A man in a mask and wearing a fat tank on his back is bent to the door of the
          parking garage.
He is spraying and wiping, wiping and spraying. Another man with no mask
          and no hair shuffle-dances around him,
gives a wave, crosses the street, tries to open the door to the hotel, which is
          locked and closed, darkened for good:
Okay, now what? He turns and walks back toward the parking garage. The
          man with the tank doesn’t look up,
he’s all about the door handle now, rubbing it again and again. The bald man