detective with a sport coat that bulged under his left armpit. Shoulder rigs are designed for cross draws so the guy was right-handed.
He strutted around his car, shook his head at a clucker asking for a handout and yanked open the door to the bar. When the door closed, he disappeared from view. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
The human aquarium that is Sprague Avenue continued to thrive even without a functioning filter system. The sharks swam up and down the street, into doorways and alleys before popping out in other areas. The feeder fish meandered around, begging or soliciting, all with the same purpose in mind. I kept waiting for a Great White to show, but none of the Brotherhood popped out of their clubhouse and no one went in.
A large bus with the words Sprague Avenue / Downtown scrolling by on a reader board above the driver’s head pulled up to the curb in front of me. The door hissed open in front of me.
“Getting on?” the big woman behind the wheel asked.
I shook my head.
The bus wheezed as it pulled away from the curb and lumbered down the road.
I tossed my cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with my shoe. A light wind blew across my neck and I flipped up the collar of my jacket. I shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned back against the bench.
Twenty minutes later, the detective left the bar, climbed back into his car and pulled away from the curb. I stood and started the walk back into downtown.
As I passed the La Playa motel, which sat next to the BSC clubhouse, I suddenly stopped and looked around. Across the street, the Palms Motel squatted unceremoniously.
I trotted across the street and walked into the Manager’s office of the Palms Motel. No one was in the room so I slapped the small metal bell on the counter.
A door opened to a back room and a haggard looking woman in her fifties ambled out. Her grey hair was a mess and she wore a pink night coat with a large feather fringe. The belt barely kept the coat closed over her belly.
“What can I do for you?” she rasped.
“I want to rent a room.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“What?”
“It’s nothing.”
“What?” I repeated.
“You don’t look the type to get a room down here. You a cop or something?”
“No.”
“That’s good. I’ve had my fill of cops this week.”
“What do you mean?”
“A detective came in here and gave me the third degree about one of my tenants. She was found dead someplace else but he wanted to search her room. He was an asshole.”
“You ever meet a cop that wasn’t an asshole?”
She smiled at me. “Room’s thirty-nine bucks a night and I’ll need some ID.”
“How much is it without ID?”
“Seventy-five a night.”
I pulled out my money clip. “I want to pay for two weeks in advance.”
She pulled out a map of the small hotel. “How about a room here?” she asked and pointed at the map. The room sat directly behind the manager’s office on the first floor. The line of sight for the BSC clubhouse would be nonexistent.
I pointed at the map. “How about over here? And on the second floor.”
She shrugged and turned to her occupancy board. “I got one up there for you,” and she lifted the key.
“It’s not the dead girl’s room, is it?”
“I haven’t gotten that one cleaned up yet. You want it?”
”No.”
She handed me the key for room 204.
The door to the room that the manager walked out from earlier opened up and an older black man peered out. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. The woman peered over her shoulder at him.
“You comin’ back, Peggy?”
“I’m workin’ here.”
He shrugged his shoulders and quietly closed the door.
“Sorry about that,” Peggy muttered and scribbled some notes into a ledger. She slapped some keys on a calculator and gave me the total for the room.
I peeled a number of bills from the money clip and laid them on the counter.
With the key in hand, I left the manager’s office and
He strutted around his car, shook his head at a clucker asking for a handout and yanked open the door to the bar. When the door closed, he disappeared from view. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
The human aquarium that is Sprague Avenue continued to thrive even without a functioning filter system. The sharks swam up and down the street, into doorways and alleys before popping out in other areas. The feeder fish meandered around, begging or soliciting, all with the same purpose in mind. I kept waiting for a Great White to show, but none of the Brotherhood popped out of their clubhouse and no one went in.
A large bus with the words Sprague Avenue / Downtown scrolling by on a reader board above the driver’s head pulled up to the curb in front of me. The door hissed open in front of me.
“Getting on?” the big woman behind the wheel asked.
I shook my head.
The bus wheezed as it pulled away from the curb and lumbered down the road.
I tossed my cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with my shoe. A light wind blew across my neck and I flipped up the collar of my jacket. I shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned back against the bench.
Twenty minutes later, the detective left the bar, climbed back into his car and pulled away from the curb. I stood and started the walk back into downtown.
As I passed the La Playa motel, which sat next to the BSC clubhouse, I suddenly stopped and looked around. Across the street, the Palms Motel squatted unceremoniously.
I trotted across the street and walked into the Manager’s office of the Palms Motel. No one was in the room so I slapped the small metal bell on the counter.
A door opened to a back room and a haggard looking woman in her fifties ambled out. Her grey hair was a mess and she wore a pink night coat with a large feather fringe. The belt barely kept the coat closed over her belly.
“What can I do for you?” she rasped.
“I want to rent a room.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“What?”
“It’s nothing.”
“What?” I repeated.
“You don’t look the type to get a room down here. You a cop or something?”
“No.”
“That’s good. I’ve had my fill of cops this week.”
“What do you mean?”
“A detective came in here and gave me the third degree about one of my tenants. She was found dead someplace else but he wanted to search her room. He was an asshole.”
“You ever meet a cop that wasn’t an asshole?”
She smiled at me. “Room’s thirty-nine bucks a night and I’ll need some ID.”
“How much is it without ID?”
“Seventy-five a night.”
I pulled out my money clip. “I want to pay for two weeks in advance.”
She pulled out a map of the small hotel. “How about a room here?” she asked and pointed at the map. The room sat directly behind the manager’s office on the first floor. The line of sight for the BSC clubhouse would be nonexistent.
I pointed at the map. “How about over here? And on the second floor.”
She shrugged and turned to her occupancy board. “I got one up there for you,” and she lifted the key.
“It’s not the dead girl’s room, is it?”
“I haven’t gotten that one cleaned up yet. You want it?”
”No.”
She handed me the key for room 204.
The door to the room that the manager walked out from earlier opened up and an older black man peered out. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. The woman peered over her shoulder at him.
“You comin’ back, Peggy?”
“I’m workin’ here.”
He shrugged his shoulders and quietly closed the door.
“Sorry about that,” Peggy muttered and scribbled some notes into a ledger. She slapped some keys on a calculator and gave me the total for the room.
I peeled a number of bills from the money clip and laid them on the counter.
With the key in hand, I left the manager’s office and
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