The Hideout

This hotel room was where they would wait, the ex-cop and the gangster’s moll.
She’s out of patience, and he’s out of ice.
The clock on the wall reads 3 am. Cabs and bums howl below.
She won’t let down her hair. He won’t loosen his tie.
There’s a revolver in his shoulder holster. In her bag, a small pistol.
A bellboy keeps checking in. Maybe he works for the Feds. Perhaps he does hits for the syndicate. Could be he wants another look at the dame. Maybe he’s wildly good at his job.
The moll wants to chat, and the cop wants to brood.
Ten more hours to go.