CHAPTER FOURTEENI swore inwardly, but looked over at the bellboy and called, “That’s me.”
The bellboy was no boy; he was at least thirty and his bored cynicism, acquired over the years, had begun to bring out highlights of sophistication, craftiness and misanthropy in his face. He came closer to be handy for a tip and said, “Phone call, Mr. Knight.”
“All right,” I said. I turned back to Julie. “Would you mind waiting here? Only be a minute.”
She smiled. “Not at all.”
I followed the bellhop to the lobby and he indicated the house phones which were sheltered in a small alcove to one side of the reservation desk. “You can take it here,” he said. I slipped him a dime. He scowled at it, pocketed it, and left without thanks. What was he expecting—did I look like a movie star?
I took up one
