Nightwork by Irwin Shaw Read Free Book Online Page B

downstairs.”
    “See you at six,” I said.
    “You hope,” the fat man said, without smiling. He placed the notes that I had given him on the outside of a roll of bills, snapped a rubber band deftly around it. He had small, fat, nimble hands. “Morris always knows where to find me, Mr. Brown,” he said as he went out.
    After that, I unpacked and started to put my clothes away. As I was taking my toothbrush and shaving things out of the kit, my razor fell to the floor and skidded beneath the chest of drawers. I knelt to retrieve it, running my hand under the chest. Along with the razor and a small pile of dust, I brought out a coin. It was a silver dollar. I blew the dust off the coin and put it in my pocket. They don’t clean very thoroughly in this hotel, I thought. Good for them. Today, I was definitely ahead of the game.
    I looked at my watch. It was almost noon. I picked up the telephone and gave the number of the St. Augustine to the operator. As usual, it was nearly thirty seconds before there was an answer. Clara, the operator, regarded all calls as wanton interruptions in her private life, which consisted, as far as I could ever tell, of reading magazines on astrology. She used delay as a means of protest and punishment for electronic interrupters of her search for the perfect horoscope, wealth, fame, a young and handsome dark stranger.
    “Hello, Clara,” I said. “Is Mr. Drusack there?”
    “He sure is,” Clara said. “He’s been on my neck all morning to call you. What the hell is your number anyway? I couldn’t find it anywhere. I called the hotel we have here as your address and they say they never heard of you.”
    “That was two years ago. I moved.” Actually, I had moved four times since then. A typical American, I had continually pushed toward new frontiers, always farther north. The wealth of the Yukon, by way of the East Eighties, Harlem, Riverdale, the frozen tundra. “I don’t have a number, Clara.”
    “What do you mean, you don’t have a number?”
    “I don’t have a telephone.”
    “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Grimes.”
    “You can say that again, Clara. Now give me Mr. Drusack.”
    “My God, Grimes,” Drusack said when he got on the phone, “you sure left me a mess. You better get right on down here and help me straighten it out.”
    “I’m very sorry, Mr. Drusack,” I said. I tried to sound genuinely grieved. “I’m busy today. What’s the matter?”
    “What’s the matter?” Drusack was shouting now. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter. The goddamn Western Union called at ten o’clock. There’s no John Ferris at that address you gave them, that’s what’s the matter.”
    “That’s the address he registered under.”
    “You come and tell that to the police. They were in here for an hour this morning. And there were two characters in here asking for him, and if they weren’t packing guns I’m Miss Rheingold of 1983. They talked to me as if I was hiding the sonofabitch or something. They asked me if the guy left a message for them. Did he leave a message?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Well, they want to talk to you.”
    “Why me?” I asked, although I knew why.
    “I told them the night man found the guy. I told them you’d be in at eleven P.M. , but they said they couldn’t wait that long, what was your address. Grimes, do you know that nobody in this goddamn hotel knows where you live? Naturally, those two fuckers wouldn’t believe that . They said they’re coming back here at three o’clock and I’d better damn well produce you. Scary. They weren’t any small-time hoods. Short hair, dressed like stockbrokers. Quiet. Like spies in the movies. They weren’t kidding. Not at all kidding. So you be here. Because I’m going to be out on a long, long lunch.”
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Drusack,” I said smoothly, enjoying a conversation with the manager for the first time since I started working for him. “I called to