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"Are you looking for something?" |
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The almost freakish, broken quality of the voice startled me, throwing me off guard. I couldn't tell whether it was the fact that he was there or whether it was the quality of his voice. Nevertheless, there he was; the immobile, too pretty face with the hooded brown-black eyes staring back at me. Even in the darkness there was something disturbing, something intensely evil about the way he looked at me. |
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"Hey, you're just the guy I was looking for," I quickly said. |
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"Do you need something?" he managed. All the while I was trying to piece together the voice; it was too hoarse, too raspy, barely a whisper, wholly inconsistent with his almost unreal, unblemished countenance. |
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"Matter of fact, I do. I can't find the ice machine. It's hotter than hell in my room. I think I should report it to the manager, er . . . what's your name?" I was pulling out all the stops. |
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"Kelto," I repeated. "What the hell nationality is that?" Everybody has heard of the ugly American; well, I was giving the kid my version. |
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"Kelto is a Lute name, sir." |
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"Lute?" I repeated. I made it sound like a question. |
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