A Swell-Looking Babe Read Online Free PDF

wet his lips, hesitantly. Bascom made things sound awfully easy. If he had to do them himself, well…
    "It's not that simple," he said. "There are plenty of things besides-"
    "There always are. But there aren't many that you can't do without. No, Bill. It wouldn't be easy, not an ideal arrangement by any means. But…" His voice died. The friendliness went out of his face. "Forget it," he said coldly. "Let's get back to work."
    "But I was going to say that-"
    "I said to forget it," Bascom snapped. "You're lazy. You feel sorry for yourself. You want something for nothing. It's a waste of time talking to you. Now, call those rooms off to me, and call 'em off right."
    Dusty gulped and swallowed. Voice shaking, he resumed the calling.
    The remaining three hours of the shift passed swiftly. At five-thirty, the split-watch elevator boy arrived. At six, the head baggage porter retrieved the check-room key from Dusty and began his day's duties. At seven the entire day shift came to work.
    In the locker room, Dusty took another shower and changed into his street clothes. He scowled at himself in the mirror, ripped out an abrupt disgusted curse.
    He's right, old Bascom's right, he thought. No wonder he doesn't have any use for me. Dad and I could manage. We – he – couldn't spend what I didn't have. He'd probably pull himself together if I went back to school, if he %new that one of us was going to amount to something. It would give him something to live for.
    He finished dressing, and went out to his car. Pulling away from the curb, he gave the Hotel Manton a knowing, deprecating look. It could go to hell, the Manton could, and Marcia Hillis along with it.

FOUR
    It was a shabby, rundown house, a faded-blue cottage, in a block that was barely a half-block. It was bordered on one side by a vacant lot, a hundred squarefoot jungle of weeds and Johnson grass, on the other by a crumbling brick warehouse. Facing it, across the narrow street, was a used-car lot. Dusty had rented the place shortly after his mother's death. Its chief – rather, its only – advantages were its cheapness 'and its distance, per se and socially, from the family's former neighborhood. Things had gotten pretty uncomfortable there after- his father's trouble. In this section of town, there was little chance of encountering one-time friends.
    Dusty ate breakfast on the way home, and it was nearly nine when he arrived. It was "Wednesday, one of the two days a week that the doctor called, and a black coupe, with the letters MD on the license plate, was parked in front of the house. Dusty drew up behind it, waited until the doctor came out.
    Doctor Lane was a brisk, chubby man with narrowed irritable-looking eyes. He bustled out to his car, frowning impatiently when Dusty intercepted him.
    "Well, he's all right," he said brusquely. "As good as can be expected. Incidentally, can't you spruce him up a little? Can't expect a man to feel good when he goes around like a tramp."
    "I'm doing the best I can." Dusty flushed. "I give him plenty of-"
    "The best you can, eh?" The doctor looked him up and down. "Better try a little harder. Or else get someone in to look after him. Should be able to afford it."
    He nodded curtly, and tossed his black-leather bag onto the seat of the car. His hand on the door, he paused and turned.
    "Understand he's been having a little beer. Well, won't hurt him any. Won't do him any good, but there's damned little that will. Not enough alcohol in the slop they make these days to hurt a baby."
    "I wanted to ask you, Doctor. If it's as dangerous as you say-"
    "As I say?" Doctor Lane snapped. "Any considerable amount of alcohol will kill him. Stop his heart like that."
    "Well, don't you think it would be better – safer – if he was told-"
    "No, I don't think so. If I did I'd have told him before now." The doctor sighed wearily, obviously struggling to control his impatience. "Don't want to alarm him. You can understand that, can't you? Not the