steam heat hissed too liberally from the radiator. All of these were qualities that Elroy prized.
Elroy took off the long overcoat that Byron had given him, then shed the bloodied black jacket. From the jacket he took the crumpled cash, the pieces of jewelry, and tossed it all onto the bed. He should have given them to Byron but he had forgotten. And Byron had been so furious with him for bungling the job that he had forgotten to ask about money and jewels.
But that was this morning, a long time ago. Elroy felt better now, though quite exhausted. Byron had calmed down, too. The main thing was, he was safe. He looked about the room. This was real comfort, he told himself. He thought of some of his old associates. They would be lying in abandoned buildings, wrapped in newspapers. One of them might have a pint of “golden,” or they might have pooled their pennies for a “fif’ of tokay.” They would tell each other, “The hawk is out tonight.”
But not for me, Elroy thought. No hawk tonight. Tonight he was safe and warm.
This room even had a bath. An old bathtub on ornate feet, with little packages of soap and thin towels. Elroy took a long and steamy bath. Afterwards, he rinsed out his stiff and blood-crusted trousers and hung them up to dry. Then he sank down onto the stool for a long and leisurely time.
Elroy rang for room service, and fifteen minutes later a cheerful young black man showed up wearing a dirty bellhop uniform. When he smiled there was a gap in his front teeth and he clearly expected Elroy to ask for a whore. Instead, Elroy requested a bottle of whiskey and gave him ten dollars. A half-hour later the bellhop returned with a fifth of Four Roses. He offered no change from the ten. Elroy knew how much the bottle had cost, but said nothing. It was a pleasure to spend money again.
He emptied the huge pockets of the overcoat onto the bed. There was a pile of money and a .32 revolver with a chip missing from the grip. He opened the bottle of whiskey and counted the money with pleasure. Ten thousand dollars. It made him feel wonderful. It made up entirely for the terrors and exhaustion of his day's work. In fact, he'd go through it all again, if he had to.
And Byron! Imagine Byron not wanting to give him his share right away. “It'll be safer for you, Ellie,” he'd said. “The cops pick you up now, with this kind of bread on you, you've had it.”
“I want it now,” Elroy had insisted. He was glad he had insisted. He counted the money several times and thought of the fun he was going to have in Florida. Leaving tomorrow. He wished he had gone today, but Byron had talked him out of that. “We'll have to get you some clothes.” Byron was too careful.
Elroy drank the whole bottle before he went to bed. He didn't want any dreams.
He woke early, conscious of some bad dreams. His head was pounding. He was hot and stuffed up, his lips puffy, his tongue swollen. All he could do was groan and repress the bad dreams. The scratches on his face stung. Immediately he thought of Byron. He called the desk for the time and to see if there were any messages. There weren't and it was just seven. He ordered a newspaper.
The Free Press was full of the Indian Village murder. Elroy read all the articles twice. There was nothing remotely connecting him and, oddly enough, this made him feel resentful. He wassurprised to learn just who Arthur Clippert was. Then he began to worry about Byron.
Elroy was nervous about Byron this morning. Yesterday Byron had been furious when Elroy had come panting up the alley and piled into the cab, covered with blood, soaking wet. They had driven all around the city with Byron ignoring his dispatcher's calls while Elroy told over and over exactly what had happened. Elroy almost fainted when Byron said he was going to drive by and see if the cops were there yet. He pleaded and pleaded, but it was no use. They passed safely, a block away, and looked down the street where all the cop cars
Elroy took off the long overcoat that Byron had given him, then shed the bloodied black jacket. From the jacket he took the crumpled cash, the pieces of jewelry, and tossed it all onto the bed. He should have given them to Byron but he had forgotten. And Byron had been so furious with him for bungling the job that he had forgotten to ask about money and jewels.
But that was this morning, a long time ago. Elroy felt better now, though quite exhausted. Byron had calmed down, too. The main thing was, he was safe. He looked about the room. This was real comfort, he told himself. He thought of some of his old associates. They would be lying in abandoned buildings, wrapped in newspapers. One of them might have a pint of “golden,” or they might have pooled their pennies for a “fif’ of tokay.” They would tell each other, “The hawk is out tonight.”
But not for me, Elroy thought. No hawk tonight. Tonight he was safe and warm.
This room even had a bath. An old bathtub on ornate feet, with little packages of soap and thin towels. Elroy took a long and steamy bath. Afterwards, he rinsed out his stiff and blood-crusted trousers and hung them up to dry. Then he sank down onto the stool for a long and leisurely time.
Elroy rang for room service, and fifteen minutes later a cheerful young black man showed up wearing a dirty bellhop uniform. When he smiled there was a gap in his front teeth and he clearly expected Elroy to ask for a whore. Instead, Elroy requested a bottle of whiskey and gave him ten dollars. A half-hour later the bellhop returned with a fifth of Four Roses. He offered no change from the ten. Elroy knew how much the bottle had cost, but said nothing. It was a pleasure to spend money again.
He emptied the huge pockets of the overcoat onto the bed. There was a pile of money and a .32 revolver with a chip missing from the grip. He opened the bottle of whiskey and counted the money with pleasure. Ten thousand dollars. It made him feel wonderful. It made up entirely for the terrors and exhaustion of his day's work. In fact, he'd go through it all again, if he had to.
And Byron! Imagine Byron not wanting to give him his share right away. “It'll be safer for you, Ellie,” he'd said. “The cops pick you up now, with this kind of bread on you, you've had it.”
“I want it now,” Elroy had insisted. He was glad he had insisted. He counted the money several times and thought of the fun he was going to have in Florida. Leaving tomorrow. He wished he had gone today, but Byron had talked him out of that. “We'll have to get you some clothes.” Byron was too careful.
Elroy drank the whole bottle before he went to bed. He didn't want any dreams.
He woke early, conscious of some bad dreams. His head was pounding. He was hot and stuffed up, his lips puffy, his tongue swollen. All he could do was groan and repress the bad dreams. The scratches on his face stung. Immediately he thought of Byron. He called the desk for the time and to see if there were any messages. There weren't and it was just seven. He ordered a newspaper.
The Free Press was full of the Indian Village murder. Elroy read all the articles twice. There was nothing remotely connecting him and, oddly enough, this made him feel resentful. He wassurprised to learn just who Arthur Clippert was. Then he began to worry about Byron.
Elroy was nervous about Byron this morning. Yesterday Byron had been furious when Elroy had come panting up the alley and piled into the cab, covered with blood, soaking wet. They had driven all around the city with Byron ignoring his dispatcher's calls while Elroy told over and over exactly what had happened. Elroy almost fainted when Byron said he was going to drive by and see if the cops were there yet. He pleaded and pleaded, but it was no use. They passed safely, a block away, and looked down the street where all the cop cars
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