WHEN TONY FEARS ARRIVES AT THE MALLORY HOTEL, he sneaks in as if it’s alien turf instead of a place he’s worked at for almost 20 years. He disappears into the dingy closet that serves as the bellman's break room, looking troubled, scared, like a child who wants to please but isn't sure he can. Once he hangs up his tweed fedora and puts on his uniform, though, Tony is all smiles, the hep cat he wants to be, the good-looking, smooth-talking Texan others see, ambling out to jaw with the sweet young things at the front desk. "Hey honey, how's it going? You ready to run away with me yet?" he says to Mayanna. She wouldn't put up with it if anyone else talked to her that way. But with Tony, it's somehow right, funny, the way a caricature is. She gives him a smile. That's his cue. He’s off to the lobby, an expanse of fraying carpet dotted with imitation-Victorian furniture. To the left is the ballroom-style dining area, with its marble pillars and white tablecloths. It is the only place The Mallory's former glory still shows through. But it feels more like a set than a real place. Tony's an important part of the illusion. He goes with the lobby the way the high ceilings go with the crystal chandeliers. He likes the lobby, likes to hang out there, waiting for customers. They're what he's there for, what he's been there for since he started belling back in Texas about 35 years ago. It's all about being a professional and anticipating the customer's needs. Like the Belle Beauticians' Convention. The rest of the bellman panicked when the beauticians, notorious for their long-running parties, ran out of ice. But Tony kept his head, went around town and came back with enough ice to keep the party going into the wee hours. Later, the beauticians passed around the ice bucket and Tony turned a $164 tip. Best in his life. That's what being a professional is all about, at least that's what it used to be about when the word still meant something in this business, when all men were Tony's buddies and women were honeys, when bellmen held to their stations with the conviction of crusaders, when bellmen didn't let a customer with anything more than a handbag cross a lobby without help, when people knew the value of good service and paid for it handsomely, or at least fairly. That time has long since passed, and part of Tony knows it. But there's another part that still likes to pretend. That's why everything has to be just so before he steps out into the lobby each day. Tie, brown with little white flowers, has to hang straight and true; coat, nothing more than cheap polyester, smoothed down; hair, thin and gray, slicked back smooth. Then, the smile. The whole package should be professional looking, Jimmy-Stewart cool, but Tony can't quite pull it off. Brown age spots ring the perimeter of his Brylcreamed-hair. The skin on his face looks saggy, like his bones are too weak to support it. His teeth are chipped and crooked, like someone kicked him in the mouth a long time ago. The uniform is an ill-fitting emerald green blazer with an “M” embroidered on the pocket. In the backroom, under the buzzing fluorescence, Tony looks fragile, tired.