widened, her voice sweetened, the coffee cup on her Cafe Hon T-shirt expanded just a little bit. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for me?”
“Oh, there’s a lot I could do for you,” he said amiably, without a flicker of interest. “I just couldn’t find a hotel room to do it in.”
Aware that it would be hypocritical to be insulted—she had put the ball into play, after all—Tess rested her upper body on the counter and tried not to whimper audibly. The long day, with its singular events, was beginning to take its toll. All she wanted was a place to sleep for a little while. A place with room service, where she could shower and put on CNN at full volume, hoping it would drown out the night’s sounds and the day’s images.
“What’s the deal, anyway?” she asked. She had been shooting for plaintive, but ended up whiny. “Why are all the hotels full?”
The clerk thawed a little then, as if he had been merely waiting for her to drop the bullying and bullshit. “There’s a medical convention in town and then the All Soul Festival starts up mid-week. You won’t find a room anywhere downtown. Especially not with that ,” he said, jerking his chin at Esskay. The dog reared up on her hind legs and propped herself on the front desk next to Tess, as if she were going to demand to speak to a manager. Instead she helped herself to a hard candy from the dish.
“She’ll never be able to eat that,” the attendant said. But he must have liked dogs better than humans. He stroked the dog’s snout and scratched behind her ears, crooning something in Spanish.
“She eats charcoal briquets, too,” Tess said. “Look, isn’t there anywhere I can find a room? It doesn’t have to be downtown. All I need is a place with a phone and a bed, something clean and safe.”
Esskay coughed up a gnawed piece of red candy. Cinammon, Tess guessed. She didn’t like spicy things.
“How loose are your standards on cleanliness and safety?” the attendant asked, as he looked for something to wipe up the pinkish drool on his counter. “I know a place maybe fifteen minutes from here, on Broadway next to the park. Look, I’ll even call ahead for you, make sure they hold something.”
“Great,” Tess said. “What’s it called?”
“La Casita. Ask for the daily rate. It’s a better deal.”
“As opposed to the weekly?”
He stifled a laugh. “As opposed to the hourly.”
Mornings were quiet at La Casita, in marked contrast to the nights. Tess woke to the sound of a local news program, coming in on the television’s only working channel. The television was bolted to the stand, just in case anyone developed a hankering for a 15-year-old Samsung sans remote.
Tess rolled out of bed and put on fresh clothes, taking a perverse pleasure in the spareness of her surroundings. Her clothes, her toothbrush, her copy of Don Quixote . It was Friday, she realized as she pulled on that day’s allotment of underwear. She’d have to buy some Woolite, or drop in at a laundromat soon.
For a hooker motel, La Casita was nice enough, a Southwestern version of the Route 40 motor court that Tess had camped outside not even two weeks ago. Funny, it seemed like months had passed since that day, although in the wrong direction. When she cracked open the door of room number 103, the warm Texas autumn was so much like summer that she felt as if she had gone backward in time.
“Is it safe to walk around here?” she asked the elderly Vietnamese woman who sat in the front office, behind a Plexiglas shield with a pass-through for keys and money.
“Very safe, very safe,” Mrs. Nguyen said. “Even in the park, very safe. Chris Marrou on Channel 5 said . You can walk to the river from here, walk to zoo, ride in the little cars on the wires, the ones above the trees.”
“Sounds good.”
Mrs. Nguyen shook her finger at her through the bullet-proof glass. “But don’t talk to strangers, bad boys who ask you to go for ride,
“Oh, there’s a lot I could do for you,” he said amiably, without a flicker of interest. “I just couldn’t find a hotel room to do it in.”
Aware that it would be hypocritical to be insulted—she had put the ball into play, after all—Tess rested her upper body on the counter and tried not to whimper audibly. The long day, with its singular events, was beginning to take its toll. All she wanted was a place to sleep for a little while. A place with room service, where she could shower and put on CNN at full volume, hoping it would drown out the night’s sounds and the day’s images.
“What’s the deal, anyway?” she asked. She had been shooting for plaintive, but ended up whiny. “Why are all the hotels full?”
The clerk thawed a little then, as if he had been merely waiting for her to drop the bullying and bullshit. “There’s a medical convention in town and then the All Soul Festival starts up mid-week. You won’t find a room anywhere downtown. Especially not with that ,” he said, jerking his chin at Esskay. The dog reared up on her hind legs and propped herself on the front desk next to Tess, as if she were going to demand to speak to a manager. Instead she helped herself to a hard candy from the dish.
“She’ll never be able to eat that,” the attendant said. But he must have liked dogs better than humans. He stroked the dog’s snout and scratched behind her ears, crooning something in Spanish.
“She eats charcoal briquets, too,” Tess said. “Look, isn’t there anywhere I can find a room? It doesn’t have to be downtown. All I need is a place with a phone and a bed, something clean and safe.”
Esskay coughed up a gnawed piece of red candy. Cinammon, Tess guessed. She didn’t like spicy things.
“How loose are your standards on cleanliness and safety?” the attendant asked, as he looked for something to wipe up the pinkish drool on his counter. “I know a place maybe fifteen minutes from here, on Broadway next to the park. Look, I’ll even call ahead for you, make sure they hold something.”
“Great,” Tess said. “What’s it called?”
“La Casita. Ask for the daily rate. It’s a better deal.”
“As opposed to the weekly?”
He stifled a laugh. “As opposed to the hourly.”
Mornings were quiet at La Casita, in marked contrast to the nights. Tess woke to the sound of a local news program, coming in on the television’s only working channel. The television was bolted to the stand, just in case anyone developed a hankering for a 15-year-old Samsung sans remote.
Tess rolled out of bed and put on fresh clothes, taking a perverse pleasure in the spareness of her surroundings. Her clothes, her toothbrush, her copy of Don Quixote . It was Friday, she realized as she pulled on that day’s allotment of underwear. She’d have to buy some Woolite, or drop in at a laundromat soon.
For a hooker motel, La Casita was nice enough, a Southwestern version of the Route 40 motor court that Tess had camped outside not even two weeks ago. Funny, it seemed like months had passed since that day, although in the wrong direction. When she cracked open the door of room number 103, the warm Texas autumn was so much like summer that she felt as if she had gone backward in time.
“Is it safe to walk around here?” she asked the elderly Vietnamese woman who sat in the front office, behind a Plexiglas shield with a pass-through for keys and money.
“Very safe, very safe,” Mrs. Nguyen said. “Even in the park, very safe. Chris Marrou on Channel 5 said . You can walk to the river from here, walk to zoo, ride in the little cars on the wires, the ones above the trees.”
“Sounds good.”
Mrs. Nguyen shook her finger at her through the bullet-proof glass. “But don’t talk to strangers, bad boys who ask you to go for ride,
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