It was nearly four o’clock in the morning, which was late even by New York standards. The night attendant slept on a cot in a tiny room that was behind the front desk, his sock-covered feet visible through the partially opened door that allowed the metallic solicitations of a small bell to rouse him whenever he was needed. On the green lobby couch sat the other nocturnal denizen, the white ghost.
The oldster turned his head to the gambler, who started when he saw the blind eyes that stared up at him from the man’s rugose visage like venous eggs.
“Did I doze off?” (His accent indicated to the New Yorker that he was from Ohio.)
“It is five minutes to four,” replied Dicky, who then added, “in the morning.”
“Dawn is taking her time tonight.” The oldster pointed to the adjacent sofa cushion
