THE DETECTIVE
89
ling and its sagging walls and the glamorous name on the front
fading away to nothing, and build something decent here? This
year,
he had often noticed shadows sneaking in and out the busted
cellar door there, even in daytime. Couples, he supposed. Why not?
The house was empty: what else was it good for, especially because
there was no privacy for anybody in laying out on the damp cold
sand under the boardwalk, even late at night, but to make the alley
such tight work for his delivery trucks. Musing, he looked up at the
sky again and saw the crooked flights of the Metropole's corroded
fire-escape, which zigged at the landings, each marked by a tin,
red-painted door, red the color of stale blood, locked open to catch
whatever
air.
Then, he saw a figure, at this hour probably a busboy,
come out of the top exit and stand there on the grating-Acker
shaded his eyes the better to squeeze him into focus-what would
that
be,
five? six? no, seventh floor, it was. Whoever it was looked
around and leaned over; did he think somebody was watching him?
Acker waited. Curious-wouldn't that be the attic floor? Then he
recalled that the Metropole was unusual in Long Beach in this
respect, that whereas in other places the dining room crew had to
live, live! in the basement in cold, wet, cramped and rank-smelling
rooms, here they had the whole roof to themselves: busboys, chil–
dren's waiters, waitresses and maids all scattered together. Not
damp, but also not exactly cool today! The lazy band, and the time–
wasting office girls,
they
got regular rooms, crummy, yes, but still
hotel rooms, and the people who were supposed to look fresh like
daisies when they handled the food Acker brought in with such a
skillful care for the details-they were treated like the scum of the
earth, almost as bad as the kitchenmen, who were. Well, what
could you do? Now he perceived that the kid up there was eating
out of what looked like a pot held in the crook of his arm, and that
every
two bites he swigged from a bottle, milk probably. But
if
the
help finished eating at five-thirty, why should he be packing it in
all
over again so soon? But suppose ... suppose what? Acker came
back
to himself with a start. Food! He wheeled and rushed 'back to
his
office where it was always cold night, picked up the phone
and
started methodically working down his list of suppliers, first
local,
then Brooklyn, finally all the way over to New York. By
Dine-twenty he was through, with
fair
assurances that his goods
