He didn’t like whiskey. Didn’t taste whiskey on his tongue. So why was it here?
There were no bags, but he did find a set of car keys and a money clip on the desk. The clip held cash but no driver’s license, no credit cards. No clue to who he was. He dropped the keys and the money into his pockets and stalked to the bedside table.
Beneath a Gideon Bible, he found a phonebook.
“What the fuck am I doing in Nevada?” Baffled, he tossed the phone book back into the drawer and started to scrub both hands over his face, hissing at the pressure on his palms. Okay, Nevada. One of the fifty states. At least I know there are fifty states. That’s something, right? Having an answer to one question helped stem the panic that wanted to rise up and choke him. One down, the rest of my life to go.
Rain slapped him in the face the moment he opened the door. Across a parking lot, he could see a neon
sign proclaiming Canyon Inn. Except the “y” kept flickering out. Parked mere feet from the door of room number 13—Great—was a ’69 Dodge Charger in serious need of a paint job. The whole thing was a mottled patchwork of gray primer and an ugly ass shit brown. He wondered if it was his.
He moved down the sidewalk, heedless of the fact he was getting soaked. The night clerk, a pimple-faced blond guy with a length of facial fuzz for a beard, looked up in surprise when he stepped into the office.
“Ca… can I help you?”
“I need to know what name room thirteen is registered in.” His voice sounded rusty with disuse.
The kid hesitated. “I’m sorry, I… ”
“Look, I’m in room thirteen. I need to know what name is on it.”
Puzzled, the clerk flipped through a ledger. He ran one skinny finger down the page, then shook his head. “There is no name.”
“No name?” He all but growled it, leaning over the counter and into the night clerk’s space.
“N… n… no. It was paid up front, in cash, for two days. No name.” He sucked in a wheezy breath. “I don’t want no trouble, Mister.”
Another thought wormed its way into consciousness. “A woman. There was a woman. Did you see her with me?”
The kid gave a nervous laugh. “We’re paid not to see.”
He straightened, thinking. “I’m not looking for discretion. I’m looking for answers. Did you see me with a woman?” He enunciated each word of the question as if that would somehow jog the clerk’s memory.
“As far as I know, you were alone. I wasn’t the one who checked you in and there’s been a do not disturb sign on the door. That’s all I know, I swear.”
“So you don’t know who paid for the room?”
Pimple-face shook his head.
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
Another shake of the head. No help there.
“When does the reservation expire?”
“It’s through tomorrow morning.”
“Fine. I’m checking out.” He left the kid sputtering and went back out in the rain.
The keys in his pocket did, in fact, belong to the piece of shit Charger. With a silent prayer, he slid the key into the ignition. The engine caught and roared to life, surprising and pleasing him. While the car rumbled and the rain beat a staccato tattoo on the roof and hood, he flipped open the glove box and rifled through the contents: an ancient owner’s manual, a tire gauge, a switchblade, and a faded printout that was the registration. He leaned over toward the glove box light to get a better look at the name on the form.
“Eric Tobin.” He tried the name out, rolling it off his tongue with a slight southern drawl. It felt neither comfortable nor awkward. It was just a name. If it was his, he didn’t feel it.
He checked the address. Las Vegas. It was as good a place as any to start looking for answers. Resolved, he put the car into gear and headed south toward Sin City.
* * *
Even as he bought a map at a gas station on the edge of town, he knew this was not how normal people would react to this situation. Not that normal people very often found themselves in this situation. He knew the logical step would be to go to the cops or the hospital. Get those burns looked at. Get the wheels in motion to find out who he was and what had happened.