Spitting off tall buildings - By Dan Fante Page 0,13

just before nine o’clock. I walked the halls, checked all the doors. You’re in no danger.’

‘Swell…so…I’m hallucinating?’

I began edging back toward my apartment door. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing I can do.’

Her crazy laugh was loud. It filled the lobby. ‘That’s the goddam truth…’

‘I’ll report your “incident.” When Shi comes in tomorrow he’ll see my note.’

‘…Now hear this…pay attention here, goddamn it!…I want you - you, the clerk behind the desk - to come up to the third floor now…immediately, and have a look. Do your job!’

‘The hotel desk is closed. I’m off at nine except for emergencies.’

‘…What am I, a TV commercial!’

‘You’re loaded on your ass, lady. And a noise isn’t an emergency. To me, at this time of night, noise hearing is a non-relevant, unimportant, chickenshit, irritating, non-emergency!’

‘…Let me speak to a real decision maker. Get Shi on the telephone. Or whaziz name, Mistofsky…No! Forget that! Call 911.’

‘Call anybody you want! Call the weather, call Dial-A-Duck for all I care. Just do it away from me.’

‘Do you want to keep your job at this hotel?’

‘Is this blackmail?’

‘…Hand me the telephone…’

‘Go fuck yourself you crazy cunt!’

The next morning when I woke up sober and remembered the confrontation, I felt pretty sure I’d be fired.

But it was my day off so I spent the next few hours reading and drinking beer, listening to Jimmy Reed on my portable tape deck and waiting for Shi or Jeffrey Mistofsky to knock on my apartment door and tell me that I was bumped, to pack my gear and move out.

Noon came and it hadn’t happened so I decided to do my laundry in the laundry room downstairs, then go to the movies, a Claude Rains festival at the Thalia.

It was mid-afternoon when I passed the front desk on my way out. Shi was cordial, whispering as usual, trying to make small conversation. I didn’t ask if he’d seen Tonya Von Hachten and he didn’t bring her up.

By the next afternoon at a few minutes to four I still hadn’t heard anything. Before coming on duty, I did my rounds as usual, emptied the wastebaskets in the bathrooms on each floor and inspected to make sure that the hallways were clean. Shi wasn’t at the desk so I unlocked the cage, looking for signs that I’d been fired; an envelope, a notice posted in the log book. I didn’t see anything so I began my usual ‘check-on’ routine.

The hotel answering machine registered one message. I played it back. It was from Shi. A rushed memo letting me know that he was doing errands for Mistofsky and would be back at six o’clock to continue my training. I still had a job.

Just after sunset I was filling in the daily linen charts when I looked up and saw Ms. Von Hachten come up the hotel steps with two shopping bags hooked to her arm and Bobo on his leash.

I watched.

She stopped at the landing, setting her bags down to unlock the door. For a moment our eyes met through the glass. If she expected me to do what Shi always did, deport myself like some limpdick sycophant and leave the desk to rush around and open the exterior entrance, she was mistaken. Not me. Screw her. I wasn’t her chump.

Holding onto Bobo Ms. Von Hachten groped in her purse for her keys. After locating them she unlocked the heavy glass front door, swung it open, then dragged her dog and her bags inside.

Instead of ignoring my presence, which is what I thought she would do, I was surprised when she walked directly up to the front desk.

She looked past my shoulder to the mail slots located on the wall behind me. ‘Bruno,’ she said, in an even, pleasant, un-fuck-you voice, ‘I see something in my slot. Would you hand me my mail, please?’

The situation was awkward. I didn’t say anything. I turned, located the slot labeled #316, then passed her the envelopes and bulk junk mail.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Sure,’ I said.

But she didn’t leave. She stood looking down, sorting through the envelopes and papers while I pretended to go back to counting what rooms were on the list to have their towels and sheets changed. Finally, she spoke again. ‘Bruno,’ another voice announced, a more business-like voice, ‘I have something I need to say to you.’

I looked up.

‘I owe you an apology.’

I didn’t talk. I wasn’t sure what to say.

There was more silence. When I realized she’d been waiting for me to speak, I said,