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All
the
rooms
of
the
Overlook
were
occupied
this
morning
.
A
full
house
.
And
beyond
the
batwings
,
a
low
murmur
of
conversation
drifted
and
swirled
like
lazy
cigarette
smoke
.
More
sophisticated
,
more
private
.
Low
,
throaty
female
laughter
,
the
kind
that
seems
to
vibrate
in
a
fairy
ring
around
the
viscera
and
the
genitals
.
The
sound
of
a
cash
register
,
its
window
softly
lighted
in
the
warm
halfdark
,
ringing
up
the
price
of
a
gin
rickey
,
a
Manhattan
,
a
depression
bomber
,
a
sloe
gin
fizz
,
a
zombie
.
The
jukebox
,
pouring
out
its
drinkers
’
melodies
,
each
one
overlapping
the
other
in
time
.
He
pushed
the
batwings
open
and
stepped
through
"
Hello
,
boys
,
"
Jack
Torrance
said
softly
.
"
I
’
ve
been
away
but
now
I
’
m
back
.
"
"
Good
evening
,
Mr
.
Torrance
,
"
Lloyd
said
,
genuinely
pleased
.
"
It
’
s
good
to
see
you
.
"
"
It
’
s
good
to
be
back
,
Lloyd
,
"
he
said
gravely
,
and
hooked
his
leg
over
a
stool
between
a
man
in
a
sharp
blue
suit
and
a
bleary
-
eyed
woman
in
a
black
dress
who
was
peering
into
the
depths
of
a
singapore
sling
.
"
What
will
it
be
,
Mr
.
Torrance
?
"
"
Martini
,
"
he
said
with
great
pleasure
.
He
looked
at
the
backbar
with
its
rows
of
dimly
gleaming
bottles
,
capped
with
their
silver
siphons
.
Jim
Beam
.
Wild
Turkey
.
Gilby
’
s
.
Sharrod
’
s
Private
Label
.
Toro
.
Seagram
’
s
.
And
home
again
.
