom said. "You know where to reach me if anything comes up."
He went out the side door, raising the umbrella as he stepped under the marquee. Dusty leaned his elbows on the marble desk top, and let his eyes wander around the lobby. He yawned pleasurably. A good night, any way you looked at it. Bascom, the weather, money-wise. Tug Trowbridge had given him a ten-dollar tip. If he didn't make another nickel between now and quitting time, he'd still have a good shift.
At his elbow, the bell captain's phone rang suddenly. Dusty jumped, startled, then picked up the receiver.
It was her, Marcia Hillis. He recognized her voice instantly, and she recognized his.
"Dusty? Can you bring me some stationery?"
"Yes, ma'am. Right away, Miss – I mean, I can bring them in a few minutes, Miss Hillis. The room clerk's gone out to eat, and I have to watch the desk."
"Oh? Are you afraid it will run away?"
"No, ma'am, I-"
She laughed softly. "I was teasing… As soon as you can, then."
"Yes, ma'am."
He hung the receiver up clumsily. Opening a drawer, he took out a stack of stationery, small and typewriter size, and laid it on the counter. He went behind the keyrack to the lavatory and combed his hair. He came out front again, and looked at the clock. Bascom had been gone… well, he'd been gone long enough. Should be back any minute. He looked at the stack of stationery, shook his head judiciously, and returned two thirds of it to the drawer.
Something in the action stirred his memory. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around: memory, a recollection, brought about the action. Something the superintendent of service had lectured
"I'll – I hope I see you again," he mumbled weakly.
"Sure you will." Kossmeyer gave him a hearty clap on the back. "Any old time, kid. If it ain't convenient for you to come in, I'll look you up."
He held the door open, beaming, ushered Dusty through it. He shook hands again. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll keep in touch. You can depend on it, Dusty."
SIX
As it often did, after a scorching day, the night brought rain. It had started a Jew minutes before Dusty came to work; now, at three in the morning, it had settled down to a slow steady drizzle.
It was a quiet shift. No guests had come in on the late train, and there had been hardly a dozen room calls thus far. He and Bascom were practically through with their paper work; at least, there was little remaining that he could help with. Lounging at the side of the door of the lobby, he drank in the wonderfully cool clean air, watching the curtain of rain flow endlessly into the oily black pavement.
He was feeling good, all things considered, considering that he had had almost no sleep. It was cool, and Kossmeyer hadn't guessed anything – what the hell was there for him to guess, anyway? – and Bascom was being decent for a change. Bascom had been taking a lot out of him, Dusty decided. You were bound to be nervous and depressed when you had some guy riding you night after night.
Dusty flipped his cigarette into the street, and went back into the lobby. Bascom called to him pleasantly from the cashier's cage.
"How does it look, Bill? Still coming down pretty hard?"
"Not too bad. You can make it all right if you take an umbrella."
"Good. Think I'll go get a bite to eat, then."
Dusty went behind the desk. Bascom came out of the cashier's cage, locked the door behind him and got an umbrella. He opened the door at the rear of the keyrack, and emerged into the lobby.
"Well" – his voice was casual; he spoke almost over his shoulder – "I guess you're not going to go back to college?"
"I'm still thinking about it," Dusty said. "I want to, but it'll take time to work it out."
"I see," Bascom nodded. "At any rate, I don't suppose you could go back before the fall term."
"No, sir. Not very well."
"I'll be back in a few minutes," Bascom said. "You know where to reach me if anything comes up."
He went out the side door, raising the umbrella as he stepped under the marquee. Dusty leaned his elbows on the marble desk top, and let his eyes wander around the lobby. He yawned pleasurably. A good night, any way you looked at it. Bascom, the weather, money-wise. Tug Trowbridge had given him a ten-dollar tip. If he didn't make another nickel between now and quitting time, he'd still have a good shift.
At his elbow, the bell captain's phone rang suddenly. Dusty jumped, startled, then picked up the receiver.
It was her, Marcia Hillis. He recognized her voice instantly, and she recognized his.
"Dusty? Can you bring me some stationery?"
"Yes, ma'am. Right away, Miss – I mean, I can bring them in a few minutes, Miss Hillis. The room clerk's gone out to eat, and I have to watch the desk."
"Oh? Are you afraid it will run away?"
"No, ma'am, I-"
She laughed softly. "I was teasing… As soon as you can, then."
"Yes, ma'am."
He hung the receiver up clumsily. Opening a drawer, he took out a stack of stationery, small and typewriter size, and laid it on the counter. He went behind the keyrack to the lavatory and combed his hair. He came out front again, and looked at the clock. Bascom had been gone… well, he'd been gone long enough. Should be back any minute. He looked at the stack of stationery, shook his head judiciously, and returned two thirds of it to the drawer.
Something in the action stirred his memory. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around: memory, a recollection, brought about the action. Something the superintendent of service had lectured
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