The Hired Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

remembered it.
    When I got his answering machine, I left a generic sort of message about having been thinking of him and wondering how he was doing, and that he should give me a call when he had the chance. Then I hung up, figured the hell with it, and went into the kitchen to fix breakfast.
    So much for Sunday.
    *
    Five-thirty is much too early for any civilized human being to get out of bed, but I forced myself, taking absolutely no consolation in the thought that I didn’t have to do it very often. Fixed a pot of coffee—I’d set it all up the night before and then forgotten to turn on the timer switch—and bumbled into the shower.
    The only good thing about that time of morning was that downtown parking places were still possible to find. I parked about half a block from the Montero and, seeing I was about ten minutes early, took my time walking to the hotel. I forced myself to look in store windows I normally never would have bothered looking in—and, having looked, realized why—and walked into the Montero’s lobby at exactly 7:12.
    I went to the registration desk and asked for Mr. Anderson’s room. The clerk smiled, looked at something I couldn’t see just below the counter, then picked up the phone and punched in a number. She held the phone to her ear for about half a minute before hanging it up, saying “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Anderson is not answering.”
    Figuring he was probably still in the shower after his run and didn’t hear the phone, I asked if she’d mind trying again in a minute or two then stood by the desk idly looking around the cavernous lobby while I waited. The Montero was one of the city’s older and more prestigious hotels and had recently undergone a multi-million dollar renovation to restore it to its original elegance. They’d done a nice job, I decided.
    After a few minutes, I turned back to the clerk, who was busy doing whatever registration clerks do when they’re not taking registrations.
    “Would you try Mr. Anderson’s room again, please?”
    She smiled her reservation clerk’s smile and again picked up the phone. Another half-minute wait and again: “Mr. Anderson is not answering, sir. Perhaps he stepped out.”
    I doubted that but thought I’d check out the dining room, just in case I’d misunderstood him. I thanked the clerk and headed toward the huge mahogany doors that separated the main dining room from the lobby. There were perhaps a total of six early risers sprinkled around the large room, with only a click of coffee cup on saucer or fork tapping plate to break the silence.
    Anderson wasn’t there.
    I returned to the registration desk.
    “Did Mr. Anderson by any chance leave a message for me? Dick Hardesty?”
    She again checked the area under the counter then said “No, sir. Nothing.”
    “He was supposed to go running this morning,” I said. “I wonder if you might have seen someone in a running suit go through the lobby?”
    She shook her head. “We have quite a few runners,” she said, “but they generally leave through the parking garage.”
    Hmmmm, so much for that.
    Anderson had told me he was in room 1485, so I decided to just go up and see if he might still be sleeping. I didn’t know how set in stone his running ritual might be. I thanked her and headed toward the bank of elevators, where one whispered open as soon as I pressed the button.
    Stepping out into the total silence of the fourteenth floor, I found my way to room number 1485. There was a “Do Not Disturb” card hanging from the knob. I glanced at my watch. It was now 7:35. I knocked gently and waited. I knocked again, a bit harder. I thought I heard something inside and put my ear to the door. Definitely something—probably the television.
    Odd.
    I knocked yet again then decided the hell with it and returned to the elevator. When I reached the lobby, I went back to the registration desk to leave a message for Anderson, telling him I would be in my office and for him to please