The Breen was an old weather-beaten stone building nestled in a row of similarly weather-beaten buildings that line the north side of 47th Street between Broadway and Sixth Avenue. A small plaque to the right of the door dispelled any lingering doubts as to its character by announcing it as the Hotel Breen.
A threadbare and faded carpet ran the length of a lobby that had long since given up any pretense of serving any useful purpose. The chairs were rickety and unsafe, the artificial rubber plants grimed with dust.
Johnny Liddell ignored the old man behind the registration desk who raised watery eyes as Liddell passed, then dropped them back to a perusal of the scratch sheet spread out on the desk. Liddell made directly for the lone elevator cage in the rear. A pimpled youth with slack m
