1956 Ford Continental Mark II

Shutting the suitcase, I toted it downstairs to my car parked directly in front of the Stone Building. There was a busted parking meter there that always read a half hour of time. My old, out-of-date, maroon Ford Falcon was there. I don't keep the car out of necessity. I could've afforded a Continental Mark IV or a Mercedes. But a maroon Ford Falcon is a very inconspicuous car. No one looks twice at it unless it's parked wrong. Putting the suitcase into the car, I got in and drove the fifteen blocks to the Elton. Once there, I went inside, smelling the dust, and through the dust the oldness of the place. Ronnie "Seagull" Byrd was on duty at the desk. He was young, not even twenty, and had the job because no one else could be found to take it. He had brown, afro-styled hair though he was as bigoted a white man as ever existed. And he talked with a faint lisp, which sometimes made one wonder which way he swung. The chicks frequenting the lobby let me know Byrd was straight. He'd let them ply their trade in the hotel (charging the John they'd picked up for the use of the room) in return for a fuck whenever one of them was free and he felt like it ...»