The doorman opened the door (looking askance, Carolyn was sure, at the filthy lady with the coal ash in her hair). She glanced out. People were standing in line in front of the revolving door.
Not only is there going to be no room at this inn, but what made you think they would obligingly provide a message-forwarding service for you and Charley?
“Good afternoon, Madam,” the doorman said. “Will Madam be checking in?”
Not goddamn likely. But if I tell him that, what ad I do?
“Yes, thank you.”
She saw a Marine captain waiting in line for the revolving door, and her heart jumped. And then she saw he was shorter than Charley, and older, and not an aviator.
A bellman appeared and took her luggage. Mustering all the dignity she could, Carolyn marched after him. He passed through a swinging door next to the revolving door. But when she tried to follow him, another bellman smiled and waved his hand to tell her that was not permitted and pointed at the revolving door.
What the hell is the difference? But you ‘re certainly in no position to make a scene over it.
She took her place in line and eventually made it into the lobby. Which was jammed. Just about all the chairs were occupied, and mountains of luggage were stacked everywhere.
She found the REGISTRATION sign… and the line, of course- actually, two of them-of those waiting for the attention of the formally dressed desk clerks. As she worked her way up to the desk, she kept hearing what she expected: “I’m sorry, there’s absolutely nothing, and I can’t tell you when there will be a vacancy.”
Finally, it was her turn.
“May I help you, Madam?”
For half a second she was tempted to try to brazen it out: to announce that she had a reservation, then to act highly indignant when he couldn’t find it.
But that won’t work. It’s not the most original idea in the world anyway. And I certainly wouldn’t be the first person in the world to try it.
“Are there any messages for me? My name is Mrs. Carolyn McNamara?”
“If you’ll check with our concierge, Madam? He would have messages.”
He pointed out the concierge’s desk, before which, naturally, there was a line of people.
“Thank you,” Carolyn said, and walked over to the end of that line.
“May I help you, Madam?” the concierge asked five minutes later. The man looked and sounded vastly overworked.
“I’m Mrs. Carolyn McNamara. Are there any messages for me? Or for Captain Charles Galloway of the Marine Corps?”
“I will check, Madam,” he said.
He consulted a leather-bound folder.
“There seems to be a message, Madam,” he said. “But I’m not sure if it’s from Captain Galloway, or for the Captain.”
Oh, thank God!
“I’ll take it, whatever it is.”
“Madam, as you can understand, I couldn’t give you a message intended for Captain Galloway. But if Madam will have a seat, I’ll look into this as quickly as I can.”
He gestured rather grandly to a setting of chairs and couches around a coffee table. One of the chairs was not occupied.
She walked to the chair and sat down, then let her eyes quickly sweep the lobby. She saw at least a dozen Marine officers. None of these was Captain Charles M. Galloway.
She glanced back at the concierge. He was simultaneously talking on the telephone and dealing with a highly excited female.
He’ll forget me.
Carolyn did not like to smoke in public. She was raised to consider this unladylike.
To hell with it, she decided. I’ll have a cigarette and then I’ll go back to the concierge and threaten to throw a scene unless he gives me Charley’s message.
She took a Chesterfield from her purse and lit it.
Two young Marine officers came into her sight. Both of them were aviators (although she wondered about the smaller of the two; if he was nineteen, she was fifty). As she looked at them, they gazed at her, shrugged at each other, and marched toward her.
Oh, God, that’s all I need, two Marine Aviators trying to pick me up!