He took the escalator to the terminal’s second floor. Then he walked to the men’s room. The lavatory was a very large room. It contained a row of urinals and three free public toilets. The other toilets cost ten cents. They were coin-operated.
He walked past all of them. At the back of the room there were two 25-cent booths where a person could wash and change his clothes in relative privacy. He set down his suitcases, found a quarter, and dropped it into the slot. He opened the door, hauled his suitcases and shoe boxes inside, and locked the door. Then he undressed.
He opened one suitcase and dressed himself completely in new underwear, new socks and a new shirt. He put on his gray sharkskin suit and donned one of the dozen ties he had picked up in a dollar tie store on Fifth Avenue. He dressed quickly but very carefully. Then he put on one pair of shoes and tucked the other into his suitcase. There was room for them now that he was wearing the suit.
When he was fully dressed he washed his hands and face again and dried them. Then he picked up his suitcases and left the booth, the lavatory, and the Port Authority Bus Terminal. He walked uptown to 42nd Street and waited for a cab.
Somebody was going to get a nice surprise, he thought. His clothes weren’t much, but the leather jacket was in good shape. It hadn’t been cheap, either. It was good leather, and in a way he was sorry to part with it. But it didn’t exactly fit into the wardrobe of a Park Avenue gigolo, so to hell with it. As far as the rest of his stuff went, he couldn’t see why anybody would want it.
He caught a cab quickly and loaded his suitcases into the back seat, then climbed in after them “Hotel Ruskin,” he said. “That’s on 37th Street.”
The cabbie nodded and the taxi pulled away from the curb. Johnny had spent most of the morning checking hotels, and the Ruskin seemed like the best bet. It was a quiet residential hotel in Murray Hill, located on 37th Street between Lexington and Park. The rates seemed reasonable enough — $35 a week for a single with full hotel services and private bath. And he had enough dough to pay two weeks rent in advance.
He had talked to some flunky on the phone and the man had assured him a room was available. He hadn’t made reservations, however. He wanted to see what the place looked like first.
The cab dropped him in front of a fairly impressive brick building. It had an old established air about it. The lobby was staid and conservative. The ceilings were high and the thick carpet was a subdued oriental pattern. Large copper cigarette urns filled with sand were here and there throughout the lobby.
He walked quickly to the desk, trying to look as confident as possible. The manager peered owlishly at him through a thick pair of glasses.
“I’d like to see a room.” he said, speaking carefully and not slurring his words together. “Do you have a single available with private bath?”
The man assured him that he did. He pressed a bell and a bellhop appeared from out of nowhere. He was dressed in a red uniform and was at least twenty years older than Johnny.
“Take this gentleman to 10-C,” the manager said. The bellhop scooped up Johnny’s bags and led him to an elevator. They left the car at the tenth floor and the bellhop led the way to a room at one end of the corridor. He opened the door with a key and motioned Johnny inside.
The room was more than adequate. The furniture was heavy and looked expensive. The bed was big. The carpet was wine-red and thick. The windows faced out on 37th Street and the view was good.
Luxury, Johnny thought. That’s the ticket. We live in style from here on in.
The bellhop went around opening windows and performing other mysterious absolutions. Finally he stood at attention in front of Johnny. Johnny handed him a crisp dollar bill and watched it disappear.
“Tell him I’ll be taking the room,” he said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes with the rent.”
The man nodded and disappeared.
Johnny unpacked his suitcases, put his clothes away, some in the spacious walk-in closet and the others in the bureau. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He relaxed.
He took out the alligator billfold again and counted his money. It came to a little under $180. He’d have $110 left after he paid two weeks rent. That would be enough. In no time at all the money would start to roll in. What the hell — if a guy like Bernie could make it he could. He had Bernie’s looks and Bernie’s sex appeal any day of the week.
And he had the drive.
He looked around the room. He stood up, walked to the bathroom and flushed the toilet. It flushed almost soundlessly. He looked at the tub and shower. The porcelain was spotless.
Nice, he thought. Very nice.
He undressed, took his suit and hung it neatly in the closet. He took a good leisurely shower and got out of it feeling like a new man. He dried himself on a hotel towel and drank a glass of ice-water from the ice-water tap on the sink.
Very nice.
He lit another cigarette. He sat in a chair with one leg crossed over the other and smoked. He got up, walked across the room to the window and looked out over 37th Street. He liked the view. It was better than staring at a goddamn brick wall.
Very nice.
At six o’clock he was dressed again. He left the room, took the elevator to the lobby and paid seventy dollars to the man at the desk. He walked outside. He had things to do. Dinner came first — he couldn’t start work on an empty stomach. Dinner. Then work.
There was a mirror in the lobby and he stopped to study himself for a moment before he left. He barely recognized himself. The haircut changed the whole shape of his face. He looked older now, and infinitely more polished, and much more like a solid citizen. The slum-kid look was gone.
That wasn’t all, he thought. Maybe they were right; maybe clothes did make the man. He looked like a million dollars now. After taxes.
It was warm out and there was a light breeze. He walked firm and easy down 37th Street with his arms swinging at his sides. He was pleased.
Nice, he thought. Very nice.
The bar was named The Vermillion Room. It was located on 59th Street across from Central Park and it was expensive. Drinks were a dollar or more.
The lighting was subdued, the carpet rich, the chairs soft and the tables small. There was no juke box. Orchestral arrangements of show tunes played continuously but unobtrusively over a well-engineered sound system. The bar itself was flat black and hyper-modern in design. The cushioned stools matched it.
Johnny Wells walked in trying to hide the fact that he was scared stiff. Act like you own the place, he thought. Walk tall. Be cool.
There were two women sitting alone at the bar toward the rear. The bartender, a portly man wearing a red cutaway jacket, was polishing a glass. The sound system played I’ll Take Manhattan. He ignored the two women and took a stool in the middle of the bar. The barman came to him and he ordered bourbon and plain water.
He didn’t want bourbon and water. What he wanted was milk, but he wasn’t silly enough to order it. The bourbon came, the barman mixed the drink, and Johnny sipped it. He didn’t like the taste. It was something he could put up with but he didn’t care for it. Eventually he would learn about drinking. He’d find something that it was right to order and that tasted good to him. For the time being bourbon seemed safe enough.
He took a cigarette from his pack and scratched a match, dragging smoke into his lungs. That was another thing, he thought. He ought to have a cigarette case. And a lighter. Plain silver and very thin, both of them. They didn’t have to cost too much to look good. But they might be important status symbols.