square away when I get all this shit taken care of."
"You’ve got a future in this business," Digger said.
"I hope so. My past is already buried in it," the young man said, and turned back to his telephone conversation, his mixing of drinks for waitresses who appeared with liquor orders for their lunch tables, and his checking the stack of bills.
It didn’t take as long as Digger had expected because he had had only three drinks before the young man finally came down the bar toward him. During that period a dozen people had walked down the hall, past the bar and toward the front door. They were sleek and fat, but the women were unjeweled, which might be what differentiated Belton’s upper classes from the upper classes of big cities, Digger thought. He also thought fleetingly of his bag in the hall, but decided that it was safe. That was another thing that distinguished places like Belton from the real world. People didn’t just steal things because they happened to be there.
"Okay," the young man said. "I’m sorry but you caught me right in the middle of lunch rush."
"I think you ought to send a petition to the owner and get some help," Digger said. "Bartender, reservations clerk, telephone operator, bookkeeper—that’s a couple of hats too many."
"It won’t work."
"Why not?" Digger asked.
"I’m the owner. Gus LaGrande," the young man said and extended a cold, bony hand for Digger to shake.
Digger shook it. "Julian Burroughs. I called yesterday for a room."
"Oh, yeah. Right. We’ve got you all fixed up. You’ve got the best room in the place."
"Does it have its own air supply?"
"What do you…oh, the smog," Gus LaGrande said.
Digger nodded. "How do you breathe with all this crap in the air? It’s like being on the beach and having to pick sand out of your teeth."
Gus had picked up a reservation form from the small counter at the end of the bar and he brought it back with a pen for Digger to fill it out.
"The crap in the air is courtesy of Lucius Belton," said Gus. "Pretty easy choice though."
"What’s that?" asked Digger.
"You want to breathe or eat? Nearly everybody in this damn town…hell, three towns around, works for Belton and Sons. There’s nobody left to bitch about the smoke in the air. They all work for him. I always wanted to write a letter to Ralph Nader and have him come down here with a lot of long-haired lawyers with sinus conditions, and maybe they’d file a federal suit against Belton."
Digger was filling out the reservation card. Under "company" he wrote "none, yet."
Without looking up, he said, "Doesn’t sound like you like Lucius Belton much."
"No, he’s all right," Gus said. "But I can say whatever I want. It’s a luxury, but I guess I’m the only person in town that he doesn’t own or who doesn’t owe him money. Screw him. I’m independently impoverished. I don’t need him."
"I don’t know why you got into the hotel business," Digger said. "You should have gotten the gas mask concession."
"I know, but my father just wasn’t smart. He ran a construction company around here and he got into a big housing development as a partner with some guy. Well, the development went bust and my father’s business went down the tubes. But as part of his payoff, he wound up with this place. He ran it until he died and then he left it to me. He couldn’t run a hotel any better than he ran a construction company."
"Nice place, though," Digger said.
"It’s a nut house," Gus said. "I’ve got nine dining rooms and eight guest rooms. I can sleep sixteen people here and I can feed three hundred sixty. I’ve got a disco over in one of the other buildings. I own thirty acres. I’d put in a golf course, but who wants to play golf on the side of a hill? Maybe I’ll put in a pitch and putt course. I’ve got everything else here except a way to make a living."
"Jesus Christ, if you keep making me depressed, it’ll drive me to drink," Digger said.
Gus looked at the once-full
"You’ve got a future in this business," Digger said.
"I hope so. My past is already buried in it," the young man said, and turned back to his telephone conversation, his mixing of drinks for waitresses who appeared with liquor orders for their lunch tables, and his checking the stack of bills.
It didn’t take as long as Digger had expected because he had had only three drinks before the young man finally came down the bar toward him. During that period a dozen people had walked down the hall, past the bar and toward the front door. They were sleek and fat, but the women were unjeweled, which might be what differentiated Belton’s upper classes from the upper classes of big cities, Digger thought. He also thought fleetingly of his bag in the hall, but decided that it was safe. That was another thing that distinguished places like Belton from the real world. People didn’t just steal things because they happened to be there.
"Okay," the young man said. "I’m sorry but you caught me right in the middle of lunch rush."
"I think you ought to send a petition to the owner and get some help," Digger said. "Bartender, reservations clerk, telephone operator, bookkeeper—that’s a couple of hats too many."
"It won’t work."
"Why not?" Digger asked.
"I’m the owner. Gus LaGrande," the young man said and extended a cold, bony hand for Digger to shake.
Digger shook it. "Julian Burroughs. I called yesterday for a room."
"Oh, yeah. Right. We’ve got you all fixed up. You’ve got the best room in the place."
"Does it have its own air supply?"
"What do you…oh, the smog," Gus LaGrande said.
Digger nodded. "How do you breathe with all this crap in the air? It’s like being on the beach and having to pick sand out of your teeth."
Gus had picked up a reservation form from the small counter at the end of the bar and he brought it back with a pen for Digger to fill it out.
"The crap in the air is courtesy of Lucius Belton," said Gus. "Pretty easy choice though."
"What’s that?" asked Digger.
"You want to breathe or eat? Nearly everybody in this damn town…hell, three towns around, works for Belton and Sons. There’s nobody left to bitch about the smoke in the air. They all work for him. I always wanted to write a letter to Ralph Nader and have him come down here with a lot of long-haired lawyers with sinus conditions, and maybe they’d file a federal suit against Belton."
Digger was filling out the reservation card. Under "company" he wrote "none, yet."
Without looking up, he said, "Doesn’t sound like you like Lucius Belton much."
"No, he’s all right," Gus said. "But I can say whatever I want. It’s a luxury, but I guess I’m the only person in town that he doesn’t own or who doesn’t owe him money. Screw him. I’m independently impoverished. I don’t need him."
"I don’t know why you got into the hotel business," Digger said. "You should have gotten the gas mask concession."
"I know, but my father just wasn’t smart. He ran a construction company around here and he got into a big housing development as a partner with some guy. Well, the development went bust and my father’s business went down the tubes. But as part of his payoff, he wound up with this place. He ran it until he died and then he left it to me. He couldn’t run a hotel any better than he ran a construction company."
"Nice place, though," Digger said.
"It’s a nut house," Gus said. "I’ve got nine dining rooms and eight guest rooms. I can sleep sixteen people here and I can feed three hundred sixty. I’ve got a disco over in one of the other buildings. I own thirty acres. I’d put in a golf course, but who wants to play golf on the side of a hill? Maybe I’ll put in a pitch and putt course. I’ve got everything else here except a way to make a living."
"Jesus Christ, if you keep making me depressed, it’ll drive me to drink," Digger said.
Gus looked at the once-full
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