ANY MAJOR DUDE
Paul Di Filippo
Taylor’s room was costing him twenty thousand pesetas a day. A few years ago, the civil authorities had closed down the building as unfit for human habitation. Only minimal repairs had been made since.
The room boasted a single window that opened onto a sooty brick airshaft, a tall dark box full of smells and sounds, capped with a square of blue Spanish sky. Into Taylor’s room from this central well, dotted with other windows, drifted odors of oily foreign cooking.
Hotplates were prohibited in theory by the management, and, yes, the fat hotel-owner had agreed, there was a possibility of starting a fire, but really, Señor, what can we do? We agree it is dangerous, but most of these people are too poor to eat in restaurants, having spent all of their money on a promised passage across the Strait. Ah, Señor, everyone wishes to cross to Africa, and we are just helping. Were we younger ourselves . . .
Helping yourself get rich, you old hypocrite, thought Taylor, but said nothing at the time.
. . .
