Horner clucked an answer and then was told he could go to the locker room and climb into his clothing. He tipped the usual fifty cents, showered, dressed in his street clothing. He did all this, trying not to think about what he had heard—but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did think about it.
Calling himself a fool, he returned to the massaging rooms. He poked his head inside the room in which the new man had given him a rub-down.
An attendant with a stocky build and shell-rimmed glasses stared out at him, squinted myopically, and smiled. "Evening, Mr. Horner," he said.
It was George, who had given Horner his weekly massage every week for the past five years—except tonight.
"Why, you're here!" blurted Horner.
"Sure am, sir. Wondered why you were late. Go ahead and undress, now. I'll reserve your usual table...."
"But I just had my massage."
"Oh?" said George, trying to make his voice sound indifferent. "Trying one of the other masseurs?"
"Not at all," snapped Horner. "You weren't here. Well, were you?"
"Never even stepped out. Been here all night," George said.