After bathing, Elliot got into bed—with belt under his pillow and gun on the night table—and finished reading the Heinlein. Finally, he called the desk, leaving a wake-up Picturephone call for eight o’clock.
Momentarily overcome by an attack of lonely fright, he soon managed to guide his mind to other matters. Thinking about the poor streetwalker made him feel a bit less sorry for himself. What a revoltin’ development that was!
Alongside Night
63
Chapter 7
Elliot was back in the classroom. Mrs. Tobias stood at the front of the room wearing a police uniform. Marilyn Danforth walked up to Elliot and said, “Pardon me, but do you mind awfully if I defecate here? I have to go so badly.” This embarrassed him greatly because his parents and Denise were at the back of the room watching him. Mrs. Tobias started talking: “And now I’d like to introduce the boys in the band. First, we have Mason Langley on chains.” Langley stood up, rattled his chains a bit while bowing, then sat down again. “Next is Bernard Rothman. What are you playing, Mr. Rothman?” “I have no idea, Mrs. Tobias.” “Well it doesn’t really matter,” she said. “And last, but not least, we have Cal Ackerman on the tire wrench. For our first selection …” At this cue, Mason Langley started rattling his chains again while Cal Ackerman walked calmly over to Elliot and rammed the tire wrench into his left shoulder.
As the blow hit, Elliot awoke. The rattling of the chains transmuted into the ringing of a Picturephone. The pain from Ackerman’s blow to his shoulder was intensely real, though, which he realized reaching over to answer the phone. Elliot punched the switch allowing him to see without being seen, then answered. It was his 8 a.m. wake-up call. Elliot thanked the operator and switched off.
As his mind cleared, Elliot quickly realized that the pain was not from Ackerman’s phantasmal blow, but from the real one in his encounter with the gang. Tenderly, he tried moving his shoulder. He found he had full mobility—nothing seemed to be broken or sprained—but it did hurt like the devil. He resolved to ignore it as best he could.
Elliot decided to breakfast in his room rather than risk half 64
Alongside Night
an hour in a public restaurant again; he had no wish to be a sitting duck. Calling room service, he ordered papaya-mango juice, oatmeal, a cheese omelet, hash browns, muffins with jam, and a pot of coffee. Elliot had heard often—and believed—
that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Oh, yes. Could they provide a toothbrush with paste?
They could.
While awaiting delivery, Elliot used the toilet, washed, dressed—again donning his belt and shoulder holster—and had just reloaded his revolver with two bullets from a cigarette-case-sized holder when there was a knock at his door. Elliot looked up. “Yes?”
“Room service,” said a male voice behind the door. “Your breakfast, sir.”
Elliot swung his revolver’s cylinder shut, holstered the pistol, then started to the door; halfway there, he stopped short, realizing his holster was in the open. He swore under his breath, told the door he would be right there, and headed back to the bed where he picked up his jacket and put it on. As an afterthought, Elliot picked up the ammunition case, hiding it in his jacket pocket.
A moment later, he opened the door; it was indeed room service. The waiter—a Slavic-looking man in hotel uniform—
rolled in a wheeled breakfast cart. “G’morning, sir.”
“Morning,” Elliot replied. “Over by the screen will be fine.”
The waiter set up the breakfast cart in front of the room’s television wallscreen, then handed Elliot the chit to sign. He signed it—the waiter looking on closely—and when Elliot began writing his tip onto the bill, the waiter interrupted immediately: “That won’t be necessary, sir.”
Elliot stopped writing. “Eh?” Then he understood. “Oh, of course.” He reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, and counted out blue cash—almost endlessly. “Don’t spend them all in one place.”
Alongside Night
65
The waiter smiled, taking the cash. “I don’t spend them at all. My wife meets me at my lunch break, takes all my tips, and goes shopping while the blues are still worth something.”
He pocketed the money. “Thank you very much, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.”
A few minutes later Elliot ate breakfast while watching a television newscast. On the wallscreen was a news announcer sitting in a studio: blown up behind him was a handsome, military-looking man in his fifties, wearing a stylish business suit. The caption under the blowup identified the man as Lawrence Powers, director of the FBI.