3
The door slipped out of my somewhat moist palm when I opened it and
was slammed not by the day's breeze, for there was no breeze, but by a
draft that sucked through the Astolat Hotel--a current of air bearing
the odors of food, carpets, paint, luggage, and the scents of rich
women--a damp, thermal issue that would have incubated eggs.
Paul sat bolt upright in my bed.
He saw me, first. He stared at the room. He swung his feet to the floor.
"Gotta get going. Any news of her?"
"Take it easy, bo."
"What time is it?"