The red carpet looks like it hasn’t seen a vacuum in years, the wallpaper is coming off the walls, and don’t even get me started on the smell… Shit, weed, cigarette, cheap perfume. The combination makes my eyes water, and I wonder how long I can hold my breath without dying.
A counter with the words “Check in” on a folded piece of paper stands a couple of steps away from me. A piece of paper. Could they at least pretend to give a fuck?
Behind it is a woman loudly chewing gum and checking out her nails. She appears to be in her fifties. Artificial tan covers her wrinkled face, making her look like a human orange. An uneven smile twists her lips when she sees me. She assesses me from head to toe, bending forward and leaning against the counter. I whisk my eyes away from her breast, which she obviously wants me to focus on.
“What can I do for you, sweet thing?”
Gag reflex.
“I’d like to talk to the owner.”
“You’re looking at her,” she says as though she’s actually proud to own this place.
“I need information.” I find myself wondering how I’m casually going to ask her if a murderer stayed at her motel. I didn’t think this thing through.
“Ask away.”
“Are you familiar with a man named Marcus? He’s been traced back to this place.”
I think I see her eyes flash with something for a second there, but she gathers herself so quickly I’m not sure if I imagined it.
“Who’s asking?”
“Someone who needs answers.”
“And why would I help you? Time is money, sweetheart. I have a business to run.” She pauses. “I mean, unless you’re willing to work something out… I can always be convinced.” Her tone tells me everything I need to know.
Gag reflex, the return.
“What do you say, handsome? You help me. I help you.” She pops the second button of her shirt—which is frankly useless as I already see way more than I want to from her plunging V-neck. I dismiss her proposal, digging into my pocket and slapping two fifties on the counter. She eyes the money without a word and takes it, stuffing it inside her bra.
“What does this Marcus look like?”
I curse myself for not having a picture of him. All I have is the memories of the pictures I saw forever ago.
“Brown hair, crooked nose, around forty years old.”
“I’m going to need more than that, kid.”
“Strange man. Maybe a bit jumpy? He’s been on the run for a while.”
She narrows her eyes, as if to show me she’s racking her brain for answers. After a while, she shrugs. “There was this one guy a while back. He looked like shit. Smelled like it, too. He stayed in room twenty-nine and registered under a ridiculous name. We assumed it was a fake one, but we didn’t bother to look into it. Happens all the time here.”
“Did he match the description?”
“How the hell should I know? It’s not like I remember every face.”
I’ve never gotten another fifty-dollar bill out so fast.
She glances around the room and picks it up, shoving it inside her bra again. I mean, damn, does she keep missing children in there?
“Now that I think about it, he did.”
I know there’s a very good chance she’s wasting my money and my time, but she’s all I have.
“Do you have surveillance tapes I could watch?”
She frowns. “What are you? A cop?”