He stops, hates lies, even the mistake of them. --I might know why.

Lina's hand shoots up, palm out.

--I don't want to know. I hate the mopes and Lord knows you had 'em. Thank God you're over it. You are over it?

Her chin high, a boss to him and herself, waits. --Not entirely.

--Well that's good as anything, I guess. Lina points to the article.

--It'll do. It's not gold, but it's publishable.

Charlie hadn't expected approval from Lina. He swallows.

--So we're square?

He walks to the door, knowing she'll stop him.

--OK, wait. I'll give you steady work. But it won't be in the office. We don't have the money for that.

Charlie turns around, smiling-fool. --What kind of work?

--Any kind I need.

She pulls a five-inch stack of papers, rubber-banded tight to snap. --I need these edited, and if necessary, typed again. By Sunday.

Charlie takes it. Lina hands him another sheet of paper. --And this.

She frowns, lines crowd her eyes.

--It's some kind of complaint that I don't have the time, energy, whatever, to deal with this petty.... Just write him a letter or something.

Charlie takes the complaint, folds into quarters and pockets behind his notepad. He laughs. Lina shoots him a look.

--What?

--Seems I'm groomed for this.

--Letters?

--Complaints.

Lina shoos him and he laughs delighted.

--I've been dismissed. Doesn't matter. I have a breakfast to get to.

Lina grins despite herself.

--So go.

Prep-work
Dole wears slippers and a bleached T-shirt. The second-hand records time spent on buttons, laces, zippers. To invite Charlie he set his timer back a half hour. He should have invited Graves. The man had just called two days ago about his finances, asked if they should sell the hotel, some sort of trip he wants to take, something about Europe, a move, either permanent or temporary. Dole advised Graves not to sell. To hire a manager, rent the rooms as apartments, and close the hotel as such. It never occurred to Dole that Charlie stayed in this hotel until after the call.

Dole forgets his right sock, picks up the phone and tells the operator the number.

He invites Graves, checks the time: 8:34 a.m. Graves says he'd be delighted to come.

--But it's such short notice.

--I'm already laced-up and shaved. And hungry.

--I'm serving sausages.

--Great, my wife won't buy them, cholesterol.

--OK. Goodbye. He hangs up. He skips to the bathroom, races to the kitchen, relaxes watching the coffee drip. It's five of nine.

Out the kitchen window a man in a gray suit and strong gait approaches the door. It's Charlie. Dole takes sausage off the grill, panics. The table's not set; he hasn't started the toast. He shouts out the window.

--I'm not ready.

--Answer the door!

Dole does. Charlie grabs his shoulder.

--I'll help.

The two rush the stairs

--You make toast and I'll set the table. Charlie's eyes soften at the beads of sweat on Dole's brow.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 7

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