The room was large, even lavish, compared to most hotels he had spent the night in. Still, it had an odd quaintness about it. The old fashioned furnishings and fixtures reminded him of a certain bed and breakfast in Cork, but without the wild goings on. That night was truly one for the ol' diary, it was!
    He picked up a piece of Waldorf Astoria stationary from the small antique desk near the window, and reached for the room phone. Hesitating just a moment, when he couldn't find a push button, he remembered to stick his index finger into the "O" hole, and twisted the rotor clockwise. When the PBX operator responded, he asked for an outside line, and dialed the number on the stationary, getting the same operator after just two rings.
    He dropped into his most posh, R.P. British accent
    "Yes, this is Sir Rodney Scrimshaw of His Majesty's Councilate. Would you be so kind as to ring up Winnie's room for me?...Beg pardon?...Oh, yes, very sorry...Mister Churchill's room...yes, I shall hold."
    There were a few clicks, a single buzz, and then a deep voice came on the line growling "Yes?".
    McGreevy immediately dropped into a passable imitation of Kenneth, the front desk clerk.
    "Mister Churchill, sorry to disturb, but this is Kenneth at the front desk. Sir, our concierge would like to know if you will be needing a cab this evening."
    "Yes, I shall...I...sorry young man, but did I not just speak with the very fellow within the past hour? Certainly, he must have told you."
    "I don't see it on my list, sir..."
    "Ah, the World Renouned American Efficiency strikes again, I see...well, no matter...as I told the other chap, I expect to leave for Mr. Baruch's residence on Fifth Avenue at 6 pm sharp."
    Very good, sir", said McGreevy and hung up the phone.
    So he had just under four hours to kill, which left time for a long shower and a short nap, as soon as he made one more call.
"Operator, this is the gentleman in room 406...might I trouble you to phone me at 5:30 this evening? I may be resting, and don't want to miss dinner...thank you so much."
    He pulled out a clean white broadcloth shirt and a dark blue silk tie. Next came the suit coat that matched his trousers. He began to take his clothes off, and was careful to hang the jacket over the trousers before putting the entire suit in the bathroom. A hot shower would help to clear his head, wash away the grime of a very grimy city and take the wrinkles out of his clothing all at the same time.
    Fifty minutes later, he walked out of the bathroom,wearing a blue terry cloth robe with a monogrammed WA embossed over his left breast. It took him a moment to realize there was no television, and he had thrown away his only newspaper after finding what he wanted. He briefly considered reading the room service menu, before realizing he wasn't tired enough to nap.
    He thought again of that bed and breakfast in Cork, and an equation formed in his mind;
    Hotels have bars, up scale hotels have up scale bars, and up scale bars often attract up scale women...
    "Right you are, Michael!" he almost shouted to himself, "a little female companionship and conversation might be just the ticket!"
    He put on the suite, shirt and tie, slicked back his already wet hair and looked at himself in the mirror above the dresser.
    "Where fashion sits...", he sang, snapping his fingures twice, "Puttin'on the Ritz!"
    He left his room, being careful to lock the door, and started down the hall to the elevator...
whistling.