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ignored me as I went humming past. Down Forty-sixth I could see that Arsenic and Old Lace was playing at the Fulton. Boris Karloff’s name was on the marquee. I had done a job for Karloff a few years earlier but I doubted if he would remember it or me and I didn’t have time to look up L.A. people. I had science to save.
    A sign in a Marine recruiting station on Broadway and Forty-eighth said I could come in and get a Japanese Hunting License. “Free Ammunition and Equipment—With Pay!” It was almost lunchtime. I stopped at a stand-up corner hot dog stand, put my suitcase on the ground between my legs, and had a root beer and two dogs for a quarter. The root beer was just like home. The hot dogs were great. I had a third with extra onions and went the last block through the crowds of boys in uniform, women shoppers with sharp New York accents, and people I’d rather not touch along the highway of life.
    A sign outside the Taft told me I could get COCKTAILS FOR 25 CENTS while I listened to amusing songs by Charlie Drew in the Tap Room. The doorman looked at me and my alligator suitcase and then went on talking to a hack waiting for a fare. I went up the stairs and into the Taft and headed across the busy lobby to the main desk on the right. Somewhere behind me in the Tap Room or some other interior saloon a piano played “Let’s Face the Music and Dance.” I didn’t want Berlin, I wanted Gershwin, and it made me uneasy.
    A couple from the Midwest beat me to registration. Their accents said Iowa. The desk clerk said, “Reservations?”
    The clerk wore a blue suit and blue tie. He didn’t need a shave. He didn’t need a haircut. His fingernails were trim and clean and he owned the world, at least this carpeted corner of it.
    “Darrel Davidson and wife, Davenport,” the man said. He was short, missing a neck, and sweating. She was short with a vestigial neck, and very dry. The clerk found their reservation, signed them in on the register, and accepted a check from Darrel. Then the clerk rang the bell and an ancient bellhop arrived to take their bags, but not before Mrs. Davidson could ask, “What room is Hildegarde singing in?”
    “I believe,” said the desk clerk, “that Hildegarde is at the Savoy-Plaza. That is on 58th and 5th.”
    “I thought she was here,” said Mrs. Davidson, disappointed, as the old bellboy started for the elevator.
    “We can go down to the Savoy-Plaza,” said Mr. Davidson. “Don’t let’s embarrass Ellie.”
    Darrel looked to me for sympathy and understanding. I gave him all I could muster as he waddled after the Mrs.
    The guy behind the desk looked at me, then at my mottled alligator bag from Hy’s, and asked the most sympathetic question he could come up with. “Are you in the Armed Services? There is a twenty-five percent discount to our men in uniform.”
    At my age I would normally be flattered to be mistaken for a soldier, but I have seen some pretty old privates in the last two years. I had a feeling that if I wanted to go out and get a license to kill Japanese, the Marines might overlook my greying hairs, and wink when I lied about my age. My bad back might give me away somewhere down the line but male bodies were in short supply for this war. “No uniform, no reservation,” I said. “I’m here on business.”
    “I’m afraid if you have no reservation …” he began.
    “Maybe you should be,” I said with a grin, leaning forward. Two women were now lined up behind me, paying no attention to our conversation. Theirs was going strong.
    “A client of mine wants me to stay in this hotel,” I said. “He and I are going to be working here. He’ll be very disappointed if I don’t get a room.”
    I pulled Einstein’s check out of my pocket and handed it to the clerk, who was, I’m sure, considering a call for help in getting rid of me.
    “I don’t …” he began, without looking at the check in front of him.
    “I do and it hasn’t stunted my growth,” I