wait, she said, shouldering through the bamboo curtain. I was- Halfway from the curtain to the counter, she got a look at Doyle, and she stopped talking. She stared at him the same way Chet, at the service station, had stared. Yes? Her voice was decidedly cool.
You've got reservations for Doyle, Alex said. Now he was doubly glad he had made reservations. He was fairly sure she would have turned him away, even if he could see there was not a car in front of every room and even if the neon vacancy sign was lighted.
Doyle? she asked.
Doyle.
She came the rest of the way to the counter, brightened as she reached for the file cards by the registry book. Oh, the father and son from Philadelphia!
That's right, Doyle said, trying to smile.
She was in her middle fifties, an attractive woman despite the extra twenty pounds she carried. She wore her hair in a 1950's bouffant, her broad forehead revealed, spit curls at her ears. Her knit dress clung to a full if matronly bosom. The lines of a girdle showed at hips and waist.
That was one of our seventeen-dollar rooms, she said.
Yes.
She took the file card from the green metal box, looked closely at it, then flipped open the registration book. She carefully completed a third-of-a-page form, then turned the book around and held out the pen. If you'll sign here Oh, she said as he reached for the pen, maybe your father should sign. The room is reserved in his name.
Doyle looked at her uncomprehendingly until he realized she had more in common with Chet than he had first thought. I am the father. I'm Alex Doyle.
She frowned. When she tilted her head, the bouffant seemed about to slide right down over her face in one well-sprayed piece. But it says here-
My boy's eleven. He took the pen and scribbled his signature on the form.
She looked at the freshly inked name as if it were an ugly spot on her new slipcovers. Any minute now she would run for the solvent and scrub the nasty thing away.
Which room have we got? Alex asked, prodding her along against her will.
She took in his hair and clothes again. He was not accustomed to such frank disapproval in cities like Philly and San Francisco, and he resented her manner.
Well, she said, you must be aware that you pay-
In advance, he finished for her. Yes, silly of me not to think of it. He counted twelve dollars onto the registration book. I sent in a five-dollar deposit, you may recall.
But there's tax, she said.
How much?
When she told him, he paid from the loose change in the pocket of his wrinkled dark gray jeans.
She counted the money into the cash drawer even though she had seen him count it himself a minute ago. Reluctantly she took a key from the pegboard and gave it to him. Room 37, she said, staring at the key as if it were diamond jewelry she was committing to his care. That's way down the long wing.
Thank you, he said, hoping to avoid a scene. He walked back across the clean, well-lighted room toward the door.
The Lazy Time has very nice rooms, she said as he reached the door.
He looked back. I'm sure it does.
We like to keep them that way, she said.
He nodded grimly and got the hell out of there.
Despite the fact that he had lost sight of the Thunderbird, George Leland began to calm down. For fifteen minutes he pushed the van along at top speed, desperately surveying the traffic ahead for a glimpse of the big car. But his natural empathy with machines acted as a sedative. The fear left him. He let the van slow down. With a growing confidence in his ability to catch up with the Thunderbird, he drove only a few miles an hour over the speed limit. Like a man in a light trance, he
You've got reservations for Doyle, Alex said. Now he was doubly glad he had made reservations. He was fairly sure she would have turned him away, even if he could see there was not a car in front of every room and even if the neon vacancy sign was lighted.
Doyle? she asked.
Doyle.
She came the rest of the way to the counter, brightened as she reached for the file cards by the registry book. Oh, the father and son from Philadelphia!
That's right, Doyle said, trying to smile.
She was in her middle fifties, an attractive woman despite the extra twenty pounds she carried. She wore her hair in a 1950's bouffant, her broad forehead revealed, spit curls at her ears. Her knit dress clung to a full if matronly bosom. The lines of a girdle showed at hips and waist.
That was one of our seventeen-dollar rooms, she said.
Yes.
She took the file card from the green metal box, looked closely at it, then flipped open the registration book. She carefully completed a third-of-a-page form, then turned the book around and held out the pen. If you'll sign here Oh, she said as he reached for the pen, maybe your father should sign. The room is reserved in his name.
Doyle looked at her uncomprehendingly until he realized she had more in common with Chet than he had first thought. I am the father. I'm Alex Doyle.
She frowned. When she tilted her head, the bouffant seemed about to slide right down over her face in one well-sprayed piece. But it says here-
My boy's eleven. He took the pen and scribbled his signature on the form.
She looked at the freshly inked name as if it were an ugly spot on her new slipcovers. Any minute now she would run for the solvent and scrub the nasty thing away.
Which room have we got? Alex asked, prodding her along against her will.
She took in his hair and clothes again. He was not accustomed to such frank disapproval in cities like Philly and San Francisco, and he resented her manner.
Well, she said, you must be aware that you pay-
In advance, he finished for her. Yes, silly of me not to think of it. He counted twelve dollars onto the registration book. I sent in a five-dollar deposit, you may recall.
But there's tax, she said.
How much?
When she told him, he paid from the loose change in the pocket of his wrinkled dark gray jeans.
She counted the money into the cash drawer even though she had seen him count it himself a minute ago. Reluctantly she took a key from the pegboard and gave it to him. Room 37, she said, staring at the key as if it were diamond jewelry she was committing to his care. That's way down the long wing.
Thank you, he said, hoping to avoid a scene. He walked back across the clean, well-lighted room toward the door.
The Lazy Time has very nice rooms, she said as he reached the door.
He looked back. I'm sure it does.
We like to keep them that way, she said.
He nodded grimly and got the hell out of there.
Despite the fact that he had lost sight of the Thunderbird, George Leland began to calm down. For fifteen minutes he pushed the van along at top speed, desperately surveying the traffic ahead for a glimpse of the big car. But his natural empathy with machines acted as a sedative. The fear left him. He let the van slow down. With a growing confidence in his ability to catch up with the Thunderbird, he drove only a few miles an hour over the speed limit. Like a man in a light trance, he