stall that was so stained with use and age that it looked like nicotine plastic. Its faucet dripped, hitting the contained aluminum base with a
plit, plit, plit
.
The enamel was all but worn off the sink, and the mirror was so dull you wouldn’t bother looking for yourself in it. While cheap to begin with, the double bed was worn out, sagging from its hard life. There was a single night table of worn pine, with burns on the edges and circles from endless bottles. A nice touch for the port flophouse theme was an imitation hurricane lamp on the table, its metal base rusting. The bedcover emphasized a cigarette burn near the thin pillows, and underfoot, the carpeting was prickly and stiff. It reminded MacNeice of walking on the frozen grass at the bay. A pale yellowy green curtain covered the window, casting an uneasy tint across the room.
The room across the hall—with no such lofty designate—had only a sink, a 1950s armoire and an identical bed and night table. The lighting was provided by two four-foot fluorescent tubes behind a dirty acrylic lens. The colour scheme was hospital blue. It was a toss-up as to which room was the more depressing.
“No televisions?”
“There’s TV downstairs, and beer, if you catch my drift. We don’t have room service.”
MacNeice nodded
. Abandon all hope ye who enter here
. He told the barman to carry on, and Byrne swung the key ring theatrically around his index finger to isolate a key. He appeared to be enjoying the tour.
Byrne opened the next door. MacNeice stepped past him into a wall of musty air. The room was fitted out with a double bed and two straight-backed wooden chairs, a metal nightstand and, overhead, a bare fluorescent tube. A brown curtain was drawn over a small closet. When he pulled it back, he found three shelves with curling paper. Two dead flies lay together on the middle shelf. Byrne brushed them off and they fell to the cracked red and black checkerboard linoleum floor.
“Comfy, eh? I mean, yer here to sleep. It’s not a drawing room for receptions.”
“Next.”
The rest of the rooms were rented. Given how quiet it was, the three tenants were presumably still asleep. Byrne smiled, knocked sharply at the first door and announced, “Police,” before turning the key. Startled, an old man in pyjamas sat up and put his glasses on. “Mornin’,” he said, as if Byrne and MacNeice standing before him was the most natural thing in the world.
MacNeice asked him how long he’d been rooming at the bar. The old man reached over to a cup on the bedside table, put his hand in and retrieved his dentures. He positioned them and worked his jaw once or twice. “Well, I dunno … What do you think, Billy, three, four months now?”
Byrne shrugged his shoulders. MacNeice turned to the old man again. “So, what’s your name?”
“Freddy Dewar.”
“When was the last time you had a decent breakfast, Mr. Dewar?”
Freddy looked over his glasses at the detective. “What, you mean like bacon and eggs and hash browns?”
That was exactly what MacNeice meant. “How about you come along with me and you can eat while we chat?”
The old man’s face brightened. “Sure. Gimme a few minutes and I’ll be right with you.”
The other two roomers had awoken when they heard Byrne call, “Police.” They were both new to the bar. The first had arrived two days ago. An Italian immigrant in his thirties, he was looking for work as a carpenter. He retrieved his passport and landed immigrant status papers from a heavy corduroy jacket and handed them to MacNeice. The detective made a mental note of the name and handed both back to him.
The last of the roomers stood up shakily as they came through the door. He was a heavy man in his late fifties. His wife had thrown him out of the house the week before because of his drinking.
If there was anything left in the rooms from late November or December, it might be very tired evidence, worn down by disinterest,
plit, plit, plit
.
The enamel was all but worn off the sink, and the mirror was so dull you wouldn’t bother looking for yourself in it. While cheap to begin with, the double bed was worn out, sagging from its hard life. There was a single night table of worn pine, with burns on the edges and circles from endless bottles. A nice touch for the port flophouse theme was an imitation hurricane lamp on the table, its metal base rusting. The bedcover emphasized a cigarette burn near the thin pillows, and underfoot, the carpeting was prickly and stiff. It reminded MacNeice of walking on the frozen grass at the bay. A pale yellowy green curtain covered the window, casting an uneasy tint across the room.
The room across the hall—with no such lofty designate—had only a sink, a 1950s armoire and an identical bed and night table. The lighting was provided by two four-foot fluorescent tubes behind a dirty acrylic lens. The colour scheme was hospital blue. It was a toss-up as to which room was the more depressing.
“No televisions?”
“There’s TV downstairs, and beer, if you catch my drift. We don’t have room service.”
MacNeice nodded
. Abandon all hope ye who enter here
. He told the barman to carry on, and Byrne swung the key ring theatrically around his index finger to isolate a key. He appeared to be enjoying the tour.
Byrne opened the next door. MacNeice stepped past him into a wall of musty air. The room was fitted out with a double bed and two straight-backed wooden chairs, a metal nightstand and, overhead, a bare fluorescent tube. A brown curtain was drawn over a small closet. When he pulled it back, he found three shelves with curling paper. Two dead flies lay together on the middle shelf. Byrne brushed them off and they fell to the cracked red and black checkerboard linoleum floor.
“Comfy, eh? I mean, yer here to sleep. It’s not a drawing room for receptions.”
“Next.”
The rest of the rooms were rented. Given how quiet it was, the three tenants were presumably still asleep. Byrne smiled, knocked sharply at the first door and announced, “Police,” before turning the key. Startled, an old man in pyjamas sat up and put his glasses on. “Mornin’,” he said, as if Byrne and MacNeice standing before him was the most natural thing in the world.
MacNeice asked him how long he’d been rooming at the bar. The old man reached over to a cup on the bedside table, put his hand in and retrieved his dentures. He positioned them and worked his jaw once or twice. “Well, I dunno … What do you think, Billy, three, four months now?”
Byrne shrugged his shoulders. MacNeice turned to the old man again. “So, what’s your name?”
“Freddy Dewar.”
“When was the last time you had a decent breakfast, Mr. Dewar?”
Freddy looked over his glasses at the detective. “What, you mean like bacon and eggs and hash browns?”
That was exactly what MacNeice meant. “How about you come along with me and you can eat while we chat?”
The old man’s face brightened. “Sure. Gimme a few minutes and I’ll be right with you.”
The other two roomers had awoken when they heard Byrne call, “Police.” They were both new to the bar. The first had arrived two days ago. An Italian immigrant in his thirties, he was looking for work as a carpenter. He retrieved his passport and landed immigrant status papers from a heavy corduroy jacket and handed them to MacNeice. The detective made a mental note of the name and handed both back to him.
The last of the roomers stood up shakily as they came through the door. He was a heavy man in his late fifties. His wife had thrown him out of the house the week before because of his drinking.
If there was anything left in the rooms from late November or December, it might be very tired evidence, worn down by disinterest,
Similar Books
