“I’m glad you do, because my boss wants to fire me. Can you believe that? Lenny takes down two lines for an address and Pasternak wants to put it on me.”

“I really don’t see what we have to do with your trouble at work,” the young woman said.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. It’s just that my wife’s pregnant, and if I lose this job —”

“Are you looking for a new job?” the operator asked, trying to urge me toward clarity.

“I got two lines here,” I said. “Actually three words. Hercules and Bernard Arms. That’s all the address that the suit gave Lenny. If I don’t get a proper address my new baby will be suckling cheap wine on Skid Row.”

“Lance Wexler,” the woman said brightly. “You’re looking for Lance Wexler. He’s got a penthouse suite.”

“Is there a number on that suite, dear?” I asked in the wake of a deep sigh.

“P-four. That’s his apartment.”

“P-four,” I said, pretending to write it down. “Can you connect me to his room, please? I need to see when he wants to take delivery.”

“We can take the package at the front desk.”

“I know,” I said. “But Mr. Pasternak wants me to go there myself and get the man’s signature. Either I put the package in his hand by four o’clock today or I can kiss sweet butter good-bye.”

“But Mr. Wexler isn’t here,” my new friend Sue said.

“Are you sure? Or is it that he just doesn’t want to be bothered?”

“No. He’s out. I’m sure of it. No. He’s definitely not here. He hasn’t been in for a few days.”

THE BERNARD ARMS RESIDENCE HOTEL was nowhere near any colored neighborhood. They wouldn’t have rented a toilet to Kit Mitchell.

Next door on the right was a florist’s shop called Dashiel’s. On the left was a stationery store with no name posted. I went into the stationery store and bought a big blue envelope and a small stack of gummed labels. I attached one of the labels to the envelope and wrote the name Mr. John Stover. Beneath that I penned The Bernard Arms.