“It’s me.” “What do you want?” “Fifty bucks on Maverick in the two-thirty.” “You got the money?” “Sure.” “Ok, then.” “Ok, see you at two-thirty.” The man on the other end of the line took a sharp inhale to speak. The call disconnected and the phone went dead. I returned to the front desk. I waited. I counted time. I watched for the old man. Outside it brightened in increments. Nighttime howls became daytime hustle. Nine o’clock arrived. My final shift ended. At half-two, when my horse came in, I’d have five hundred dollars. Mr Carter, wispy gray hair and thin as a spoke, rapped the screen. “Got ourselves another decomp.” “Someone’s dead?” “That’s what he smelt like.” “You’re sure he’s dead?” “Check for yourself.” “What happened?” “Same thing happens us all,” he said. “I believe natural causes got the better of this one.” He laughed like he heard some great joke. “What am I supposed to do?” “Rake him out,” he said. “Room next to mine. Number six-oh-five.” I bent forward with my head between my knees and heaved and bile like salt-melted slugs escaped me and I went onto my knees and I stayed there for I don’t know how long. I went to 605 and opened the door with a skeleton key. He was on the floor, naked. The old man had died in agony, face twisted like wrought iron. Yet in that gruesome rictus of a face I felt like I was staring at my own reflection. Mr Carter had climbed onto his cot and now peered over the dividing wall. I took the old man’s boots and placed them on his cold, stiff feet, and laced them up, and went outside of the room and locked the door. I deposited my last nickel in the payphone and called the police. “We’ll send an officer around shortly.” “When?” “When one’s available. We’re busy, might not be till late afternoon.” “I have to be somewhere before then.” “Buddy, the only place you better be is in Waltham House for when the officer arrives, y’hear?”
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