Colt Savage, the movie star, had been holed up in room 604 of the St. Anthony Hotel for a week, and no one in the city of San Antonio knew except me.

The bell captain flagged me down in the lobby around eight in the morning on the sixth day and said, “The man in 604 is calling for you again.”

I couldn’t get him a broad that early because they sleep late. Maybe he wanted more booze. That was my job: booze, broads, whatever he wanted, I’d get.

I knocked on the door and got no response. Thinking the guy might be dead, I let myself into his room with my pass key.

Empty Chivas Regal bottles were scattered over the floor, and the drapes were drawn. The stench was unbearable. The Señor was sprawled naked on his belly across the bed, his head hanging over the side.

I gently shook his shoulder. “Señor Savage, wake up.”

He rolled over on his back and farted.

“Señor Savage, wake up, please.”

He opened his eyes and stared at me. They looked like road maps, the whites crisscrossed with tiny red lines.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“I’m Paco, the bellhop. I’ve been taking care of you this week.”

“The hell you say. Where am I?”

“You’re in the St. Anthony Hotel in San Antonio, Texas.”

He swung his legs off the bed and bent over holding his head. “Damn my head hurts. What day is it?”

“Tuesday the fifteenth of June.”

“Is it still 1948?”

I nodded. “Si, Señor, 1948.”

“How long have I been here?”

“About a week.”

“What the hell am I doing in Texas? I’m supposed to be in L. A.”

“I read in the paper you were filming The Last Days of Pancho Villa in Monterey, Mexico. I guess you got off the train here by mistake. All I know is you checked in about a week ago, really drunk. You’ve been drunk ever since.”

“Who knows I’m here?”

“Just me. I go to all your movies. You signed in as W. S. Churchill and the night clerk didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s a break. Where’s the fucking phone?”

            I picked the phone off the floor, replaced the receiver and handed it to him.

“Operator get me Harry Kline in Los Angeles. Hell, I don’t know the number. Have someone out there to look it up. He’s at Warner Brothers. No, I don’t want to hold. Call me when the call goes through.”

He dropped the phone to the floor and reaching under the covers pulled out a pair of women’s pink underpants with white lace around the leg openings.

“Where did these come from?” he asked.

“They probably belong to Bubbles or Lily,” I said.

“I don’t even want to go there,” he said.

The phone rang and he picked it up from the floor and answered, “It’s not a collect call, idiot, it’s person to person. Just tell his secretary that Colt is on the line.”

He sat listening with his head hanging down, his chin touching his hairy chest. Finally, he said, “Maggie, it’s Colt. Is Himself there? Be a doll and march your sweet little ass in there and tell him it’s me. I promise. You know I will. You’re a doll. Harry! Goddamn it, Harry, don’t holler at me! I know where I’m supposed to be. I got side-tracked. I missed a train or something. Hell, I don’t know. I’m in San Antonio, Texas. No, Texas, there’s no San Antonio in California, you’re thinking about San Clemente.

“So start the frigging picture without me! Do some long shots and use my stunt guy. You’ll think of something. You’ve never lost a penny in your life. I’ll be there in a few days. Damn it, Harry, I’m not taking a plane. Damn things scare the shit out of me. You can’t do that! There’re nothing in my contract that says I’ve got to fly in a frigging airplane. Don’t hang up on me, Harry! Harry?”

Señor Savage held the phone away from his ear and looked at me with disbelief on his face. “The son-of-a-bitch hung up on me!”

He handed the phone back to me as if he didn’t know how to hang it up himself.

“What’s your name again, kid?”

“Paco.”

“Call me Colt. Everyone in California goes by their first name. Hell, I don’t know the last names of half my friends.”

“I don’t feel comfortable calling you by your first name. I would prefer Señor Savage.”

“Okay if I call you, Paco?”

“Of course. I’m honored to be of service to you, Señor. Would you like your room cleaned?”

            I didn’t see many hundred dollar bills in my line of work and couldn’t remember who’s picture was on it. At the elevator, I held it under the light for a better look. I hadn’t noticed before how dim the light was. I suspected Señor Montgomery was responsible for that. He was the assistant manager and was probably trying to hide the fact that the carpet was worn and threadbare.

The elevator door opened and the operator said, “Buenos días, Paco.”

“Buenos días, Rita. ¿Cómo es usted?”

“Muy bien, gracias. ¿Cómo es usted?”

“Bien, gracias. pero inglés, Rita. Gringo Montgomery has been all over my ass for not speaking English.”

Rita flipped the lever to the down position and the elevator began to drop. “He’s been all over my ass with his hands,” Rita said. Every time he gets on an empty elevator he pats my ass and tells me how pretty I am for a Meskin girl. It makes my skin crawl.”

“Why don’t you report him to Señor Dunlap?

“Why don’t you?”

“If he patted me on my ass, I would. I need the job, so I put up with his shit until I’ve saved enough money for my café.”

“How’s your friend in room 604?”

“Big headache, looks like shit.”

“Who is he?”

“An important man, doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.”

“What’s he do?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

The elevator door opened and I stepped out into the lobby. I was heading toward the drugs store when Señor Montgomery motioned me over to the front desk.

“Where’re you headed, Paco?” he asked.

“To the drugstore for the man in 604, Señor Montgomery.”

“Damn it, Paco. How many times have I told you to speak English? In this hotel it’s Mister, not Señor anything. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery.”

“That’s better. Now get going.”

Gringo dung heap, I thought as I ran down the stairs two at a time.

When I got back to the room the drapes were pulled back and I could hear the shower running. The sun was coming in the window and the room was flooded with light. I started picking up Chivas Regal bottles and straightening the overturned chairs and lamps.  I pulled up the bed covers and sat down to wait for the Señor.

In a few minutes the shower turned off and he came into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. He was a handsome man, tall with black wavy hair barely graying at the temples.

“Paco, the beer and eggs, please,” he said.

I handed him a tall glass I’d picked up in the kitchen and he poured the beer in at an angle. Then he broke each egg and dropped it into the beer, threw his head back and swallowed the concoction in one gulp.

He shuddered, blinked his eyes and said, “I think that’ll do it. You wouldn’t have an aspirin on you would you, Paco?”

“Si.”

He popped two into his mouth and swallowed them without any water or anything.

“What about the shaving gear?”

I took all the articles out of the bag and laid them on the bed. There was a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a double-edged razor, a bottle of Old Spice shaving lotion, a tube of shaving cream, and a small bottle of Vitalis. The last item was the one I was most proud of, a tortoise shell comb.

Looking over the items, he said, “Good job, Paco. Please take my clothes and have them cleaned. Ask the maid to come in now, and check back in an hour.”

I heard him pick up the phone and call room service as I let myself out. I found Maria’s cart two doors down and asked her to make up his room.

Señor Savage’s suit was filthy and smelled of sweat and shit. Waiting for the elevator, I stuck my hand in my pocket and realized I still had ninety bucks of the Señor’s money. Rita was off and some gringo kid was running her elevator. He and I didn’t speak as I stepped on. I tried hard not to think about the ninety bucks. A tip maybe? No, if I played my cards right, I’d do better anyway.

I took the Señor’s suit and shirt to the cleaners for a quick one-hour job and then went to the men’s shop just off the lobby. I visited there a lot, not to buy, but to look. There were racks of clothes in all sizes, great double breasted suits with wide lapels, silk shirts with French cuffs, big Fedora hats, wide ties with paisley designs, and Italian shoes.

 Wandering through the store I tried to think of something I could buy for Señor Savage with the leftover money. Then I saw a maroon silk bathrobe with tassels on the ends of the belt. I tried it on.

“That’s a little big for you, Paco,” the owner said.

“It’s for a friend, Señor Stiner, he’s bigger than me. How much?”

“Seventy-five plus tax.”

“Do you have slippers?”

“What size?”

I was stuck. I thought about my own ten and a half B and tried to calculate his foot size.

“Eleven D please. In leather if possible.”

I handed Señor Stiner the ninety dollars and he examined each bill carefully. I figured he was thinking you can’t trust Meskins, not even with cold, hard cash.

On my way back upstairs I ran into Montgomery again. He seemed to be everywhere that day.

“Over here, Paco. Help Mr. Wallace with his bags. He just checked into room 708.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Pulling me over, he asked in a whisper, “Where have you been all day? The other bellhops are complaining that they can’t find you anywhere. I better not find out you’ve been shafting the elevator girls between floors again.”

“No, sir, Mr. Montgomery. I promise.”

“What’s in the bundle?”

“For the man in 604.”

Mr. Wallace cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wallace. Do all these bags belong to you?” I asked.

By the time I’d lugged all Wallace’s suitcases up to 708, an hour had passed. When I got back to 604, Señor Savage was seated at the desk in front of the window looking out on the park. He had just dipped a piece of toast into the yellow of his fried egg and it was dripping onto the desk. His hair was combed and he’d shaved. Maria had made the bed and vacuumed the floor. The room looked like new and so did the Señor.

“Paco, come in. I believe I’m going to live through this shit after all. Want some breakfast?”

“I had breakfast several hours ago.”

“What time is it anyway? My watch has run down.”

He picked up the largest wristwatch I’d ever seen. It was gold with an alligator band and diamonds around the face. He pulled out the stem and waited for me to tell him what time it was.

“It’s two o’clock on the dot, Señor. I took the liberty of buying you a robe and slippers with the rest of the money you gave me. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s great. I wasn’t looking forward to spending the rest of the day in this frigging towel.”

He stood up, took off the towel and threw it on the bed. He had a great physique. Good muscles in all the right places. The robe fit perfectly. The slippers were a little too wide but he seemed pleased with them.

“You’re a very efficient young man, Paco. Tell me about yourself.”

“My main ambition is to be good at what I do. For now, I try to be the best bellhop in San Antonio.”

“Then you don’t plan on being a bellman forever.”

“No, sir, I have plans for business. I save my money now to buy a small café over by the Santa Rosa Hospital. After that, who knows?”

He started looking through the draws of the desk.”

“I seem to have smoked all my cigarettes. You smoke?”

“No, but I have Chesterfields. Do you like them?”

“Not really, but I need a smoke.”

I handed him an unopened pack and a Zippo. He tore the cellophane off and shook a cigarette out.

He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply letting the blue smoke escape through his nose. He sat at the desk and stared out the window for a few moments without saying anything. Then without looking at me he said, “You’re a hustler, aren’t you, Paco? You’ve been hustling me since I got here.”

He turned around and looked at me, his eyes riveted to mine.

“Señor?”

“It’s okay. I just want you to know I realize what you’re doing.”

I felt my face flush. He had his head tilted back and was blowing perfect smoke rings. He kept staring at me. I looked out the window at an old man feeding the pigeons in the park across the street.

“I just try to be of service, sir, to please. You need Chivas, women, shaving gear, whatever, I get it for you. My tips are the best in the hotel. It’s how I buy my café.”

He smiled for the first time and put his feet on the desk, leaning back in his chair. “You’re good, Paco. Don’t be ashamed of being a hustler. Where you and I come from, you’ve got to hustle to survive.”

“I don’t understand, Señor, what would you know about being a hustler?”

“Do you have any idea what my real name is?” he asked.

“It’s not Colt Savage?”

“Benjamin Schwartz. That’s my real name, Paco.”

“Schwartz?”

“From Brooklyn. My old man runs a deli on Flatbush Avenue. Sometimes in my nightmares, I can still hear my uncle Sol hollering at me, ‘Don’t forget the pickles in Mrs. Silver’s order.’ Hell, I hustled my way out of Brooklyn shining shoes, bell hopping, carhopping, you name it. I did whatever I had to do to get out. After the war, I hitched all the way to L. A. I worked in filling stations, did construction work, and I was even a goddamn gigolo for awhile. Then I got a break and hustled my way into a contract with Warner Brothers.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Colt Savage was really Benjamin Schwartz - a Jew?

“You know then, Señor Savage, what it’s like to be called a lazy, mañana Meskin by the gringos.”

His features hardened. He put his feet back on the floor and crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I bet,” he said, “that it’s the same as being called a Jew bastard, a kike. The gringos, as you call them, are the same the world over, Paco. You learn to survive, to beat them at their own game. You’ve got a good start, you’ll do alright. In this country balls and a little hustle will get you a long way. Ever heard the term, chutzpah? It means you get where you want by instinct and guts. It’s attitude. Think of yourself as a winner and you will be.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

“I am. Have you got any sunglasses?”

“I save my money and squint at the sun,” I said.

“They have them at the drugstore, I imagine,” he said.

I nodded.

“Buy me a pair of those aviator sunglasses and we’ll go out to dinner later. No one knows I’m here, so I don’t think I’ll be recognized. What time do you get off?”

“About two hours from now. I’ll get the glasses, and pick up you suit and shirt. I have a cousin who owns a taxi. We’ll be happy to show you around.”

“I’ll take a nap and you can come back with everything around seven o’clock. Then we’ll hit the town.”

I didn’t get off on time because Mrs. Marshall, the oilman’s wife in suite 1022 lost her false teeth down the laundry chute. It took me thirty minutes to retrieve them from the basement, but it was worth it because she gave me a twenty dollar tip.

It was close to six when I got home. The smell of fresh cornmeal drifted through the house as I stepped through the front door. Mama was making a batch of tamales, rolling them in corn husk as I walked into the kitchen.

“You’re late, Paco,” she said.

“Si, Mama. Mucho trabajo hoy.”

Her thick fingers kneaded the cornmeal rhythmically and she stopped long enough to wipe her brow with the back of her hand. Her dress hung full and free like a tent.

I kissed her cheek, and asked, “Where’s Papa?”

“At the domino parlor, where else? Drinking Carta Blanca with his amigos.”

“He works hard, Mama, let him have his time.”

“And me, when do I have my time?”

“You have the grandbabies. Is my good shirt ironed?”

“Did you ask me to iron your shirt? Do I fuss with the pleats? Look in the closet before you complain to your Mama.”

“Sometimes you forget.”

She ignored me and kept kneading the cornmeal.

It was about seven fifteen when I picked up the suit and shirt and seven thirty by the time I knocked on the door of 604.

“Sorry I’m late, Señor. I hurried as fast as I could.”

“Don’t worry about it. I needed the extra time anyway. I decided I’d better not push Harry too far so I called American Airlines. I can catch a flight through Dallas at ten o’clock in the morning. Don’t let me get drunk tonight, Paco. One of these binges a year is all I can handle.”

I laid his suit and shirt on the bed and took his clean shorts and stockings out of the laundry bag. The stocking were black and came over the calf. I made a mental note to get rid of my Argyle socks and replace them with ones like his.

He dressed quickly. The shirt was white with a long collar and French cuffs. The left cuff had a monogram and the suit was a double-breasted blue pinstripe. There was a blue silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket and the tie was a paisley like the ones in the men’s shop. The shoes were black slip-ons with tassels. He looked like he belonged on a page in Esquire magazine.

We made it through the lobby and out the front entrance without incidence. My cousin and his taxi were waiting at the curb.

“Señor Savage, I’d like to introduce my cousin, Gerald.”

“Gerald?”

“Si, his father is an Irishman.”

The Señor laughed and grabbed my cousin’s hand.

I went to the front as Gerald opened the backdoor for the Señor. “Sit in the back with me, Paco, or we’ll all sit in the front,” Señor Savage said. “Hell, let’s all sit up there.”

He got out of the backseat, shoved me next to Gerald, got in and slammed the door. He stuck his hand out the window and waved it forward as he shouted, “Move them out!”

Gerald supplemented his income by giving guided tours of the city. Señor Savage listened intently as Gerald took us by the Alamo and the old Menger Hotel. I explained how I’d heard someday the city would spend more money on the river and there’d be restaurants and hotels up and down the banks.

Garcia’s restaurant was in the Mexican Market across from the Santa Rosa Hospital on Commerce Street. I chose Garcia’s because they have the best mariachi band in the city, the most authentic Mexican food, and because my cousin, Juanita, was a waitress there.

We took a table in the back of the restaurant and I waved Juanita over.

“Señor Savage I’d like to introduce my cousin, Juanita. She’ll be waiting on us tonight.”

The Señor stood and hugged Juanita and kissed her on both cheeks like they do in Europe. “You can’t possibly be Paco’s cousin. You’re much too beautiful. In fact, I’d be an idiot not to take you back to Hollywood with me tomorrow.”

When I told Juanita I was bringing Colt Savage to dinner at Garcia’s she’d said, ‘Sure’ and promptly forgotten the whole thing. I caught her as she fell away from the movie star and crumpled to the floor. Within a few seconds she was brushing her skirt, fumbling with her hair, and straightening her apron.

“La cerveza complace, dos Carta Blancas,” I said.

She took a deep breath and said, “Si, Paco.”

“You should be careful what you say to young girls Señor Savage. Their hearts are very fragile, this one particularly.”

He laughed. “Did you order a beer?”

“Si. You said you didn’t want to get drunk so I felt it wise to stay away from margaritas.”

“What do you suggest for dinner?”

Old man Garcia named all his dinners for cities in Mexico. I picked one called Guadalajara including tamales and enchiladas and told Juanita to bring us some extra salsa.

Garcia’s wasn’t a fancy place. It seated a lot of people and was always busy. People came across town from Alamo Heights to eat there. You’d see businessmen in suits, cowboys, oil roughnecks, and society ladies all dipping guacamole side by side.

I liked the mariachi band because they played Mozart. Not all the time, of course. They had to play ‘Granada’ and things like that but when they had a receptive audience, they’d play Mozart.

Señor Savage ate four tamales and three enchiladas and asked for more. He winked at Juanita when she came to the table and I felt sorry for her because she lit up like a stoplight every time he did it. He was obviously having a good time. The tiredness I’d noticed in his eyes earlier in the day was gone. He sat forward in the booth and looked out across the restaurant.

“This is a great place. Do you have anymore of those damn Chesterfields?”

I gave him the pack again and he pulled a cigarette out and lit it with one of Señor Garcia’s matches. The mariachi band played for some tourists at a table about ten feet away.

We sat and drank coffee in silence. My guest drew on the cigarette every few seconds, letting the smoke out slowly.

“Señor, may I ask you a question?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“You said in this country if you know how to hustle and work hard you can make it. Do you really believe someone like me can make it big?”

He blew a smoke ring and leaned back in the seat and glanced at the ceiling. He didn’t answer for a minute or two. Then he said, “It depends. First you have to decide what you mean by big. If it’s money you want, the answer is yes. I believe anyone who works hard and saves their money can make it big. You can even be famous. But my young friend, if you think the gringos will ever accept you as an equal, you’re mistaken.”

“I would like to be respected as a successful man,” I said.

“You might be respected, even liked, but you’ll never be accepted. It’s a fact of life.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I live in a dream world. Everyone knows it’s make-believe. Besides, L. A., Hollywood, is full of Jews who’ve changed their names and pretend they’re WASPS. I can hide behind my blue eyes. You can’t.”

“Papa was right.”

“He told you the same thing?”

“In so many words.”

“It’s a hard lesson, you just have to be tough. Don’t give the bastards an inch.”

“I’d like to shove my fist through Señor Montgomery’s face. He’s the assistant manager. Dunlap, the manager, isn’t too bad.”

“Montgomery gives you a bad time?”

“All the Mexicans. Everyone who runs elevators, bellhops, cleans rooms, and waits tables. He makes passes at all the pretty girls and then threatens them with their jobs if they say anything.”

“Sounds like a real bastard.”

“I hate him.”

“Don’t waste your time on him. Put your energy into getting out of there. Get us the check, Paco.”

When he said good-bye to Juanita, he kissed her on the cheek and pressed something into her hand. It looked like a hundred dollar bill. He didn’t say much on the way back to the hotel. Gerald and I left him alone. I walked him up to his room and said, “I’ll have Gerald here at eight thirty in the morning. That way you’ll have plenty of time to get to the airport.”

I’d left a wake up call for him at seven thirty and ordered him a big breakfast to be delivered at eight. At eight fifteen, I knocked on his door.

When he swung it open, he said, “Paco, if you ever come to Hollywood, I’ll give you a job as my valet. You’re the best bellhop I’ve ever known and I’ve been all over the frigging world.”

“Thank you. Are you ready?”

“Yes. By the way, I left the robe and slippers for you. If they’re too big, give them to a cousin or uncle. I left the shaving gear as well.”

“Thank you. I’m happy to have them. Better hurry, you need to check out and Gerald is waiting for you.”

When we stepped onto the elevator, Rita recognized Colt Savage and leaned against the door jam agape.

“Close the door and take us to the lobby, Rita, por favor. Señor Savage has a plane to catch.”

He smiled at Rita and put on his sunglasses as he stepped out of the elevator. Then he walked over to the cashier’s window.

“I’d like to check out of room 604, please,” he said.

We were headed for the door when Montgomery spotted me.

“Hold up, Paco! I want to talk to you!” he yelled.

 His face was flushed and his eyes wide with anger. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The bell captain said you were late this morning. I’m sick and tired of you lazy, mañana Meskins. You fuck the elevator girls and you don’t speak English. I never know where you are or what you’re doing. I’m going to fire all of you.”

He was shaking and drops of spit were forming in the corners of his small mouth.

I’d taken a lot of shit from Montgomery over the years, but at that moment it took all my wil power not to punch him out. I buried my fingernails in my palms and took a deep breath. I needed the damn job.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Montgomery, but I had several errands to do for this gentleman. That’s why I was late.”

Montgomery turned to Colt Savage and asked, “Are you a guest in this hotel?”

“Yes, you puiss-ant. I’ve been a guest in this hotel for a week and this young man has been of invaluable assistance to me.”

Then he took off his sunglasses and glared at Mr. Montgomery. “In case you failed to recognize me, my name is Colt Savage, and I’m a personal friend of the man who owns this hotel. I plan to ask him to promote Paco to Bell Captain and to fire your sorry ass.”

Colt Savage replaced his sunglasses and walked out the front door. I didn’t wait to hear what Montgomery would say, I just followed the movie star. Gerald had the backdoor of the taxi open. Before he slipped onto the seat, the Señor winked and handed me a fist full of hundred dollar bills. “For the café,” he said.

“Do you really know the owner of this hotel, Señor?” 

He just smiled.  

 

Mike Glasscock