the way he did。 There was bound to be trouble； maybe bad trouble。
He suddenly keyed the limo； put it in reverse； and pulled back onto the
highway； peeling rubber。 The waitress with the rolling hips stood in the A&W
stand's archway； a tray with a rootbeer float on it in her hands。
〃What is it with you； a fire？〃 she shouted； but Hallorann was gone。
* * *
The manager was a man named Queems； and when Hallorann came in Queems was
conversing with his bookie。 He wanted the four…horse at Rockaway。 No； no parlay；
no quinella； no exacta； no goddam futura。 Just the little old four； six hundred
dollars on the nose。 And the Jets on Sunday。 What did he mean； the Jets were
playing the Bills？ Didn't he know who the Jets were playing？ Five hundred；
seven…point spread。 When Queems hung up； looking put…out； Hallorann understood
how a man could make fifty grand a year running this little spa and still wear
suits with shiny seats。 He regarded Hallorann with an eye that was still
bloodshot from too many glances into last night's bourbon bottle。
〃Problems； Dick？〃
〃Yes； sir； Mr。 Queems； I guess so。 I need three days off。〃
There was a package of Kents in the breast pocket of Queems's sheer yellow
shirt。 He reached one out of the pocket without removing the pack； tweezing it
out； and bit down morosely on the patented Micronite filter。 He lit it with his
desktop Cricket。
〃So do I；〃 he said。 〃But what's on your mind？〃
〃I need three days；〃 Hallorann repeated。 〃It's my boy。〃
Queems's eyes dropped to Hallorann's left hand； which was ringless。
〃I been divorced since 1964；〃 Hallorann said patiently。
〃Dick； you know what the weekend situation is。 We're full。 To the gunnels。
Even the cheap seats。 We're even filled up in the Florida Room on Sunday night。
So take my watch； my wallet； my pension fund。 Hell； you can even take my wife if
you can stand the sharp edges。 But please don't ask me for time off。 What is he；
sick？〃
〃Yes； sir；〃 Hallorann said； still trying to visualize himself twisting a cheap
cloth hat and rolling his eyeballs。 〃He shot。〃
〃Shot！〃 Queems said。 He put his Kent down in an ashtray which bore the emblem
of Ole Miss； of which he was a business admin graduate。
〃Yes； sir；〃 Hallorann said somberly。
〃Hunting accident？〃
〃No； sir；〃 Hallorann said； and let his voice drop to a lower； huskier note。
〃Jana； she's been livin with this truck driver。 A white man。 He shot my boy。
He's in a hospital in Denver； Colorado。 Critical condition。〃
〃How in hell did you find out？ I thought you were buying vegetables。〃
〃Yes； sir； I was。〃 He had stopped at the Western Union office just before
ing here to reserve an Avis car at Stapleton Airport。 Before leaving he had
swiped a Western Union flimsy。 Now he took the folded and crumpled blank form
from his pocket and flashed it before Queems's bloodshot eyes。 He put it back in
his pocket and； allowing his voice to drop another notch； said： 〃Jana sent it。
It was waitin in my letterbox when I got back just now。〃
〃Jesus。 Jesus Christ；〃 Queems said。 There was a peculiar tight expression of
concern on his face； one Hallorann was familiar with。 It was as close to an
expression of sympathy as a white man who thought of himself as 〃good with the
coloreds〃 could get when the object was a black man or his mythical black son。
〃Yeah； okay； you get going；〃 Queems said。 〃Baedecker can take over for three
days； I guess。 The potboy can help out。〃
Hallorann nodded； letting his face get longer still； but the thought of the
potboy helping out Baedecker made him grin inside。 Even on a good day Hallorann
doubted if the potboy could hit the urinal on the first squirt。
〃I want to rebate back this week's pay；〃 Hallorann said。 〃The whole thing。 I
know what a bind this puttin you in； Mr。 Queems； sir。〃
Queems's expression got tighter still it looked as if he might have a fishbone
caught in his throat。 〃We can talk about that later。 You go on and pack。 I'll
talk to Baedecker。 Want me to make you a plane reservation？〃
〃No； sir； I'll do it。〃
〃All right。〃 Queems stood up； leaned sincerely forward； and inhaled a raft of
ascending smoke from his Kent。 He coughed heartily； his thin white face turning
red。 Hallorann struggled hard to keep his somber expression。 〃I hope everything
turns out； Dick。 Call when you get word。〃
〃I'll do that。〃
They shook hands over the desk。
Hallorann made himself get down to the ground floor and across to the hired
help's pound before bursting into rich； bead…shaking laughter。 He was still
grinning and mopping his streaming eyes with his handkerchief when the smell of
oranges came； thick and gagging； and the bolt followed it； striking him in the
head； sending him back against the pink stucco wall in a drunken stagger。
（！！！ PLEASE E DICK PLEASE E E
QUICK ！！！）
He recovered a little at a time and at last felt capable of climbing the
outside stairs to his apartment。 He kept the latchkey under the rush…plaited
doormat； and when he reached down to get it； something fell out of his inner
pocket and fell to the second…floor decking with a flat thump。 His mind was
still so much on the voice that had shivered through his head that for a moment
he could only look at the blue envelope blankly； not knowing what it was。
Then he turned it over and the word WILL stared up at him in the black spidery
letters。
（Oh my God is it like that？）
He didn't know。 But it could be。 All week long the thought of his own ending
had been on his mind like a 。。。 well； like a
（Go on； say it）
like a premonition；。
Death？ For a moment his whole life seemed to flash before him； not in a
historical sense； no topography of the ups and downs that Mrs。 Hallorann's third
son； Dick； had lived through； but his life as it was now。 Martin Luther King had
told them not long before the bullet took him down to his martyr's grave that he
had been to the mountain。 Dick could not claim that。 No mountain； but he had
reached a sunny plateau after years of struggle。 He had good friends。 He had all
the references he would ever need to get a job anywhere。 When he wanted fuck；
why； he could find a friendly one with no questions asked and no big shitty
struggle about what it all meant。 He had e to terms with his blackness — happy
terms。 He was up past sixty and thank God； he was cruising。
Was he going to chance the end of that — the end of him — for three white people
he didn't even know？
But that was a lie； wasn't it？
He knew the boy。 They had shared each other the way good friends can't even
after forty years of it。 He knew the boy and the boy knew him； because they each
had a kind of searchlight in their heads； something they hadn't asked for；
something that had just been given。
（Naw； you got a flashlight； he the one with the searchlight。）
And sometimes that light； that shine； seemed like a pretty nice thing。 You
could pick the horses； or like the boy had said； you could tell your daddy where
his trunk was when it turned up missing。 But that was only dressing； the sauce
on the salad； and down below there was as much bitter vetch in that salad as
there was cool cucumber。 You could taste pain and death and tears。 And now the
boy was stuck in that place； and he would go。 For the boy。 Because； speaking to
the boy； they had only been different colors when they used their mouths。 So he
would go。 He would do what he could； because if he didn't； the boy was going to
die right inside his head。
But because he was human he could not help a bitter wish that the cup had
never been passed his way。
* * *
（She had started to get out and e after him。）
He had been dumping a change of clothes into an overnight bag when the thought
came to him； freezing him with the power of the memory as it always did when he
thought of it。 He tried to think of it as seldom as possible。
The maid； Delores Vickery her name was； had been hysterical。 Had said some
things to the other chambermaids； and worse still； to some of the guests。 When
the word got back to Ullman； as the silly quiff should have known it would do；
he had fired her out of hand。 She had e to Hallorann in tears； not about
being fired； but about the thing she had seen in that second…floor room。 She had
gone into 217 to change the towels； she said； and there had been that Mrs。
Massey； lying dead in the tub。 That； of course； was impossible。 Mrs。 Massey had
been discreetly taken away the day before and was even then winging her way back
to New York — in the shipping hold instead of the first class she'd been
accustomed to。
Hallorann hadn't liked Delores much； but he had gone up to look that evening。
The maid was an olive…plected girl of twenty…three who waited tables near the
end of the season when things slowed down。 She had a small shining； Hallorann
judged； really not more than a twinkle； a mousy…looking man and his escort；
wearing a faded cloth coat； would e in for dinner and Delores would trade one
of her tables for theirs。 The mousy little man would leave a picture of
Alexander Hamilton under his plate； bad enough for the girl who had made the
trade； but worse； Delores would crow over it。 She was lazy； a goof…off in an
operation run by a man who allowed no goof…offs。 She would sit in a linen
closet； reading a confession magazine and smoking； but whenever Ullman went on
one of his unscheduled prowls （and woe to the girl he caught resting her feet）
he found her working industriously； her magazine hidden under the sheets on a
high shelf； her ashtray tucked safely into her uniform pocket。 Yeah； Hallorann
thought； she'd been a goof…off and a sloven and the other girls had resented
her； but Delores had had that little twinkle。 It had always greased the skids
for her。 But what she had seen in 217 had scared her badly enough so she was
more than glad to pick up the walking papers Ullman had issued her and go。
Why had she e