He passes the time, polishing the brass rails on the Lawson Arms' revolving door. They gleam in the light from the lobby, the marble tiles like mirrors. He's worked here for (going on) fifty years, from a bellhop to a car operator to this. He's had other jobs at the Lawson Arms but it always comes back to this. As much a part of the building as the stone lions carved into the facade. Always ready to help with a luggage cart or to whistle down a taxi cab. Always there...a landmark like the building he serves.

The old man stepped away from the glass as the big man entered. A regular face, albeit an imposing one. Shaven head, dressed like a biker but seeming to belong here in the old splendor of the Lawson.

Joe tipped his cap. "Mistah Carson."

Mitch replied with a nod and a curt, "Joe." The strong, silent type maybe...but Joseph Embry, sixty-two, of 147 Cornwall Place, King's Gate, Hamilton knew something was wrong.

But it wasn't his place to pry. That was part and parcel of the Guild's code and he was loathe to break it. No matter how tantalizing the secret, no matter how infuriating the mystery, the King's Gate Portallers knew better than to pry. You open a door, just a crack, and it'll slam shut on you.

He watched out of the corner of his eye (the watching wasn't frowned upon, only the prying -- the watching was the necessary part of it all). Mitch spoke to Angelina, the concierge at the desk and she nodded with understanding (sympathy?). Hector was the nightman tonight and he paced the long, narrow lobby. His shoes were as polished as the floor and as shiny as the badge on his chest. Hector wasn't a member of the Guild, but he was an associate in good standing. Joe caught his eye and gave him a wink. Hector did an about-face and made a beeline for the door.

"That's Burroughs' man, innit?" he asked.

Joe nodded. "His lady friend hasn't been around. Neither has he. Not for quite some time."

At the Lawson Arms, the unusual was common. The common, unusual. A missing guest? Common, unusual. Rainer had vanished like a curl of smoke. Joe knew that the big man worked for him, presumably in a hands-on kind of way (nobody that large made his living taking messages and doing light typing, especially not for King's Gate's most notorious private investigator). A mystery, then. His brothers in the Guild might have more information. Not prying, never prying, but he would wait and watch and learn. The night shift gave him plenty of time to do all three.