Michael Storme

Reginald Heade

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SYNOPSIS THE THREE dames, bags in hand, gazed up at the worn siga over the doorway. One of them giggled. "Harrow Hotel," she sneered. "Well, that kinda sounds right for us. Harrow for the harrowed!" Gloria Manning, the tallest of the three, and who was accepted "leader" due to it being her idea for the three of them to get away from the small and unexciting Mundane Town to the BIG CITY, pushed at the revolving doors, and the oil-hungry hinges screeched protestingly. She stepped through into the hall, her companions following close like ladies-in-waiting. Behind the reception desk a thin-faced clerk took time out to raise bleary eyes. Then he straightened, let his eyes go "pop." "Jeeze, dgmes. ... Three of 'em! Maybe customers." He stopped picking his nose; thoughtfully wiping a clot of moisture from his finger onto his right sleeve. He tried to smile, but his mouth did little more than drop open. Discolored teeth popped out like Jack-in-a-boxes.