T his hotel where Hollis was staying, which had no sign at all, had an antique desk carved with a naked girl, apparently feeling up a horse, though the work was so intricate that it was hard to tell, exactly, what was going on, and Milgrim didn’t want to seem to be staring. Otherwise, there were dark paneled walls, a pair of curving marble stairways, and the unfriendly regard of the young man seated behind the desk, peering coldly up through nonprescription lenses in tortoiseshell frames. Not to mention his tall, sturdy, pinstriped associate, who’d asked if he could help Milgrim. Help him, Milgrim had felt, to turn right around and get back on the street where he belonged. "Hollis Henry," Milgrim had said, managing what he’d felt had been a good approximation of a neutral tone he’d heard a lot of around Blue Ant, in similar circumstances.