Stanley Elkin - Boswell

“Old as he is.”

“Now look,” the clerk said.

“Sick as he is.”

“You’re going to have to—”

“Poor as he is. But no thank you, even — not even a Christmas gift.”

“I can understand how your uncle—”

“Just that old cold check in the mail when he give back the stake. Just that lonely old cold check made out to W. J. Lome and signed W. J. Lome.”

“You may sit in the lobby. I’ve told you that.”

“They got the same names even, but that man’s got no family feeling. What does that kind of a W. J. Lome care about a poor old W. J. Lome who all he’s got in the world’s a run-down hardware store on a highway outside Muskogee, Oklahoma, selling nails to the Injuns or maybe a little bailing wire? ‘Build a motel,’ everybody kept telling him, but is a man supposed to be punished for the reason that he don’t have it in his spirit to make blood money off a bunch of sinning traveling men and their whores? And don’t keep telling me to set in your lobby. I ain’t registered in this hotel and I don’t mean to use none of its comforts. All I want’s what’s mine.”

“Front,” the room clerk said suddenly, slamming a little bell.

“Now stop that,” I said.

“Front, boy!”

“You just cut that out,” I said.

“What is it?” a bellboy said.

“Get Marvin and Frank and show this gentleman out,” the room clerk said.

“All right,” I said. “That’s no necessary thing. I’m going.”

Truthfully, the hotel was not the best place to wait. I had been coming in for two days now and they were suspicious. Actually, I was a little surprised when I saw the place. It was all right — a nineteen-twentyish sort of hotel with commercial traveler written all over it, the kind of place that would fill up during a convention — but not what I would have imagined for one of the richest men in the world. Yet his New York office had told me (I had gone all the way up to Portland, Oregon, just to make the long-distance call authentic) that this was where Mr. Lome stayed when he was in Dallas. I wrote it off as loyalty.

I took up my old position outside the drugstore two doors away from the hotel. It was very hot in the raincoat.

When the pharmacist saw me he came outside. “Look you,” he said, “I’ve told you before. Clear off.”

“You don’t own the sidewalk,” I said.

“Would you like to explain that to a policeman?” he said.

“She’s gonna come, Doc,” I said.

“You’ve been standing here two days now.”

“Please, Doc. She promised. She’s just so pretty, Doc. She’s just so sweet.”

“You’ve been hanging around here for two days now.”

“Doc, she don’t speak no English. If the pretty little thing came along and I wasn’t here to meet her I don’t know what would happen.”

“I’m calling a cop.”

“All right,” I said, “all right. You’ve forced me to tell you the truth. She’s a Mexican wet-back. The immigration authorities are looking for her. They can’t have found her yet or I would have been given a signal, unless they picked up Max, too.”

“Max?”

“Max the Mex,” I said. “Your pharmacy is our new station on the underground railroad. Follow, follow, follow the drinking gourd.”

The pharmacist stared at me for a moment and backed off. I went into the bookshop across the street. The girl looked up and frowned when she saw me.

“Did you find it yet?” I asked.

“Please,” she said, “I’ve spoken to Mr. Melrose and he insists we’ve never stocked the book.”

“But I saw it,” I said. “I saw it right here on this counter.”

“That’s impossible. It’s not even listed in our catalogues.”

“It was published in England,” I said. “Think. In a plain brown wrapper. Felix Sandusky’s Theory of Rings.”

“No,” she said.

“What about the other one then?”

“Which other one?”

I moved over to the window where I could watch the cars that pulled up to the hotel. “Penner on Sainthood.”

“No.”

“Herlitz’s Placing the Teen-Age Boy.”

“No,” she said. “Please, we don’t have any of these books. My goodness, don’t you ever read any novels?”

“Novels? Certainly. Murder mysteries. Like our Presidents — for relaxation. Get me John Sallow’s Kill a Million.”

“We don’t have it.”

“Vita Breve?”

“No.”

“I’ll just browse,” I said.

She walked away and I pretended to poke around among the publisher’s remainders on a table near the window. I was beginning to think that Lome would never come. Like one of the family, I worried for his safety in the private plane. Inside the heavy rubber raincoat I was perspiring freely, but of course I couldn’t take it off. It was the damned coat that called attention to me in the first place. Any coat in this heat would have been conspicuous, but not only was it not raining, Texas was in a drought.

If the cop hadn’t asked to see my license I would have gotten away with it. I had been parading up and down the street with a sign on the back of my raincoat. “RUBBER PRODUCTS ARE BEST,” it said, and beneath this: “RAINCOATS, TIRES, BALLS.” I had been able to watch the hotel for three hours before the cop stopped me.

The girl came over again. “Have you found anything yet?” she asked.

“I — yes. Yes, I have.” The limousine from the airport had pulled up to the hotel and I spotted Lome getting out of it. I took off the raincoat and tossed it to the girl. She stared at my bellboy’s costume. I raced out of the door, popping the little cap on my head as I ran.

I nearly knocked Lome down in my effort to get to him before any of the other bellboys. The doorman stared at me but my uniform was authentic down to the last bit of piping. “Dallas Palace“ stood out in perfect gold script on my tunic. The tailor should have been a forger.

“Mr. Lome’s bags,” I demanded of the driver.

“He has no bags,” the driver said.

“For God’s sake,” I said desperately, “let me carry something.”

Lome was holding a briefcase. In my anxiety I pulled it from him.

“House rule, sir,” I said. “‘In the Dallas Palace the Guest Doesn’t Even Carry a Grudge.’”

ΉHmm,” Lome said, “that’s a good slogan. I like that. All right.”

I took Mr. Lome’s arm and guided him past the doorman into the hotel.

“Hey,” the doorman said, “ain’t you the guy—”

“Front, boy. Front! Front!” I shouted. Four bellboys suddenly appeared from behind potted palms and converged on us. “Mr. Lome’s key. Quickly! Quickly! Mr. Lome wants to go to his suite.”

“But I haven’t even checked in yet,” Lome said.

“Bad flying weather over New Orleans,” I said to one of the bellboys. “Air pockets like something in a mechanic’s pants. Storms all over the South. Lightning crackling, thunder clapping. He’ll sign the register later.” I turned to another bellboy. “Get his key and bring it up to us.”

I wheeled on Mr. Lome. “Come, sir. Your bath is waiting.” There were three elevators and I half guided, half pushed Lome into one of these. My footwork was dazzling; I might have been doing this all my life. The doors closed.

“Aren’t you waiting for the key?” Lome asked.

“They’ll find us, sir,” I said. I had no idea which floor he was supposed to be on. This was an oversight, like the business about the license. I stood by the control panel. “The usual floor, sir?”

“What?” Lome asked.

“Would you like to push the button? Many of our guests prefer to push the button themselves. All the fun in a self-service elevator comes from pushing the button.”