“But I . . .” Ron knew it was useless to argue with the machine. It took several minutes and much pain, but he pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the machine itself.
The camera clicked and the machine hummed to itself for a few seconds. Can it recognize me the way I look now? Ron wondered.
“Morgan, Ronald . . . Mr. Morgan, it is past checkout time. Checkout is eleven o’clock. You have paid for only one night, therefore you have been automatically checked out of your room.”
“Checked out? But—”
“You can have your room back by paying another fifty dollars.”
“They took—”
“Fifty dollars please.”
“But—”
“Fifty dollars please.”
Ron felt all the strength go out of him. Everything went black and he collapsed on the hotel lobby floor.
A voice woke him up. A child’s voice.
The child was singing softly to himself. Ron saw that he was about six years old. His song made no sense. Either it was in a language that Ron didn’t understand, or it was no language at all—just nonsense sounds. The boy’s voice was high and thin. His face was very serious, as if the song was really important. His eyes were big and dark, his hair also dark, curly. His skin was a deep olive. He had skinny arms and legs, and his clothes were ragged. He was sitting on a floor littered with paper, cans and metal foil containers, rags and one old bottomless shoe. He sat with his knees tucked up close to his chin, his hands clasped around his skinny little ankles, rocking back and forth, singing.
Looking around without moving his head, Ron saw that he was in a strange room. More like a closet, it was so small. The ceiling had so many cracks in it that it looked like a road map. Huge chunks of plaster were missing from it and from the bare walls, showing crumbling lathe inside.
Ron tried to prop himself up on one elbow. His head spun dizzily, but the pain was nowhere near as bad as it had been before.
“Hey! He’s awake!” screamed the little boy. He jumped to his feet and raced out of the room.
Head spinning, Ron sat all the way up. He was on a grimy, torn mattress that was resting flat on the floor. A greasy-looking blanket covered his legs. The room had no windows, so he couldn’t tell whether it was day or night.
There was a blurry mirror hanging crookedly on one wall. A corner of it was broken and a crack ran up its whole length. Ron couldn’t tell if his face really looked as bad as it seemed, or if the mirror was making things worse than they really were. There was a huge shiner under his right eye and another big blue bruise along his left cheekbone. Holding up his left hand, he saw that it was still nearly black and swollen. But he could wiggle the fingers a little. Nothing broken.
He was drenched with sweat. The room was like an oven; no air moving at all.
Somebody came to the door that the boy had left open. Sylvia.
“You . . .” Ron began. Then he realized that he didn’t know what he wanted to say.
She came over and knelt beside his mattress. “I was so scared you was gonna die.”
“What happened? Where are we?”
She touched the bruise on his cheek, very lightly, just a fingertip. “Poor Ron . . . It was Dino. Him and some of his goons was waitin’ fer you outside th’ hotel.”
It was almost funny. “And I was worried about you.”
“About me?” She looked surprised.
“I was afraid he’d try to hurt you.”
“Oh, Ron!” She put her arms around his shoulders. It hurt, he was still aching. But he held her there for a long moment.
Sylvia said into his ear, “I came back t’ th’ hotel to see if you was okay. I found you in th’ lobby. I got you out just a coupla minutes before th’ hardtops got there.”
“Hardtops?”
“Helmet-heads. Cops.” She pulled away from him. “Some tourist musta called ’em. If th’ hardtops get you, they toss you in th’ Tombs.”
“But I’m a visitor. They can’t do that.”
“You got no money, no ID, nothin’, right?”
“Oh . . . but still . . .”
“They woulda thought you were a gang kid. Or some weirdo got himself freaked out and beat up.”
“Then—how do I get out? What day is it, anyway?”
“It’s Monday, Labor Day. Th’ gates close t’night at midnight and they won’t open again ’till next summer. For tourists.”
“I’ve got to get out!” Ron started to get up.
Sylvia put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold on, hold on. We’ll getcha out. Al’s gonna be here soon. Right? He’ll figger out what t’do. You jest rest. Dino went over you pretty good.”
Ron frowned. “How many of them were there?”
“I dunno,” she said. “Four or five. Maybe six.”
