Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,35

read: “Great Rates, Free Movie Channel, Imaginary Friends Stay Free.” He opened the glass door, stepped inside, and wrinkled his nose against a spoiled cheese smell. He crossed the thick-pile, hunter-green carpet to the front desk. It was currently unmanned. He rang the small brass bell on the counter. A moment later a wizened old man emerged from the back room. He wore pastel slacks and a heavy wool cardigan buttoned to the neck. Gray hair curled out from beneath a beat-up Baltimore Orioles baseball cap. A rosy blush colored his cheeks, nose, and ears. He fixed Beetle with bright blue rheumy eyes and said, “Help ya?”

“A room for the night, please,” he said.

“Ranger, huh?” the man said, reading the bars on Beetle’s right sleeve. “Was in ’Nam myself. Spent most my time in a resettlement village, twenty miles southwest of Da Nong, three miles from the 5th Marines Combat Base. Supposed to be hell on earth, target practice for the commies, but I didn’t see no combat my entire tour. Never met no Rangers neither. They weren’t officially incorporated until a few years ago, that right?”

“A room, please,” Beetle said.

The man studied him for a moment, then nodded. “You’re in luck.” He produced a key attached to a piece of red plastic from beneath the counter and dangled it between his thumb and index finger. “Got one room left.”

Beetle thought of the empty parking lot but didn’t say anything.

“It’s a superior suite so a little pricier than the others,” the man went on. “But it got a private balcony and views of the Chaguago National Park you won’t soon forget. Guests say they like to sit out there with their coffee in the morning. If you’re lucky, you might spot a whitetail or elk. Had a few moose about too. You haven’t seen nothing until you’ve seen a buck with a full set of antlers. They shed them each season, you know. The lot simply drop off. Found a set myself few years back. Was going to put them on the wall over there, but couldn’t find nobody to mount them without charging an arm and leg. How many nights you say?”

“One,” Beetle said, taking out his wallet.

“Suit yourself.” The man glanced at the wad of bills in the wallet sleeve. It was a discrete glance, no more than a flick of the eyes, easy to miss. But Beetle didn’t miss much. “That’ll be forty-nine ninety-nine,” the man said reasonably. “Say, I’ll make it an even forty nine, give you change for the soda machine.”

“Forty nine bucks for one night, huh?” Beetle said just as reasonably.

The man nodded. “That’s right.”

“That the going rate, or the sucker rate?”

The man blinked. “Huh?”

“I asked you if that was the going rate, or the sucker rate?”

“The sucker rate?”

“Do I look like a sucker?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you treating me like one?”

“No, sir, I’m not—”

Beetle grabbed the old man around the throat, moving fluidly and quickly. He pulled the shylock’s face close to his own. “Let’s do this again,” he said quietly. “I’d like a room for the night.”

“How—?” the man rasped. “How many?”

“One.”

“Nineteen…ninety-five…”

“You didn’t ask me what type of room I’d like.”

“They’re all…same…”

Beetle stared into the shylock’s terrified eyes. They had popped wide, blood vessels webbing the whites. Why he wanted to live so much, Beetle didn’t know, didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore—not even, he realized, getting ripped off in some shitty backwater motel.

Beetle released the old cheat, who stumbled away, wheezing, cowering. Then he slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and scooped up the key.

Without looking back, Beetle crossed the reception to the staircase that led to the second floor. At the top of the stairs a bronze placard on the wall indicated that rooms 200-206 were to the left, 207-210 to the right. The key was labeled 209, so he went right. Pink carpet and floral wallpaper had replaced the hunter-green carpet and paneled wood of the reception. The spoiled cheese smell remained.

At his room Beetle inserted the key into the lock, opened the door, and flicked on the light. The interior was larger than he’d expected and included a kitchenette with wood-trimmed white cabinets. The lavender bedspread matched the upholstery on the armchair in the corner. A TV was bolted to a Formica table, next to a fake flower arrangement. White satin curtains that looked like they came from the inside of a coffin were drawn across the pair of doors that gave to the balcony.

Beetle