Jake Randolph, Private Investigator Pt. 71

I pushed the lobby doors open and walked to the front desk. There was a very unhappy looking little man behind it: short, balding, a gut hanging over his belt that looked as if his water would break and he would go into labor at any moment. I looked down at the desk and saw a little plaque with the name Art Morgan on it and the word manager underneath it.

I stuck my hand out, "Are you Mr. Morgan?"

He looked up suspiciously from his newspaper.

"I'm Morgan. Suppose you tell me who in the hell you are, pal."