Heller couldn’t find anybody in the Brewster lobby, so he went behind the desk, put the thirty-dollar room price under the counter where it could be seen, put his Al Capone registration card on top of it and wrote himself a receipt on their invoice machine, signing it Brinks. The FBI had not taught him very well: Capone had never once robbed a Brinks armored car. I know my American history!

Working on deciphering the scribbled numbers around the lobby public phone — some of them girls, some of them pimps and some of them gays — he found a taxi company and phoned it.

After getting his baggage into the cab, he said to the German-looking driver, “I’m looking for a place to live. A better hotel than this one. Something with some class.”

With Heller noting bashed fenders of cars and darting amongst collision-fixated cars, they were soon over on Madison Avenue, roaring uptown.

At 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, the cabby dumped Heller in a driveway. Heller unloaded his baggage and offered a twenty-dollar bill. The cabby simply took the bill and drove rapidly away, though the fare had been much less. Heller was learning about New York.

He looked up. The Snob Palace Hotel soared above him. Although there were uniformed doormen and bellboys racing about, nobody took his baggage. He gathered it up and went in. A vast, glittering lobby stretched about him, almost a hangar. Sparkling but decorous light fixtures illuminated the subdued and decorous furnishings. An expensive and decorous throng eddied around him as he made his way to the Room Desk.

There were numerous clerks, all busy. Heller waited. Nobody looked up. Finally, he said to one clerk, “I’d like a room.”

“Do you have a reservation?” said the clerk. “No? Then see the assistant manager. Over there, please.”

The assistant manager was busy. He was answering a complaint on the phone in a suitably decorous voice. Something about a poodle not having been aired. Finally he looked up. He did not much care for what he saw. By a mirror that covered the back wall behind him, I could see it, too.

Here was somebody in a loud, too-small, red-checked jacket and a pair of blue-striped pants that didn’t reach his baseball shoes and who had, of all things, a red baseball cap on the back of his head. “Yes?” said the assistant manager.

Heller chipped the ice off it. “I’d like a nice room, maybe two rooms.”

“Are you with your parents?”

“No, they’re not on Earth.”

“Suites start at four hundred dollars a day and go up. I shouldn’t think you would be interested. Good day.” And he got on the phone to scold the help for not decorously airing somebody’s poodle.

I knew what was wrong. Heller was thinking in credits. A credit was worth several dollars. He picked up his baggage, walked out and walked into a cab which had just discharged a Pekingese that had been getting aired.

“I am looking for a room. I want something less expensive than they have in this place.”

The driver promptly dashed downtown, switched over to Lexington Avenue, avoided numerous smashups and dumped Heller at 21st Street. Heller offered a twenty-dollar bill. The driver was very surprised when it didn’t come out from between Heller’s fingers. He grumblingly got change and in a swift movement, they swapped monies. Heller gave him a fifty-cent tip. He was learning. Heller looked up at a ramshackle building. The canopy over the sidewalk said:

He picked up his bags and walked in. A sodden group of winos sagged on sodden furniture. A sodden clerk slumped over a sodden desk. It was a very sodden lobby.

An odd sound hit my ears. Then I identified it. It was Heller sniffing. “Oof!” he said to nobody. “You’d think this place was run by the Apparatus!”

Code break! Code break! And unpatriotic! I made a hasty note and marked the recording strip. Nobody can accuse me of not doing my duty!

He hefted his bags, turned around and left.

Outside he stopped and looked back at the building. “You hotels can go sink yourselves! A house would cost less and be cleaner!”

It was two blocks before he could find another cab. It was sitting at the curb and Heller hailed it before it could drive off.

The driver looked like he had been up every night for the past year. He also didn’t have any space between his eyes and hairline. A Neanderthal type.

Heller loaded his baggage. He leaned forward to speak through the glass and wire New York cabbies hope will protect them from muggers.

“Do you know of a house?”

The driver turned around to look at him. He thought. He said, “Do you have any money?”

“Of course I have money,” said Heller.

“You’re awfully young.”

“Look,” said Heller, “do you know of a house or don’t you?”

The driver looked at him doubtfully but then nodded.

“All right,” said Heller, “take me there!”

They bashed their way up into the Forties and headed over toward the East River. The black, tall slab of the United Nations pointed skyward in the near distance. They were drawing into a quieter, more elegant neighborhood full of imposing, high-rise buildings.

They pulled up at the curb before one. It was a building of gleaming stone and opaque glass, a beautiful modern structure many stories high. A patch of greenery and a brief curved drive set it back slightly from the sidewalk. An elegant, decorous sign, lettered in gold on black stone, was part of the wall to the left of the imposing entrance. The sign said:

The cab had not pulled into the drive because a squat, low, black limousine was sitting there, chauffeur at the wheel. Heller got his bags out of the cab and put them on the walk. He was fishing in his pockets for the fare.

And then a remarkable thing happened!

The cabby, who had shortly before been so dopey, stared at the limousine and front entrance. His eyes suddenly shot wide with fear!

With a screech of tires, the cabby got his hack the Hells out of there!

Without being paid!

Heller gazed after the fleeing cab. He put the money back in his pocket. He hefted his bags and walked toward the entrance.

The limousine had its engine running.

There was a tough-looking young man lounging outside the door to the right of it. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit and he had a hat pulled down over his eyes. He pried himself off the wall as Heller approached.

The young man’s right hand came up. Something in it!

It was a miniature walkie-talkie radio. He said something into it, eyeing Heller.

Something was going on! Something dangerous!

And Heller, the idiot, wasn’t taking alarm! He walked on in through the entrance.

The lobby was small but dignified. Iron spiral staircases went up to a balcony on the far wall. Gold elevator doors were set into the polished tan stone. Designs in gold-colored metal wandered gracefully on the walls. There were some upholstered chairs of beautiful design, in groups of two, half-hidden by lovely green plants. A long, gold-colored counter was the obvious reception place.

There was nobody in sight! Not a soul!

Heller clickety-clacked across the polished, multicolored stone terrazzo floor, going toward the counter.

A small door in the wall to the left of the counter, marked with a sign: Host, opened about six inches. There was a man’s face there. A tough one. A hand came out and beckoned silently to Heller.

Heller put down his baggage and walked over to the door. It swung open.

It was a large, ornate office. At the far end there was a carved desk. At it sat a man, small, well-dressed, black hair, narrow face. The sign on his desk said: