There were 110 rooms. Why it stopped on that number is God's little secret. Inside, each had two small doubles or one queen size. A liquor cabinet, a kitchenette, and a bathroom where the queen of England herself would be proud to powder her nose. They had bellhops and room service that didn't close until 1am. Wallpaper from Paris, France, depicting the plight of Joan of Arc, and chandeliers from Florence, Italy. Not many townspeople could afford a room at the Primrose.
That's why it befuddled Scratch that an oil worker could afford to stay in a place like that. A wage of 50 dollars a week didn't stretch to such accommodations. Usually the men that worked for Reliance stayed at the Courtyard, which was a trailer park. Or Joan Hoss's Room and Board, which most didn't, because Miss Hoss didn't allow beer or booze in her house. Or maybe, if they were lucky, renting a house on the edge of Darktown from Peter Dodd, the local slumlord.
Sure enough, Jerzy left the pass key in the evening paper lying on the sign-in desk. When Scratch entered the lobby, he gave Jerzy a wave. He walked to the desk and Jerzy pointed to the paper.
Scratch placed the paper under his arms, started to walk away and stopped. He leaned on the desk with both elbows.
“Uh, is there any mail for me?” Scratch asked, looked around the nearly empty lobby.
“I'll check for you, sir,” Jerzy said. He was amused with the charade he and Scratch were carrying in front of practically no one and really, no one cared. Jerzy pretended to look in cubby holes, pulling envelopes and stationary paper out, placing them back.
One big-shot oil man sat in a velvet chair looking at a copy of Life magazine with a girl in her pajamas on the cover. He looked up from the magazine. The fat man wrinkled his nose at Scratch, exhaled a heavy sigh. Scratch smiled back. The oil man shifted uneasily in his chair and flipped the pages of the magazine like he was angry at the world.
“No sir,” Jerzy said. “I'm afraid not.”
A very attractive, overdressed young woman stepped out of the elevator, her heels tapping away as she sashayed across the floor of the lobby.
The oil man jumped from the velvet chair and trotted to her. His tiny, spindly legs almost gave out under him. Scratch watched the scene unfold. The oil man couldn't keep his fat, stubby hands off the blonde, and she only let him give her a peck on the cheek. He nervously walked her out of the Primrose's door.
The oil man opened the door of a Chevrolet Bel Air and ushered her in. The woman got in indifferently, making sure her skirt was out of the way when the oil man shut the door. A long, salacious grin was on the man's face. He clapped his hands and shook out a spark of energy from his body. He ran around to the other side, happy as a child on Christmas day.
“You can't believe your luck, huh, pal?” Scratch said.
“I'm sorry sir?” Jerzy said.
Scratch shook his head. “Nothing,” he tipped his hat. “Nothing at all,” he said, moving toward the elevator.
Inside the elevator, he checked the paper for the pass key. He unrolled the paper and the skeleton key fell to the floor of the elevator with a loud clank. Scratch dropped to his knees and retrieved it. The elevator door opened and a woman appeared. She started to enter but saw Scratch crouched at her legs. She gave out a muted shriek, backed away.
Scratch immediately stood. He tipped his hat to the stunned woman. “Sorry, ma'am.” He brushed by her.
Scratch looked for the room. The numbers seemed to be flipped. The lower numbers were at the end of the hallway and on the wrong side. In the hotels Scratch had stayed in on his leave in the Army after boot camp and when he was released, the even numbers were on the right, odd numbers on the left. At the Primrose, it was switched.
All he really had to do was follow the loud, muffled music. There it was. Room 103. Two rooms from the fire escape. Half-way down the hall, Scratch heard two female voices singing Tonight, you belong to me. Scratch stood at the door and listened. He heard a man's voice, a female's voice, and both of them laughing.
Scratch eased the skeleton key into the lock. He pulled the door knob to him and turned the right. The lock popped. Quietly, he rolled the knob and the door opened. Scratch waited, listened. He heard a wet sound, loud slurping. The door creaked as it swung open.
Scratch stepped inside the room, but kept the door open.
A young blonde woman in her late teens was on her knees, her face buried in Gardner's unbuttoned fly, her mouth wrapped around his bent penis. Her pony tail swung as her head bobbed up and down. Gardner's eyes were closed, his back arched. His hips swiveled slightly as he moaned. The young woman's eyes darted toward Scratch and pulled away from Gardner's crotch.
The young woman screamed. She retreated, using her hands and feet to crawl backwards. She fell on her back, and felt for her high heels. In one swoop she grabbed them, got to her feet and zipped past Scratch, breathing hard. Scratch laughed, noticing her stockings had slipped down her legs.
Gardner uttered a few obscenities and some harsh words at the young woman, but she was already down the hallway. She jumped inside the lift as soon as the doors opened. Gardner struggled to put away his erect penis. He pulled his trousers up and buttoned them quickly. He balled his fists up. His face, already flushed, turned bright red. His lips and nose contorted as he spluttered nonsense at Scratch.
The song on the radio ended. A DJ came on, announced that song was by
