Nightwork

'Yeah,' I said. 'I'll still be sitting here all night working an adding machine while you're raking in the loot year after year.' Now, I thought, why did I use the word loot? 'I read the papers,' I said quickly; 'doctors make more than anybody else in the country.'

'God bless America,' the technician said as the elevator came to a stop and the door opened. He and the driver picked up the stretcher and I led the way across the lobby. I opened the door for them with my key and watched as they put the body into the ambulance. The policeman at the wheel of the car was asleep, snoring softly, his cap off and his head lolling back.

The technician got into the ambulance with the corpse, and the driver slammed the door shut. He went around to the front and started the motor, revving it loudly. He had the siren going while he was still in first gear.

'What the hell is his hurry?' said the policeman standing on the sidewalk with me. "They're not going anywhere.'

'Aren't you going to wake your pal up?' I asked.

'Nah. He wakes up if a call comes for us. He's got the instinct of a animal. Might as well let him get his beauty rest. I wish I had his nerves.' He sighed, weighed down by cares which his own nerves were not strong enough to support. 'Let's get a look at the register, mister.' He followed me back into the hotel, his tread heavy, the law weighty.

I unlocked the office door. I didn't look up at the shelf over the safe, where the cardboard tube lay hidden behind the boxes of stationery and the piles of old magazines. 'I have a bottle of bourbon in here, if you'd like a slug,' I said, as we went into the front office. Even as I spoke I admired the absolutely matter-of-fact way in which I was behaving. I was running on computers; all the cards were correctly punched. Data input. But it had been an effort not to look up at the shelf.

'Well, I'm on duty, you know,' the policeman said. 'But one small slug...'

I opened the register and pointed out the entry for room 602. The policeman slowly copied it out into his black book. The history of the city of New York, faithfully recorded in twenty thousand handwritten pages by the graduates of the Police academy. An interesting archaeological discovery.

I got out the bottle and uncorked it. 'Sorry, I don't have a glass,' I said.

'I drunk out of bottles before this,' the policeman said. He raised the bottle. 'Well, L'chaim,' he said, and took a long swig.

'You Jewish?' I asked as the policeman gave me the bottle.

'Nah. My partner. I caught it from him.'

L'chaim. To life, I remembered from the song in Fiddler on the Roof. 'I think I'll join you.' I said, raising the bottle. 'I can use it. A night like this can leave a man a little shaky.'

'This is nothing,' the cop said. 'You oughta see some of the things we run into.'

'I can imagine,' I said. I drank.

'Well,' the policeman said, 'I gotta be going. There'll be an inspector around in the morning. Just keep that room locked until he gets here, understand?'

'I'll pass the word on to the day man.'

'Night work,' the policeman said. 'Do you sleep good during the day?'

'Fair.'

'Not me.' The policeman shook his head mournfully. 'Look at the rings under my eyes.'

I looked at the rings under the policeman's eyes. 'You could use a good night's sleep,' I said.

'You ain't kidding.' The man dug a knuckle into his eyes, viciously. If the eye offend thee ... 'Well, at least there ain't been no crime committed. Be thankful for small mercies,' he said surprisingly. Unsuspected depths, a vocabulary that included the word mercy.

I accompanied him to the front door, opened it politely.

'Have a good day,' the policeman said.

'Thanks. You too.'

‘Hah,' he said.

I watched the heavy, slow-moving man climb into the prowl car and wake up his partner. The car went slowly down the silent street. I locked the door and went back to the office. I picked up the telephone and dialed. I had to wait for at least ten rings before the connection came through. This country is in full decay, I thought, waiting. Nobody moves.

'Western Union,' the voice said.

‘I want to send a telegram to Chicago,' I said. I gave the name and address, spelling out Ferns slowly and clearly. 'Like wheel.' I said.

'What's that?' The voice of Western Union was irritated.

'Fen-is wheel,' I said. 'Amusement parks.'

'What is the message, please?'

'Regret to inform you that John Ferris, of your address,' I said, 'died this morning at three-fifteen am. Please get in touch with me immediately for instructions. Signed, H. M. Drusack, Manager, Hotel St Augustine, Manhattan.' By the time the reply came in, Drusack would be on duty and I would be somewhere else, safely out of the way. There was no need for the family in Chicago to know my name. 'Charges. please.'

The operator gave me the charges. I noted them on a sheet of paper. Good old Drusack would put them on Ferris' bill. I knew Drusack.