Tuesday

1

In his private six-room suite on the hotel's fifteenth floor, Warren Trent stepped down from the barber' chair in which Aloysius Royce had shaved him. W.T. walked stiffly into the bathroom now, pausing before a mirror to inspect the shave. He could find no fault with it^[54] as he studied the reflection facing him.

It showed a deep-seamed face, a loose mouth which could be humorous on occasion, beaked nose and deep-set eyes. His hair, jet-black in youth, was now a distinguished white, thick and curly still. He made a typical picture of an eminent southern gentleman.

So, he reminded himself, now it was Tuesday of the final week. Including today, there were only four more days remaining: four days in which to prevent his lifetime's work from dissolving into nothingness.

Scowling at his own thoughts, the proprietor limped into the dining-room where Aloysius Royce had laid a breakfast table. The oak table had a trolley beside it which had come from the kitchen a few moments earlier. Warren Trent sat into the chair which Royce held out, then gestured to the opposite side of the table. At once the young Negro laid a second place, slipping into the vacant seat himself. There was a second breakfast on the trolley, available for such occasions when the old man changed his usual custom of breakfasting alone.

Serving the two portions Royce remained silent, knowing his employer would speak when ready. At length, pushing away his plate, Warren Trent observed, “You'd better make the most of this. Neither of us may be enjoying it much longer.”^[55]

Royce said, “The trust people^[56] haven't changed their mind about renewing?”

“They haven't and they won't. Not now.” Without warning the old man slammed his fist upon the table top. “By God! – there was a time when I'd have called the tune, not danced a jig to theirs^[57]. Once they were lined up – banks, trust companies, all the rest – trying to lend their money.”

“Times change for all of us.” Aloysius Royce poured coffee. “Some things get better, others worse.”

Warren Trent said sourly, “It's easy for you. You're young. You haven't lived to see everything you've worked for fall apart.”

And it had come to that, he reflected sadly. In four days from now – on Friday – a twenty-year-old mortgage on the property was due for redemption and the investment syndicate had declined to renew. At first, on learning of the decision, his reaction had been surprise, though not concern. Plenty of other lenders, he assumed, would willingly take over – at a higher interest rate^[58], no doubt – but, on whatever terms, producing the two million dollars needed. It was only when he had been decisively turned down by everyone approached^[59] – banks, trusts, insurance companies, and private lenders – that his original confidence waned. One banker whom he knew well told him frankly, “Hotels like yours are out of favor, Warren. A lot of people think the day of the big independents is over, and nowadays the chain hotels are the only ones which can show reasonable profit. Besides, look at your balance sheet. You've been losing money steadily.”

His protestations that present losses were temporary and would reverse themselves when business improved, achieved nothing. He was simply not believed.

It was at this time that Curtis O'Keefe had telephoned suggesting their meeting in New Orleans this week. “Absolutely all I have in mind is a friendly chat, Warren,” the magnate had declared. “After all, we're a couple of aging innkeepers, you and me. We should see each other sometimes.” But Warren Trent was not deceived by the words. The vultures are hovering, he thought. Curtis O'Keefe would arrive today and there was not the slightest doubt that he was fully briefed on the St. Gregory's financial problems.

Many years earlier, Aloysius Royce's father served Warren Trent first as body servant and later as companion and privileged friend. Aloysius was little more than a boy when his father had died over a decade ago, but he had never forgotten Warren Trent's face at the old Negro's funeral. They had walked away from the cemetery together, Aloysius with his hand in Warren Trent's, who told him, “You'll stay on with me at the hotel. Later we'll work something out.” The boy agreed trustingly – his father's death had left him entirely alone, his mother having died at his birth – and the “something” had turned out to be college followed by law school, from which he would graduate in a few weeks' time. In the meanwhile, as the boy became a man, he had taken over the running of the owner's suite and, though most of the physical work was done by other employees, Aloysius performed personal services which Warren Trent accepted. And yet, despite their intimacy and the knowledge that he could take liberties^[60] which Warren Trent would never tolerate in others, Aloysius Royce was conscious of a border never to be crossed. Now he told W.T. about the last night's events. Warren Trent listened, and at the end said, “McDermott handled everything properly. Why don't you like him?”

He answered, “Maybe there's some chemistry between us doesn't mix. Or perhaps I don't like big white football players proving how kind they are by being nice to colored boys.”

Warren Trent eyed Royce quizzically. “You're a complicated one. Have you thought you might be doing McDermott an injustice?”

“Just as I said, maybe it's chemical.”

“Your father had an instinct for people. But he was a lot more tolerant than you.”

“A dog likes people who pat him on the head. That's because his thinking isn't complicated by knowledge and education.”

“Even if it were^[61], I doubt he'd choose those particular words.” Trent's eyes, appraising, met the younger man's and Royce was silent. The remembrance of his father always disturbed him. He answered now, “Maybe I used wrong words, but it doesn't change the sense.”

Warren Trent nodded without comment and took out his old– fashioned watch. “You'd better tell young McDermott to come and see me. Ask him to come here. I'm a little tired this morning.”

The two were in the lavishly furnished living-room of Warren Trent's suite, the older man relaxed in a deep, soft chair, his feet raised upon a footstool. Peter sat facing him.

“Something I'd like to deal with concerns the room clerks.” Peter described the Albert Wells incident and saw Warren Trent's face harden at the mention of the room change.

The older man growled, “We should have closed off that room years ago. Maybe we'd better do it now.”

“I don't think it need be closed, if we use it as a last resort and tell the guest what he's getting into.”

Warren Trent nodded. “Attend to it.”

Peter hesitated. “What I'd like to do is give some specific instructions on room changes generally. There have been other incidents and I think it needs pointing out that our guests aren't to be moved around like checkers on a board.”

“Deal with the one thing. If I want general instructions I'll issue them.”

The curt response, Peter thought, showed what was wrong with the hotel's management. Mistakes were dealt with after they happened, with little or no attempt to correct their root cause. Now he said, “I thought you should know about the Duke and Duchess of Croydon. The Duchess asked for you personally.” He described the incident of the spilled shrimp Creole and the differing version of the waiter Sol Natchez.

Warren Trent grumbled, “I know that damn woman. She won't be satisfied unless the waiter's fired.”

“I don't believe he should be fired.”

“Then tell him to go fishing for a few days – with pay – but to keep the hell out of the hotel. And warn him from me that next time he spills something, to be sure it's boiling and over the Duchess's head. I suppose she still has those damn dogs.”

“Yes.” Peter smiled.

A Louisiana law forbade animals in rooms. In the Croydons' case, Warren Trent had agreed that the presence of the terriers would not be noticed officially, if they got in and out by a rear door. The Duchess, however, paraded the dogs each day through the main lobby.

“I had some trouble with Ogilvie last night.” Peter reported the chief house officer's absence.

Reaction was quick. “I've told you before to leave Ogilvie alone. He's responsible directly to me.”

“It makes things difficult ifthere's something to be done…” “You heard what I said. Forget Ogilvie!” Warren Trent's face was red, but less from anger, Peter suspected, than embarrassment. The hands-off-Ogilvie rule didn't make sense and the proprietor knew it.

Abruptly changing the subject, Warren Trent announced, “Curtis O'Keefe is checking in today. He wants two adjoining suites and I've sent down instructions. You'd better make sure that everything's in order, and I want to be informed as soon as he arrives.”

“Will Mr. O'Keefe be staying long?”

“I don't know. It depends on a lot of things.”

For a moment Peter felt sympathy for the older man. The St. Gregory was to Warren Trent more than a hotel; it had been his lifetime's work. The hotel's reputation, too, had for many years been high. It must be hard to accept that the St. Gregory had slipped behind the times. And Peter thought that new financing and a firm, controlling hand on management could work wonders^[62], even, perhaps, restoring the hotel to its old competitive position. But as things were, both the capital and control would have to come from outside – he supposed through Curtis O'Keefe. Once more Peter was reminded that his own days here might well be numbered.

The proprietor asked, “What's our convention situation?”

“The Congress of American Dentistry begins tomorrow, though some of their people checked in yesterday and there'll be more today. They should take close to two hundred and eighty rooms.”

Warren Trent nodded approval. At least, he reflected, the news was not all bad. Conventions were the lifeblood of business, and the dentistry convention was an achievement.

“We had a full house last night,” Warren Trent said. He added, “In this business it's either feast or famine^[63]. Can we handle today's arrivals?”

“I checked on the figures first thing this morning. There should be enough checkouts, though it'll be close. Our overbookings are a little high.”^[64]

The most miserable moment in any hotel manager's life was explaining to indignant would-be guests, who held confirmed reservations, that no accommodation was available. He felt awful as a fellow human being and also because he was absolutely sure that those people would never again come back to his hotel.

In Peter's own experience the worst occasion was when a baker's convention, meeting in New York, decided to remain an extra day so that some of its members could take a moonlight cruise around Manhattan. Two hundred and fifty bakers and their wives stayed on, unfortunately without telling the hotel, which expected them to check out so an engineers' convention could move in. Recollection of the chaos, with hundreds of angry engineers and their women in the lobby, some waving reservations made two years earlier, still caused Peter to shudder when he thought of it. In the end, the new arrivals were sent to motels in outlying New York until next day when the bakers went innocently away. But the monumental taxi bills of the engineers, plus a substantial cash settlement to avoid a lawsuit, were paid by the hotel – more than the profit on both conventions.

Warren Trent lit a cigar, motioning to McDermott to take a cigarette from a box beside him. When he had done so, Peter said, “I talked with the Roosevelt^[65]. If we're in a jam^[66] tonight they can help us out with maybe thirty rooms.” Even fiercely competitive hotels aided each other in that kind of crisis, never knowing when the roles would be reversed^[67].

“All right,” Warren Trent said, a cloud of cigar smoke above him, “now what's the outlook for the fall?”

“It's disappointing. I've sent you a memo about the two big union conventions falling through.”

“Why have they fallen through?”

“It's the same reason I warned you about earlier. We've continued to discriminate. We haven't complied with the Civil Rights Act^[68], and the unions resent it.” Peter glanced toward Aloysius Royce who had come into the room and was arranging a pile of magazines.

Without looking up the young Negro said, “Don't yo' worry about sparing my feelings^[69], Mistuh McDermott” – Royce was using the exaggerated accent – “because us colored folks are right used to that.”

Warren Trent said, “Cut out the comic lines^[70].”

“Yessir!” Royce left his magazine sorting and stood facing the other two. Now his voice was normal. “But I'll tell you this: the unions have acted the way they have because they've a social conscience. They're not the only ones, though. More conventions, and just plain folks, are going to stay away until this and others like it admit that times have changed.”

Warren Trent waved a hand toward Royce. “Answer him,” he told Peter McDermott. “Around here we don't mince words.”^[71]

“It so happens^[72],” Peter said quietly, “that I agree with what he said.”

“Why so, Mr. McDermott?” Royce taunted. “You think it'd be better for business? Make your job easier?”

“Those are good reasons,” Peter said.

Warren Trent slammed down his hand hard upon the chair arm. “Never mind the reasons! What matters is, you're being damn fools, both of you.”

It was a recurring question. In Louisiana, most hotel chains had nominally complied with the Civil Rights Act, but then, quietly went back to their long-established segregation policies. As for the St. Gregory, it simply resisted change.

“No!” Viciously, Warren Trent stubbed out his cigar. “Whatever's happening anywhere else, I say we're not ready for it here. So we've lost the union conventions. All right, it's time we got off our backsides^[73] and tried for something else.”

It was quiet in the big living-room, with only a whisper from the air conditioning, and occasional sounds from the city below. Warren Trent could feel his heart pounding heavily – an effect of the anger. It was a warning, he supposed, which he should heed more often. Yet nowadays so many things upset him, making emotions hard to control and to remain silent. It was because he sensed so much was disappearing beyond his control. Besides, anger had always come easily – except for those few brief years when Hester had taught him to use patience and a sense of humor, and for a while he had. How long ago it seemed! – more than thirty years since he had carried her, as a young bride, across the threshold of this very room. And how short a time they had had: those few brief years, joyous beyond measure, until the paralytic polio struck without warning. It had killed Hester in twenty-four hours, leaving Warren Trent, mourning and alone, and the St. Gregory.

He rose awkwardly from the deep chair and moved to the window, looking across the rooftops of the French Quarter. Was the hotel worth fighting for? Why not give up, sell out and let time and change take them both? Curtis O'Keefe would make a fair deal^[74]. There would be enough money left on which he could live, at whatever standard he chose, for the remainder of his life.

Surrender: perhaps that was the answer. Surrender to changing times. After all, what was a hotel except so much brick and mortar?^[75] He had tried to make it more, but in the end he had failed. Let it go!

And yet… if he did, what else was left?

Nothing. For himself there would be nothing left. He waited, wondering, his eyes looking at the city spread before him. It too had seen change, had been French, Spanish, and American, yet had somehow survived as itself.

No! He would not sell out. Not yet. While there was still hope, he would hold on. There were still four days in which to raise the mortgage money^[76] somehow, and beyond that the present losses were a temporary thing. Soon the tide would turn^[77], leaving the St. Gregory solvent and independent.

He walked stiffly across the room to an opposite window. His eyes caught the gleam of an airplane high to the north. It was a jet, losing height and preparing to land at the Airport. He wondered if Curtis O'Keefe was aboard.

2

When Christine Francis found him, Sam Jakubiec, the stocky, balding credit manager, was standing at the Reception, making his daily check. Most hotels cared nothing about the morals of those who stayed within their walls. Their concern was a single basic question: Could a guest pay?

With a swift movement Sam Jakubiec put the ledger cards back in place and closed the file drawer containing them. “Now,” he said, “what can I do?”

“We've hired a private duty nurse for 1410.” Briefly Christine reported the previous night's crisis concerning Albert Wells. “I'm a little worried whether Mr. Wells can afford it, and I'm not sure he realizes how much it will cost.” She might have added, but didn't, that she was more concerned for the little man himself than for the hotel.

Jakubiec nodded. “That private nursing can run into big money.” Walking together, they moved away from Reception to the credit manager's office.

“Madge,” Sam Jakubiec said, “see what we have on Wells, Albert.”

Without answering, the secretary opened a drawer. Jakubiec took the card the secretary offered him. Scanning it, he observed, “He looks all right. Stayed with us six times. Paid cash. One small problem which seems to have been settled.”

“I know about that,” Christine said. “It was our fault.”