Chapter 5
THE OFFICIAL BUSINESS OF the convention finished at 8:45 that Friday evening.
For a few minutes the lecture halls echoed with applause, but it wasn't so much for the speakers as for the fact their speeches were over. The men of Precision Tool had discharged their duty to the company for this evening at least-starting now, they were on their own.
George, Clyde, and Charlie had been sitting together all through the talks, and they left the hall and rode up in the elevator, with George in the middle and Charlie and Clyde on either side of him, like Siamese triplets.
The three men were unit managers at the Colorado plant, but George had seniority over the others by virtue of his years with the firm. When convention time rolled around, the three always attended together-usually shared the same room-and somehow the relationship they maintained on the job carried over into the carnival atmosphere of the annual get-together.
George had seniority, so George was their leader. And since George was a brassy self-confident man capable of almost anything when he had a few drinks in him; and since his taste for pleasure was matched only by his ability to locate it, Clyde and Charlie were quite willing to follow in his wake. George's leadership had never failed them at any of the past conventions, and they were both certain it wouldn't now.
"Well," said Clyde, as George unlocked the door of 701 and switched on the lights. "That's that for the time being, George. No more speeches for a while."
"Right," said Charlie. "I swear to God, them speeches bored me stiff."
George entered the room without answering. He seemed unusually quiet-in fact, he'd been that way since early morning when the girl had come in to change the sheets. Neither Charlie or Clyde remembered the girl particularly and it never occurred to them that she might be somehow responsible for George's uncommunicative mood.
"Let's see now," said Charlie. "What all are us three going to do tonight?"
"Yeah-how about that, George? You got anything planned?"
"Sure he has, Clyde. George always has something on the fire. Ain't that so, George?"
George had crossed the room and seated himself on the bed. He still didn't answer.
"Something wrong, George?" asked Clyde.
"Yeah, George-you're acting awful quiet tonight. Something griping you?"
George shook his head slowly. His face was abstracted, his eyes remote; he had the thumb and index-finger of one hand between his lips, and was nibbling on them absently.
Charlie and Clyde looked at him, then at each other. Charlie shrugged, and Clyde nodded.
"Well," said Charlie, "I guess it's time for us to start howling. We got a whole beautiful evening waiting out there for us, so we better get a move on and start using it."
Clyde laughed. "Sure. Time's a-wasting, George. How about we start rolling?"
"I'm thinking," said George.
"Yeah? What about?"
Once again George shook his head and didn't reply. He still nibbled at the ends of his fingers.
"Hey, Clyde," said Charlie, snapping his fingers. "I bet I know what old George's thinking."
"What?"
"I'll bet you he's got something lined up already."
"Think so?"
"Sure. Look at that expression on his face there. You know as well's I do what it means when George looks like that. Means he's working on something, thinking something out. He's figured a place for us to go, some gals for us to meet, and now he's just Working out the details."
"Sure," said Clyde. "That's what he's doing. Now you mention it, I recollect he wore that same look last year when he was planning out that bash with all them Chinese broads. Lord, Charlie-remember that?"
"Do I ever. We ain't neither of us going to forget that one in a hurry." Charlie glanced sidelong at George. "Of course, it wouldn't never have happened without old George here. We got him to thank for that good time-when you come right down to it, we got him to thank for just about every good time we have."
"You are so right, Charlie. That George-he is a genuine wonder."
They turned to look at George, but their dialogue hadn't had any effect. The man was still sitting in the same position, still chewing at his finger-ends, still lost in some incomprehensible thought.
Both Charlie and Clyde felt a little chill pass through the room. It wasn't like George to be this silent, especially at convention time. For him to sit there and pay no attention to their compliments, for him to remain unmoved by their tribute to his knowledge and skill-why, that was simply unheard of. That wasn't George at all; not the old George they knew so well.
Gradually, the feeling came over them that something was wrong. And when something could be wrong enough to shut off old George that way, then the something must be wrong indeed.
Clyde cleared his throat noisily. "Well-time to get started, I guess."
Charlie looked at him, baffled.
"We got to start off this evening before it just passes us right by-don't we?"
"Sure," said Charlie, still not following his train of thought.
"Now first off," Clyde went on, rubbing his hands, "I think we ought to get a little bit oiled-you know, get some lubrication in the wheels so we can really roll when it comes time to move."
"Oiled?" A light of comprehension grew in Charlie's face. He glanced again at the glum figure, then looked back at Clyde and nodded vigorously. "That's the ticket, Clyde. You have hit that there old nail square on the head, Clyde."
"How about I just call down to room service and have them send up a fifth and some ice? Bourbon, you think, Charlie? Jack Daniels?"
Charlie was studying George. "Make it Jack, Black Label," he said. "That's ninety proof-the regular label's only eighty."
Clyde scowled. "Black Label Jack's expensive goodies, Charlie. What the hell do we need ninety proof...."
He looked from Charlie to George.
"Black Label," Charlie said.
"Yeah. I guess maybe you're right, old Charlie."
While Clyde was placing the order, Charlie came over to the bed and sat down beside George. The man's position hadn't changed at all, nor had he shown any sign of life since his statement that he was thinking.
Charlie didn't like it. If George didn't snap out of this crazy mood pretty soon, the evening would be a bust. Neither he nor Clyde had the know-how or confidence to seek out the kind of evening they wanted on their own; they had been relying on George for so many years now that their natural abilities, which had never been very great, had atrophied completely. If George were to suddenly drop dead, it was probable that Charlie and Clyde would spend the rest of their lives celibate, stuck with the inclination, but forever lacking the nerve to follow it.
Charlie tried to talk to George, but he didn't succeed in making any impression by the time the knock sounded on their door. Clyde went to answer it, greeting the bell-hop expansively, forcing him into the room with vigorous slaps on the back and artificially bright laughter.
Charlie picked up the mood instantly and joined in.
George never stirred an eyelash.
"Man," said Clyde to the hop. "That is what I call fast service. I think maybe this boy here deserves a little something for his speed-what about that, Charlie?"
"Sure, sure-how about a drink, boy? You like a belt?"
The hop's quiet, servile manner dropped from him completely. He grinned. "Why not? Of course, I'm not supposed to drink on duty-but so long as none of you fine gentlemen squeal on me..."
"Son, you don't have nothing to worry about. The day we call a man down for taking a drink; well, that day they can just take up and feed us to the die press. Right, Clyde?"
"Right. They can just take us and stamp us into bastard files, 'cause bastards is just what we'll be."
The hop seemed a trifle confused over their technical humor, but he laughed with them anyway. Clyde poured three drinks. Charlie and the hop took them eagerly.
The trio glanced once at George, who still wasn't with them, then drank.
"Oh, man-" said Charlie, exhaling hoarsely. "That there is the real stuff."
"Yes, sir," said the hop: "That's good liquor, all right. I wish I could afford liquor like that."
"Oh, say-here; let's give this boy the price of a fifth. What you say to that, Charlie? It don't do for a man to go around with a thirst for the good stuff and no way of getting it."
"Why, sure," Charlie replied, digging a bill out of his pocket. "When Precision Tool's in town everybody has a good time."
The hop took the bill and smiled broadly. "Thank you, sirs."
"Don't mention it, son. Just don't spend it on nothing but fun-that's all we ask."
The hop looked at them with a calculating expression. "Are you gentlemen having a good time?"
"Well-" Clyde chuckled ruefully. "Not yet, we ain't. Let's just say we're working up to one."
"You have something planned, then, sirs?"
"Sort of. You know-God's sake, boy, what does a gentleman do when he's looking for some sport, besides that one thing?"
"You mean girls, don't you, sir?"
Clyde laughed. "That's what we mean, all right."
The hop nodded. I might be able to help you out on that, sirs," he said.
George came up off the bed in a single motion. "What's that?"
The hop looked suddenly frightened. "Now, wait a minute, mister-these guys here were asking me ... I mean, there ain't nothing wrong with..."
George crossed the room quickly and shoved Clyde out of the way. His face was tense, but he patted the hop on the shoulder chummily. "Relax, son. Nobody's mad. I just want to hear what you have to say. What about girls? You can get girls?"
"Well-" The hop licked his lips nervously. "Not exactly-but I can put you in touch with somebody who can see to it that you..."
"Stop running off and get to the point, boy," commanded George. "Whereabouts are these here girls from? Who we supposed to talk to about it?"
The hop managed a shallow smile. "Room service," he said.
"Room service?" Clyde goggled at him. "You mean, this here hotel's got. . . "
"The hotel has nothing to do with it, sirs. It's a private thing."
"Well, I should hope so," said Charlie.
"But-if you gentlemen would like a girl or two-or three-why, all you have to do is put in a call to the desk."
George leaned forward intently. "What girls are these, son? They girls from the hotel here, or what?"
"Oh, no, sir. At least-I don't think ... No, they're not from the hotel."
"You sure about that?"
The hop shook his head. "I don't really know how it works, sir. We've never done it before while I was working here. All I know is that you can get a girl just by calling down to the desk-oh, and that has to be after midnight. That's very important. There'd be a lot of trouble if you called before midnight."
George nodded thoughtfully. His attention seemed to be receding again. The hop took the opening and stepped back toward the door. He looked from Charlie to Clyde as he pulled it open. "Thank you for your generosity, sirs. I hope you have that good time you're looking for."
Nobody answered him. He shrugged and closed the door behind him.
Clyde and Charlie were both watching George. His face was slowly lighting up with an expression of delight.
"George-what is it? What kind of bug you got in your butt?"
"Yeah, George-spill it. What's happening?"
"Girls," George said. "Girls available from the desk-just put in a call to room-service, and you get a girl."
"Yeah. Ain't that the berries, George?"
"They're from the hotel," George said.
"Who? The girls? What makes you say that?"
"They have to be. You couldn't troop hookers in and out of a hotel like this and get away with it. They got to be already here."
Charlie nodded. "I guess so. Maybe there's just this pack of tarts moved in and took rooms for the weekend to catch the convention business."
"Pig-slop," George said. "Hookers wouldn't do that. Rooms come too high in this place-hookers can't pay these prices and still turn a profit."
"I suppose that's so," Charlie said. "But-well, if they ain't coming in from outside, and if they ain't staying here-then where in hell are they from?"
George grinned, and reached out for the bottle of bourbon. He put it to his lips and upended it, taking a long bubbling swallow. He set the bottle back on the table with a thump.
"They work here," he said.
"You mean-" Charlie frowned. "Like chambermaids, or something?"
George nodded, grinning. "Gentleman," he said. "I think maybe you and me are going to have our sheets changed again pretty soon."
Neither Charlie nor Clyde caught the reference, but they were too happy to see George normal again to worry about it. They had both forgotten about the peroxide-blonde maid who had quipped with them earlier.
But George hadn't.
Not by a long shot.
Libby was trapped.
It was her own fault, really. She was tired, she allowed her mind to wander, she hadn't been paying attention to anything besides the simple physical process of moving her feet from one hall to the next-and before she had any chance to prepare herself or duck out of the way, she ran smack into Patsy.
Crazy Patsy-who spent such a long mysterious time in the shower with her friend Liz at the end of every shift.
Libby was frightened of her, although she couldn't quite tell why. There was something about the women, something-threatening? Was dmt the word?
"Hi Libby. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"I got a lot of work to do, Patsy." Libby shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. She hardly knew the woman, except as the butt of Hester's and Kit's strange jokes, and she couldn't understand why Patsy would have anything to say to her.
"Just a minute, Libby. That's all I ask. Come onthere's an empty room over here where we can talk."
"Well-" Libby examined Patsy's face, and found nothing in it but open friendliness. The prospect of sitting down for a few minutes and chatting with somebody-even a nut like Patsy-was appealing. Libby reached the point where she really needed a bit of rest.
"Okay, Patsy. I don't guess a couple minutes are going to make any difference."
"Sure-that's right, Libby. You look dead on your feet anyway. Taking a load off will do you good. Come on."
She led Libby across the hall and pushed open a door. The room was clean and made up with fresh linen, but was unoccupied. Libby came inside and went toward the bed while Patsy closed the door and switched on the lights. She wasn't certain of it, but she though she heard the sound of the lock clicking shut.
Now why on earth would Patsy lock the door? Libby decided she was mistaken. Besides, the soft freshly-made bed looked so inviting there was no room in her mind for speculation on locks, or on anything but rest.
She slid onto the bed and stretched her limbs gratefully. She had time to take only one deep breath before Patsy appeared and sat on the bed besides her. "You poor kid," she said. "You really are shot, ain't you?"
"It's been a long shift. You got a cigarette, Patsy?"
"Oh, sure." The girl took a pack out of her skirt pocket and lit one for each of them. Libby took it and dragged deeply. It tasted wonderful; she could feel the stiff muscles of her legs and back beginning to relax.
Patsy moved the ashtray on the night table where they could both use it, then smiled down at Libby. "Sore, honey?"
"All over," Libby said. "Too much walking-too much bendingtoo much goddamm pinching."
"Pinching? Customers been after your butt, Libby?"
"Butt, butt, nothing else but. I been pinched so much, I'm probably blue-black all over, like a goddamm plum."
Patsy laughed. "Listen-while we're talking, how about I give you a little rub?"
"A who?"
"Rub. You know-work on your back and shoulders-massage, like."
"Oh." Libby puffed her cigarette. She was having a little trouble keeping her eyes open. "I don't know about that, Patsy. I think it'd just put me to sleep."
"So what if it does? Forty winks'd be the best thing for you anyway. Besides, I wouldn't let you doze long enough to get in no trouble."
"That's nice of you Patsy."
"Big deal-it's just a rub. What say?"
"All right."
Patsy smiled. "Fine. I tell you what-you roll over onto your belly and get real comfortable, and I'll get all the stiffness out of them shoulders of yours."
Libby lifted her cigarette. "What do I do with this?"
"I'll take it," Patsy said, plucking it from her fingers. It's be right here on the ashtray-you want a drag, you tell me."
"Okay Thanks again."
"Stop thanking me and roll over so we can get started."
Libby hitched her body over onto her stomach and crossed her hands under her cheek. Since she could now see nothing but the bedspread, there seemed little point in keeping her eyes open. So she closed them.
A moment later, Patsy's hands touched her shoulders.
Patsy was good. Her hands were strong, and seemed to have an uncommon knowledge of muscle location and structure. Before a minute had passed, most of the weariness in Libby's shoulders was replaced by a feeling of warm stimulation.
"That's nice," she said.
"Anybody ever do this to you before, Libby."
"Uh-uh."
"Good. I'm glad."
"Glad about what."
"Glad I'm the first," Patsy said. Libby pursed her lips. "Patsy? What'd you want to talk about?"
"Oh, forget it. I was going to ask you what you were doing tonight, but that can wait. Besides, this is just as good."
"As good as what? You're talking in circles, Patsy."
"Relax, kid. Come on, honey-just relax and enjoy it. Ain't I doing good?"
"Yeah, You sure are."
"Listen, Libby? Can I unzip your back here?"
"Unzip me? What in hell for?"
"Well, a massage ain't really very good unless you do it on bare skin. You know-clothes get in the way. All I want to do is just unzip the back of your dress here."
"Well-" A delightful lethargy was stealing over Libby's body, smothering her mind. She had an idea there was a good reason for not letting Patsy open her clothing, but she couldn't remember what it was. "All right. I guess you know best."
"Sure, I do, honey. You leave everything to me-I'll make you feel just swell."
The zipper went zzzipp. Libby felt the touch of cold air, followed by the warmth of Patsy's hands on her skin. Just as the girl promised, it felt very nice. Very nice indeed.
"Just relax," Patsy said from behind her. The voice came from a growing distance away. "Just let yourself go, and I'll make you feel real nice. You'll see, honey-you'll see how nice it'll be."
Something odd happened. The familiar pressure. across Libby's breasts and ribs suddenly eased. Then she felt Patsy's hands glide down her back, and realized the girl had unhooked her bra. It seemed a peculiar thing to do, but she was too relaxed to bother commenting on it.
Patsy's hands were all over her back and shoulders. Now and again, they'd slip under the edge of her dress and urge the material open wider: then Libby felt the cool teeth of the zipper brushing her shoulders. Her back had been bared completely, from her neck all the way down to the elastic band of her panties.
Now Patsy's hands began discovering new territory. The fingers worked across her shoulder blades, down either side around her ribs, until the tips of those fingers were gently stroking the outer edges of Libby's breasts.
Funny about that, really-her breasts weren't at all tired or sore; and yet, the touch of Patsy's fingers was wonderfully soothing. Now why was that?
Something brushed the backs of Libby's thighs. Was Patsy pulling up the hem of her skirt? Why, sure-that's just what she was doing. Pulling the skirt up and up, baring the tops of her nylons and the clasps of her garter belt and the black lace edges of her panties.
Libby felt momentarily troubled, and came within an ace of turning over and speaking, but Patsy's hands suddenly found a place on her thighs and began to work the flesh delightfully. The warmth was spreading outward from those hands, suffusing Libby's entire body with a sweet glow, and as long as that sensation lasted Libby didn't care if Patsy stripped her nude.
What a strange thought that was. She didn't know
Patsy at all-in fact, she had always been a bit frightened of meeting her because of the odd way Hester and Kit talked about her. And she had always been frightened of the idea of nudity, of baring her flesh to the eyes or hands of another human being.
And yet, that's just what was happening. It was happening now, here in this bed, with no warning, no danger signals or sirens to disturb the pleasure of it. And it was a pleasure-such a tremendous pleasure that Libby couldn't remember the shape of her original objections. It all seemed so natural and right-and so very pleasurable...
Her panties were down. She realized she must have dozed for a few seconds, because she didn't remember feeling it happen. But there was no doubt about it. Her panties had been pulled off her hips and down all the way to her feet. There-they were off her feet. There-Patsy's clever hands were climbing up the backs of her nylon-sheathed legs, up past the stocking-tops, up onto the bare flesh of the thigh, up all the way to the mounded cheeks of her bottom. The hands moved softly, fingers curled to follow the curvature of the flesh, and the stroking caress soothed away all the soreness left behind by the pinching she had endured.
A honey-sweet delight spread through Libby's loins. She had never felt anything like it before, and it filled her mind so with its wonder that she didn't question or resist when Patsy slipped an arm under her shoulders and eased her over onto her back. Nor did she speak, or even open her eyes, as Patsy drew the front of her dress down to join the crumpled skirt at her waist, as Patsy's cool fingers plucked the bra straps from her shoulders, picked the cups away from her breasts, slid the garment off entirely down her arms.
Dimly, Libby realized she was naked. Her skirt and bodice were bunched up around her belly, her brassiere was gone, her panties were gone. Except for the useless mass of the dress, the garter belt, and the nylons clipped to it, she wasn't wearing a stitch. The most secret parts of her body were revealed-revealed for just about the first time in her life-revealed to somebody she hardly knew.
The thought didn't bother her a bit.
Patsy's hands didn't bother her either.
They were-touching her breasts? Could that be possible? Yes-that's what they were doing; the palms cupped, the fingers curved, the hands fitting themselves around the lolling breasts, lifting them, drawing them together, moving and manipulating the flesh of them in gentle circles against her rib cage.
It felt nice. It felt so very nice. It felt just wonderful, and the longer it went on, the better it began to feel. Eventually, it reached the point where the fondling of her breasts was almost too nice, too sweet and exciting.
Then Patsy removed a hand from one of them, caught it along the outer edge, forced it to lift fleshily against her urging fingers, squeezed it deftly until the hard berry of the tip was standing ripe and taut.
Patsy kissed it. Her breath blew warmly on the tender circle, and then her lips were there, sealed around it, heating it, wetting it, sending shivers of rich delight deep into the yielding flesh. Her tongue-tip flicked, her lips worked against the pebbled coral of the aureole, and her hands-One of them held the breast she was kissing. The other was moving, gliding down Libby's bared torso, moving quickly over the bunched-up cloth at the waist and finding a place on the belly. Palm down, fingers spreading, the hand moved on, leaving a trail of fantastic sensation behind it as it descended toward the thighs.
There-there, where Libby wasn't a blonde-the hand was there. Fingers coming together, the thrilling, loving, unbelievable hand.
Libby's nylons swished against the bedspread.
The hand held her.
The mouth kissed her, the fingers busy, the fingers and lips and warm palms teased cascades of pleasure in places she never knew existed.
Patsy's lips were kissing her belly.
Patsy's lips were...
Patsy's lips...
Ahhh ...
* * * Word was spreading.
The news was in the air everywhere at the Oak-wood Arms. It sped along the staff grapevine with lightning speed, turning rapidly from a rumor and a speculation to a cold fact:
There were girls in the hotel to take care of the convention trade. They could be ordered through the desk at any time after midnight. Nobody seemed to know where the girls would be coming from, but that was a small matter compared to the size of the evening's pie, and the number of fingers which could profitably dip into it.
Of course, there were some staff members who knew the identities of the girls-they were the girls themselves. Beneath the level of the normal grapevine, another message-system was in operation, quietly spreading the facts to virtually every female on the Oakwood's staff.
Most agreed it was a good idea, but not all were willing to join in. Those who wouldn't were given the same work as the bell-hops, and the same cut of the profits; an arrangement which satisfied all concerned.
By ten o'clock, there was hardly a soul in the Oak-wood's employ who hadn't been roped into the scheme. The few who weren't in the know included Mr. Fisk and his front-office associates; Libby and Patsy, who were still very busy; and Pop.
No one had told Pop what was going on. No one had even thought to tell him. Everybody knew Pop was a wine-soaked old souse, dim of eye and fogged of brain, and what the hell use could he be to a scheme like this? If the staff thought of him at all, it was only to wonder if he'd even understand the situation.
But Pop knew. And Pop understood. A number of people would have been surprised at Pop's keen evaluation of developing events.
It was coming time for his shift, and Pop wasn't looking forward to it at all. He was tired, for one thing, since he'd spent the last few hours eavesdropping around the hotel, piecing together the rumors and fragments of conversation until everything was clear in his mind. He hadn't touched a drop of wine during those hours; he was beginning to sober up, and that made things worse for him. His old body ached to return to his room, stretch itself out, and marinate in wine until shift-time. But that was out of the question.
Pop's work had only just begun.
He came down the service stairs and through the door into the lobby. The sound of the convention-that dangerous, desperate noise which had originally alerted him-had grown louder now. It was making itself heard even in the lobby; but that was to be expected. After all, the hotel staff had joined the conventioneers in their worship of the present, and their combined effort to deny the future was making a sound that would continue to grow through the night.
Pop saw Mr. Fisk behind the check-in desk, smiling fixedly at the men who passed across the lobby. None were paying him any attention, but he smiled anyway. The smile was so frozen-muscled by this time that Mr. Fisk would probably be wearing it for days after the convention ended.
Pop made his way through the lobby and up to the desk. Mr. Fisk smiled at him-or rather, continued to smile at nothing.
"Howdy, Mr. Fisk," Pop said. "Some crowds, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes. Yes, indeed." Somehow, Mr. Fisk managed to talk without dropping the smile. It reminded Pop of a ventriloquist he'd seen at that Chicago fair.
"I guess business's going to be pretty good this weekend, hey, Mr. Fisk?"
The smile remained, but Mr. Fisk's eyes began looking slightly puzzled. "You're-"
"Pop. From the furnace-room, Mr. Fisk."
"Oh, of course. With all the excitement, I forgot momentarily. You've been with us for some time, haven't you?"
"Sure have, Mr. Fisk. A lot of years."
"I like to hear that, Pop. It's gratifying to have a staff with experience-devoted employees upon whom the management can rely. It makes for smooth operation."
"That it does, Mr. Fisk." Pop's head was beginning to throb from both the noise and his growing hangover, but he forced his voice to stay placid and even. "Speaking of the operation, Mr. Fisk-how are these convention boys behaving themselves?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well-you know, Mr. Fisk-when a bunch of men get together like this-in a strange town and ail-sometimes they feel like raising some hell, making a little noise-that sort of thing."
"Not in the Oakwood they don't," said Mr. Fisk.
"No trouble, huh?"
"Certainly not. The Oakwood is a respectable establishment; we have always maintained high standards of dignity and deportment. In an atmosphere such as that-well, a gentleman responds in kind. Dignity breeds dignity."
"Sure, Mr. Fisk. Sure, it does. I didn't really think otherwise."
"Of course you didn't. Having been with us so long, you must certainly be aware of the high plane on which we conduct our operation. And you also must know that where courtesy, respect, and honor prevail-as they do at the Oakwood-the baser elements of human behavior simply cannot find a place. Er-that was what you meant when you asked if our guests were behaving, was it not?"
"Yes, sir. And I see just exactly what you mean, Mr. Fisk, sir. There couldn't be no trouble around such a nice place as this."
"Positively not," said Mr. Fisk.
A guest came to the desk, and Mr. Fisk turned his smiling attention to him. Pop took the opportunity to slip away and merge into the crowd.
Fisk hadn't felt it. He was probably too bone-headed to ever sense something as subtle as an atmosphere. If so, a major threat was eliminated.
It wasn't much-actually, only a short step in the right direction. But Pop satisfied himself with it.