The Only Girl in the Game Read Free

other times before he had had a chance to go to bed.
    He pushed the office door open and wished the lettering on it could miraculously cease to irritate him. Jerome L. Buckler, Manager. Hugh J. Darren, Assistant Manager. In the practical mythology of the hotel trade, the average assistant manager has approximately the same status as the elevator starter, and usually works for less money.
    But he could not fault the decor of the office. The wall-to-wall rug matched the Williamsburg blue of the draperies. The walls and the formica desk and table tops were oyster white, matching the white leather of the furniture. It was hushed, soundproofed, air conditioned. There was an intercom, tape dictation equipment, a noiseless electric typewriter at the secretarial desk in the corner. There were two custom executive desks. The larger of the two, seldom used, belonged to Jerry Buckler.
    Hugh Darren went directly to his desk and began to checkthe daily operation summaries placed in perfect alignment in the center of his large dark blue blotter by Miss Jane Sanderson.
    She came back into the office thirty seconds after he had begun to read the summaries. “Good morning, or is it?” she said. She was a slat-thin woman, very tall, with legitimately white hair in a cropped tousled cut which should have been too young for her and wasn’t. In spite of her indoor employment she managed to maintain a hickory tan. After too many disheartening weeks trying to make a secretary of various slothful dumplings, he had found Jane through a blind ad placed in the Los Angeles papers.
    “It is another one of those same mornings, Miss Jane.”
    “That’s what I was afraid of.”
    “Try to set up an appointment for me with Max Hanes, whenever he’s up and about. Neutral ground, I guess. So make it the Little Room. Then see if you can get Downey on the phone.”
    “I think he’s still in that motel. His wife found something they like, but they couldn’t move in right away, and I guess maybe that was a good thing.”
    He went through the summaries, jotting down brief notes in his pocket notebook to use during his daily inspection trip, and then began to study the checkout-checkin list. The name of each guest had coded information beside it, indicating how many times, if any, he or she had previously been in the house, the type of accomodations, his occupation—if available, credit arrangements, any special services requested, the total amount of the bill on checkout. A note from the desk indicated that 603 had been reported by the housekeeper to have been stripped before checkout. A salesman from Denver, who should know better. Hugh made a note for Jane to send the usual letter. If the man ignored it, he would suddenly find himself unable to make reservations in fine hotels in many places.
    “Mr. Downey on the line,” Jane said.
    Hugh Darren picked up the phone and said, “Tommy, there was an elective course you should have taken, all about how to cope with a drunken boss man.”
    Tom Downey’s tone was chilly. “I had the four-year hotel administration course, Mr. D., and I had a year and a half at the L.A. Ambassador, and maybe the only thing I’ve learned is I don’t have to take abusive crap from anybody.”
    “You’re just as sore as I figured you’d be, Tommy.”
    “I get mad once a year, Hugh. And I stay mad.”
    “I brought you in here, Tommy. And I’ve got good reasons for not letting you go like this.”
    “I was fired, remember? I’m long gone. Sorry.”
    “Suppose we had a big change here? Suppose all of a sudden it’s all mine?”
    In the long silence he heard Downey sigh before he said, “In that case I’d come running back and you know it. Not loyalty, Hugh. But I guess there is some of that. Self-interest I can learn so damn much from the way you operate. But right now you’re dreaming. Buckler is Al Malta’s buddy.”
    “All I’m asking is for you to sit tight while I give it the big try. Then either you can