Comfort Station by Donald E. Westlake

By Donald E. Westlake

In the relaxation station at Bryant Park, worlds collide and lives are replaced forever

Look prior the grandeur of the well-known manhattan Public Library and you'll see the genuine architectural surprise of Forty-Second highway: the relaxation station. A small development, modest in its proportions yet indisputable in its value, its handful of stalls and urinals supply a haven for wealthy and bad alike. The restroom’s keeper is Mo Mowgli, a meek guy whose merely hassle is persistent tardiness, and who's approximately to have the stumble upon of a lifetime.

Today, a wierd forged of characters descends at the convenience station: a mobster and a cop, a countess and a dictator, colliding with a strength that would upend Mo Mowgli’s international. whilst this globetrotting crew will get jointly, no stall is simply too small for adventure.
Written within the sort of resort, Airport, and—perhaps extra accurately—Airplane!, convenience Station exhibits the genius of Donald E. Westlake at his comedian best.

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Merely floating the possibility of the role to Lola might provoke a crisis, and could Briony really hold hands with her before the altar, while Jackson intoned from the Book of Common Prayer? It was not until five o’clock that afternoon that she was able to assemble her cast in the nursery. She had arranged three stools in a row, while she herself jammed her rump into an ancient baby’s high chair—a bohemian touch that gave her a tennis umpire’s advantage of height. The twins had come with reluctance from the pool where they had been for three hours without a break.

That was no comfort either. This was what happened when they talked these days; one or the other was always in the wrong, trying to call back the last remark. There was no ease, no stability in the course of their conversations, no chance to relax. Instead, it was spikes, traps, and awkward turns that caused her to dislike herself almost as much as she disliked him, though she did not doubt that he was mostly to blame. She hadn’t changed, but there was no question that he had. He was putting distance between himself and the family that had been completely open to him and given him everything.

If Cecilia went in now she would have to mediate between her mother’s vague instructions and Betty’s forceful state of mind. It surely made more sense to go outside and fill the vase at the fountain. Sometime in her teens a friend of Cecilia’s father who worked in the Victoria and Albert Museum had come to examine the vase and declared it sound. It was genuine Meissen porcelain, the work of the great artist Höroldt, who painted it in 1726. It had most certainly once been the property of King August.

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