“I’m going downtown,” I said.

The valet booth on Elm Street was built of rough concrete blocks, squeezed between two support pillars under the parking deck.

Exhaust fumes hung thick in the cold air, and a small transistor radio hummed quietly on a metal shelf behind the counter.

An attendant in a dark green canvas jacket was drinking coffee from a paper cup when I walked up to the half window.

“Can I help you with something, ma’am?” he asked.