key- and mail-rack behind a wooden counter that needed paint just as badly. A brass bell and a dirty daybook register were on the counter. Nobody was there.
I had to run back eight pages before I found “Ike Bush, Salt Lake City, 214,” written in the book. The pigeonhole that had that number was empty. I climbed more steps and knocked on a door that had it. Nothing came of that. I tried it two or three times more and then turned back to the stairs.
Somebody was coming up. I stood at the top, waiting for a look at him. There was just light enough to see by.
He was a slim muscular lad in army shirt, blue suit, gray cap. Black eyebrows made a straight line above his eyes.
I said: “Hello.”
He nodded without stopping or saying anything.
“Win tonight?” I asked.
“Hope so,” he said shortly, passing me.
I let him take four steps toward his room before I told him:
“So do I. I’d hate to have to ship you back to Philly, Al.”
He took another step, turned around very slowly, rested a shoulder against the wall, let his eyes get sleepy, and grunted:
“Huh?”
“If you were smacked down in the sixth or any other round by a palooka like Kid Cooper, it’d make me peevish,” I said. “Don’t do it, Al. You don’t want to go back to Philly.”