cian: it boasted a fine orchestra whose conductor,
one Laurence Lamonte, frequently found shockingly intimate details of
his flamboyant life splashed across the pages of the tabloids.

In River Street, on the wrong side of the tracks, after hours spent
walking from the fashionable districts gradually down the economic
ladder into a grimy, dilapidated neighborhood, Jurgen found the
Charleston Residence Hotel. Brownstone, four stories tall, it had two
windows boarded up on the third floor and unmistakable blackened marks
from a conflagration that had never been cleaned away. There was a
sign in the window advertising a weekly fee he thought he could
manage--if the sign was not out of date. It was yellow, curling at the
edges, and could hardly be read behind a smudged window laced with
years of accumulated cobwebs. It did not seem like a wholesome
place--but the price was right so he walked into the tiny lobby.

"Have you any rooms?" he asked. He had his viola case tucked under one
arm and his cracked leather valise dangling from the other hand.

A short, bearded and balding man in a brown, pinstriped suit that might
once have been new, stood at the front desk. The stub of a stale cigar
not two inches long was stuffed between his lips. He cupped a hairy
hand to his ear.

"I asked," Jurgen stated in a much louder voice, "whether you have a
room to let."

"Yeah, we got a lot of rooms." The man grinned. "How many you want?"

"One will be sufficient, thank you." Jurgen carefully laid out one
week's rent on the counter. "This is a week in advance." The man
cupped his hand to his ear, and Jurgen was compelled to repeat himself
loudly.

The man swept the money away--into a vest pocket--and handed his new
resident a rusty key attached to a length of twine. Scrawled on a
paper tag attached to the twine were numbers: a three, separated by a
dash from the number thirteen.

"By the way," Jurgen inquired loudly, leaning forward, "you don't mind
if I PRACTICE the VIOLA during the DAY?"

"Violin?" the man yelled back, with a dismissing wave. "Just so I
don't get no complaints, you do what you want."

Relieved at last to be in some lodging--his last few nights had been
spent in damp freight cars, cowering with one or another group of
indigents--Jurgen ascended the stairs quietly to the third floor. Room
thirteen was the last door on the right at the front of the building.
He opened the door after some fumbling w