Pulled into the Bent Tree Motel parking lot July 3rd. It looked clean and respectable. Pavement sizzled underfoot. No bars on the windows or empty broken beer bottles at our doorstep. No neon signs flickered, nor did any nefarious characters hover in the shadows. (Chances of a noir novel are fading fast.)
We were as incognito as you can get in a cherry red Dodge Ram rental truck.
Room 122. Door wasn't kicked in. Shades were even, without dust or residue. Bright bluish green carpet showed fresh vacuum tracks. There were no cigarette butts in the trash and no sign of a lipstick stained glass on the counter. The television displayed ESPN and the phone had a dial tone. C'mon, I need something to work with here - a trace of blood, a phone number written on a torn business card.At least the window unit airconditioner lent a hum of despair. Could it keep cranking against 100 plus temperatures?
If we were on a stakeout at this motel, we could run next door for some greasy chicken. At least this offered local flavor versus the Dairy Queen or Arby's further up the block.
As night fell, the insects buzzed, an occasional firecracker popped and we jumped. A car backfired in the distance. Footsteps approached and we held our breath, but they trod to the next room. A key rattled, the door creaked open, anda gunshot reverberated. We heard a cry and then silence .....
maybe I do have something to work with here. Nothing like a non-chain motel stay to fire the imagination.
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