“Smith,” he said. “Tom Smith.”
“Like all the rest of ’em,” she observed, without rancour. “You been in town long?”
“No, not long.”
“How’s it going?”
“Not bad.”
“You’re not a bad-looking guy to end up in a dump like this.”
“That’s how it goes.” He took a chance, keeping his eyes averted. “You’ve got a nice voice, to be running a dump like this.”
“It’s a job.”
“I suppose so.” He ventured another lead, making himself querulous again. “Why did you lock me in? I wanted to go to the bathroom—”
“There’s a thing under the bed. We lock everybody in. It isn’t only men who come here. You have to keep a place like this respectable. Women sleep here too.”