"Terry Dowling - Clownette" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dowling Terry)

toward the lifts, there was Gordon standing right there, a few steps back from the doorway.

"Shit!" I cried, badly startled. Then I saw the bottle of wine he was holding out for me to take and
immediately flashed the best smile I could manage.

"LookтАФerтАФMr. J.," Gordon said. "About before. I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you this. With my
compliments."

"Gordon, what's going on? Are they doing staff evaluations? You were so formal down there."

"That's it." He cast a quick glance back along the corridor. He was still edgy.

"Is your job at risk?"

"Maybe. Not sure. Something's happening, Mr. J. They won't tell us. We just need to be careful.
IтАФwanted you to know."

"Well, hey, thanks, Gordon. I was worried. Hope it goes okay for you."

"Thanks. Thanks, Mr. J. You want anything, you just call down to the desk."

"Will do. Thanks for this."

He smiled, nodded, then turned and headed for the lifts.

I locked the door and went back to laying out my things. I felt a lot better about the business at the front
desk now, though something still felt wrong. But what? What?

Then I knew.

Gordon hadn't wanted to be in line of sight of the open door. He was scared of the Motley!

I could hardly blame him. Some people flatly refused to stay in 516. With its Rush of Weird and its
"what-do-you-see-in-this-picture" Rorschach feature to grab your attention, the room had a survival
potential of five guests in ten. Gordon had given me the statistic on my third visit. Once the stain was seen
as a face, he'd said, five out of ten first-time occupants refused to stay. I just hadn't for a moment
considered that Gordon might be one of those who found it too much.

Who could blame him, any of them for that matter? In daylight the Motley was fine. Once your eye had
resolved it as a face, it was a bit like having one of those cardboard cut-outs of cops used as thief
deterrents in stores constantly staring at you. But at nightтАФa few of the more forthcoming refugees from
516 had admittedтАФespecially once the lights were out, it just became too much. Knowing it was there,
leering in the dark, big blotchy grin twitching up, smudge eyes staring.

The remaining five guests in ten did better apparently, and I was a borderline member of that line-up. We
endured it, were either too drunk, too stolid, or too budget conscious. The last two probably did apply to
me, but only if you added curious to the mix. With my plan for this latest stay, I was probably closer to
the journo/weirdo margin than I cared to admit.

The Motley fascinated me. I'd balked at the front desk, sure, hesitated that ten to twenty seconds, but