Strangely-strangely on the surface, that is-most youths do the second thing.
The hotel boy, you see, is ageless. As long as he is reasonably able-bodied, he is a "boy" at sixty-five just as he was at sixteen when he began his career as a page, valet or bellhop. Throughout the years his earnings remain about the same; he is making no more at the end than he was at the beginning. Contrariwise, however, he is making as much at the beginning. And to exchange his handsome tip-earned income for one of the low-pay jobs through which he must climb to the top is very hard for a youth to do.
Still, quite a few do make the exchange. They are repelled by the specter of themselves as uniformed grandpas. Or some interested executive takes them in hand, ordering them to get with it or get out. Or they are afflicted with late growth, suddenly finding themselves too large for the role of flunky. In any event, and for one reason or another, many of the young men Mitch had worked with as a bellboy had risen to highly responsible positions.
Foresightedly, and simply out of liking, he had helped them along the privation path to the top. Now, with rare exceptions, they were ready to help him: out of liking and gratitude; out of practical considerations-who is ever beyond the need of a safe buck? (and with a smooth character like Mitch it was always safe); out of the hotel man's contempt for the genus chump. And any non-professional gambler who gambles is considered a chump.
Inevitably, he will be taken. So why shouldn't a friend do the taking?
Mitch flung open the door. On the threshold stood a plump, rosy-cheeked man in striped trousers and morning coat. Grinning almost to his thinly-haired scalp, he held out his arms.
"Mitch, you sweet bastard! I just discovered that you'd checked in!"
Mitch let out a groan of feigned dismay. "Turk! God save us all, it's Turk!" He dragged the plump one into the apartment, calling word of his arrival to Red. "All is lost, honey. Turkelson's here."
Turkelson chuckled delightedly as Red came running in. She hugged him enthusiastically, kissed him on top of the head and accepted a kiss on the cheek. "Is there no way," she asked, turning to Mitch, "to escape this character?"
"That," said Mitch, "is the question on everyone's lips."
"Well, he'd better behave himself," Red said severely. "He's thirty stories up."
Mitch urged him to sit down, before his weight pushed him through the carpet. Then he asked what Turkelson's position was at the place-did he wash dishes or clean out the johns? Turkelson chuckled that he had applied for both jobs, been rejected as untrustworthy and forced to accept the post of resident manager. Actually, he added with the faintest trace of gloom, the job was not as good as it looked. Practically everything was a concession-food, drink, laundry and valet, newsstand, florist shop and so on-leaving him only the management of the hotel proper.
"But I do all right." He brightened. "And I see you kids are certainly making out. When you can pop forty-five hundred for a month's rent-"
Red let out a yipe, and appeared to faint. Mitch shook his head disgustedly.
"Oh, God, Mitch!" Turkelson slapped his forehead. "I should have know you wouldn't tell her."
"Why should I have to with you in the same country?"
"But that's what I came up for, one of the things. To do something about it, I mean. Red, you dream creature, if you'll pass me the phone please…"
She passed it to him. Abruptly, he became a different man: imposing, humorless, voice cracking with authority as he spoke to the room clerk.
"… now you know better than this, Davis! You should know at least. Other things being equal, the rate in a case of this kind is governed by the availability of space and the desirability of the guests. We want people to come back, you know. Or did you have some other idea?… Well, all right, then. All right. But consult me, hereafter. Oh, yes, and make this, uh, thirty-seven-fifty."
He hung up the receiver, and beamed at them. Mitch pulled Red onto his lap, signaling her with a sharp little pat. Red responded promptly.
"This is a nice man, Mitch. Maybe we should give him a little present."
"But he already has everything," Mitch said. "Dandruff, fallen arches, a sixty-four-inch bust-"
"Well, let's see," said Red, as Turkelson chortled helplessly. "Why don't we give him a bucket of bread-and-butter sandwiches? He's obviously on the point of starvation."
"One bucketful wouldn't put a dent in that yawing void. Do you suppose we could trust him with money?"
"It's now or never," Red said. "After all, he's a pretty big boy-horizontally."
"We'll give him this one chance," Mitch declared. "Turk, you are to spend five bills of that rebate on bread-and-butter sandwiches."
Turkelson flatly refused to accept the five hundred. After all, friends were friends.
He refused to accept so much, friends being friends. He absolutely would only accept it, because they were friends and friends should help each other. And since they were helping him, he must now help them.
"There's some big action at Zearsdale Country Club. I can get you a guest card."
"Can you put me in a game?"
"With that crowd? I couldn't put Jesus Christ in it!" Red and Mitch groaned in unison. They razzed him mercilessly, Turkelson chuckling and shaking and growing red with delight. He had been pretty embarrassed about the money (although God knew he could use it), and the razzing helped to dispel it.
"Catch this character"-Mitch jerked a thumb at him. "He'd actually get us a guest card to a country club!"
"It pays to have influence," Red said. "I bet he could even get our names in the telephone book."
"He's all heart," Mitch said. "P-o-t, heart." Laughing, the manager held up his hands. "All right, all right! But I do have something; I've just thought of something. Winfield Lord, Jr., is checking in here next week, and I know I can put you in with him. I can come right out and tell him that you're a gambler, and he'll be up here pounding on your door."
He beamed from Red to Mitch, very pleased with himself. Then, slowly, his smile faded and he looked almost comically plaintive.
"Please," he pleaded, "can't I do anything to suit you two?"
"You can stop using dirty words in my presence," Red said.
"Huh? But-"
"Like Winfield Lord, Jr.," Mitch explained.
"So all right, he's a real stinker," the manager conceded. "So hold your nose, and grab for that sweet-smelling Lord money. My God, the Lords own half the state of Texas, and-"
"How fast money goes in Texas," Mitch said. "Winfield Lord's part of it, anyway. Ten years, twenty million. All he has left now is a rubber checkbook, and the world's nastiest disposition."
"We take his checks," Turkelson said. "We've never had a minute's trouble with them either."
"That's different. His mother would make good on a legitimate expense."
"I happen to know that Frank Downing has taken his paper, too. More than fifty thousand dollars worth, and he got every nickel of it."