Read Smart Moves for Free Online Page A

world. They sit around in bars, waiting to hear sad stories and give their sympathy and understanding. Most of them are women. I don’t know why.
    “I’m a good listener,” she said. “I’m a professional listener. I’m on the switchboard of this hotel five nights a week, eight hours a night, listening to people, helping people. Makes me feel like …”
    “… you’re helping people,” I supplied.
    “Something like that,” she agreed.
    “Maybe you can help me,” I said, moving my stool closer to hers. She smelled like Scotch and poppies. I motioned for another round and we talked. Three beers is my limit. I switched to Pepsi, punctuated by two trips to the men’s room.
    Her name was Pauline Santiago. She lived in Brooklyn with a man named Paul, who may or may not have been her husband. Pauline and Paul seemed to have nothing in common but their first names. He was Polish. She was half Mexican and half Italian. He was a Republican. She was a Democrat. He grunted a lot. She talked too much.
    “It’s an old story,” she said.
    “But a true one,” I toasted with my Pepsi.
    “True one,” she agreed, finishing off her third Scotch on the rocks.
    “You’re going to walk out of here and go to work?” I said.
    “Why not?” she asked, turning to see what was going on at the piano. A man in a tuxedo, who I guessed might be Charlie Drew come to amuse us, wanted to get to the keyboard. The three sailors were reluctant to give up their conquest. They might not be able to take Midway, but by God they were going to hold onto this enemy Steinway. Charlie protested, joked, pleaded, appealed to the crowd with no success and finally, in a fair but unconvincing display of support for our men in uniform, agreed to let them keep up their concert for a few more minutes.
    “I’ve got a living to make too, boys,” he said, looking at the crowd and not the boys. The crowd didn’t seem to give a damn about Charlie’s living. A drunk called for “Sleepy Lagoon.” Charlie Drew volunteered to help. The concert went on.
    “Let me get this straight.” Pauline Santiago tried turning from the show to my smiling face. “You want to get a look at the hotel register for the last three weeks.”
    Since I had said this at least four times in the last five minutes, I had nothing to add. I just nodded.
    “And you say it’s because you’re looking for the handwriting of someone trying to scare Albert Einstein?” she asked with a twisted smirk. “Who are you trying to kid? I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
    “It’s the truth,” I said, crossing my heart.
    “Truth,” she sighed, looking into her own empty glass. “I could tell you some truths that would curl your fingernails. You wouldn’t believe the things people say on the telephone.”
    “I don’t listen in on many phone calls.”
    “I do,” she said, looking around for someone to dispute her claim. No one did. The sailors sang and sounded a little better with Charlie Drew’s help, but not a lot better.
    “It’s almost five,” I pointed out. “You said you had to be at work at five.”
    “Be right back.” Holding up a finger, she eased her way off the bar stool, showing a not uncomely pair of legs under her short skirt. In spite of two-inch heels, she made her way with near dignity into the darkness near the rest rooms. The bartender offered me another Pepsi. I turned it down and listened with the growing audience to “Stardust.” All we needed was Bogart and a bunch of Nazis and we could have half the room sing the French national anthem while the Nazis belted out “Sonny Boy.” When Pauline returned, I had trouble recognizing her. Gone were the heels and the tight dress. Gone was her tightness. Her hair was pinned up and ready for business.
    “All set,” she said. “I went back to my locker, changed, and soaked my face in icewater.”
    “Miracle.”
    “All on the surface,” she confided, taking my arm with a grin. She had a nice grin and a