They found the right door at last and Ron unlocked it. The lights in the room went on by themselves as the door swung open. Sylvia walked in slowly and looked all around the room. Then she placed Ron’s package carefully on the bench that stood at the foot of the bed.
Ron closed the door and clicked the safety latch. Turning, he saw that the room had one big bed, one night table next to it, and a long piece of low-slung furniture with some drawers in it. There was one window that you couldn’t see out of, it was so grimy, one mirror above the bureau, and a wall TV screen next to it. No chairs. The only place to sit was on the bed.
It looked seedy, used. Not exactly dirty, but worn out. The room even smelled funny.
“It’s not much for fifty dollars,” Ron muttered to himself.
Sylvia came over to him. “Ron—you were so brave out there, against Dino. So good and strong . . .”
She slid her arms around his neck. For a flash of a second, Ron felt as if he wanted to run away. But then his arms curled around her and he was kissing her and he forgot about everything else.
Ron woke up slowly. For a groggy moment he didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered—the hotel, New York, Sylvia.
He sat up in the bed. She was gone!
“Sylvia?” he called out.
No answer.
He padded barefoot to the tiny bathroom. The door was open and the room was dark. Nobody there.
She’s gone.
Glancing toward the window, Ron could see that it was still dark outside. His wristwatch said two o’clock.
She must have gone back to her own place. But where does she live? Why did she leave without telling me?
He looked all around the room for a note, but there was nothing. Then he remembered Dino, and he started to worry.
Maybe she left just a few minutes ago. Maybe I can catch her out on the street. She shouldn’t be out alone with that nut around.
He pulled his clothes on quickly and dashed out of the room. Down on the elevator, wishing it would go faster. Out through the empty lobby. Out onto the street.
Something hit him thunk! behind the ear and he went sailing slow-motion through the air. No pain, not yet. He just saw the pavement tilting sideways and rushing up closer, closer—and then he hit the cement, face and hands together. He could feel skin scraping off.
“Wha . . .”
A pair of filthy bare feet stepped in front of his eyes. Ron tried to prop himself up on one arm but somebody kicked the arm out from under him and he cracked down on the sidewalk again. He could feel his head throbbing now, and his face and hands felt raw.
“Don’t bother tryin’ t’ get up, dude,” a voice said from somewhere up above him. “Yer gonna be down there fer a long, long time.”
Ron recognized the voice. Dino. He tried to roll over and get a look at him, but somebody kicked him in the ribs. And the face. And the small of the back. They were all over him, an army of them, kicking, pounding him. Pain flashed everywhere. Ron couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. And after what seemed like ten thousand years, he couldn’t feel anything at all.
Sunlight. Bright glaring sunlight poked into his eyes painfully. No, not both eyes. Ron could open only one. The other was swollen shut.
They had dragged him over to the side of the hotel building and left him there, half sitting against the wall, half sprawled on the sidewalk.
It was daytime now, and people were walking by. Some of them glanced quickly at Ron and then just as quickly turned their heads away. Others never looked at him at all, even when they had to step over his outstretched legs. They kept their faces pointed straight ahead.
“Help . . .” Ron tried to say. But his mouth and throat were so raw that he could only make a horrible croaking sound.
With his one good eye Ron looked down at himself. His boots were gone, his clothes torn and spattered with blood. He felt numb all over. When he tried to move his legs, pain flashed through his whole body. One of his hands was swollen and blue; he couldn’t move the fingers at all. His pockets had been ripped open and everything taken out of them—keys, money, credit card, ID card, everything.
Slowly, painfully, Ron tried to push himself up onto his feet. His legs wouldn’t hold him.
Got to get back . . . to the hotel . . . can’t stay here . . .
So he crawled, with pain shooting through him at every movement. Hundreds of people walked past, most of them visitors like himself. But no one stopped to help. Ron crawled along the sidewalk and pulled himself into the doorway of the hotel.
He passed out on the dusty carpet of the hotel lobby. When he awoke again, he saw that the lobby was just as empty as it had always been.
He edged over to the sign-in machine.
“Help . . . me,” he moaned. “Call . . . hospital . . . police . . .”
The machine did nothing.
Ron’s mind swirled. Then he realized he was dealing with a narrowly programmed machine. He took a ragged breath. “Give me . . . key . . . the key to my room.” His voice sounded strange, muffled, as it came through his swollen lips.
The machine’s scratchy voice tape responded, “Are you a registered guest in this hotel?”
It hurt even to breathe. Ron sat at the base of the machine and painfully nodded his head. “Yes . . . Ronald Morgan . . .”
“Your name please?” The machine asked the questions it was programmed to ask, no matter what you told it.
“Morgan . . . Ronald Morgan.”
“Will you please stand directly in front of the camera so that we can compare your face against the photograph in your file. This is a protection for our registered guests, you understand.”
