“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwell, your room is still being cleaned. Check-in isn’t until four o’clock.” The receptionist was a redhead who wore too much makeup to cover up her acne scars, and her monotone speech conveyed a clear hatred for her job—maybe people in general. Arnie couldn’t be sure. He looked at the clock on the wall behind the desk. He liked redheads, and this one wasn’t that bad-looking either, aside from the craters in her face. She was the kind of flawed tail Arnie would throw some game at under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances—so he was an asshole. “It’s fucking three thirty.”
The redhead stiffened in her chair as the stick up her ass expanded to its full length. “Yes, it is, sir, and like I said, check-in is at four o’clock.” She pointed a rigid finger to a plastic gold-colored sign on the counter reiterating that point. Arnie read it and then read her name tag. Again, this is where his charm should’ve kicked in to help him get his way, but Arnie didn’t need charm—not anymore. He had cash. Money talks. Everybody knows that.
“Look, Abby?” He said her name like a question. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks on top of what I owe for the reservation—right here, right now—if you just take one of those key cards and swipe the damn thing so I can get myself settled in my room.”
Abby just stared at him blankly. The room itself was only eighty dollars.
“Seriously,” he said. “A hundred bucks. Cash. Just for you.”
“We’re not allowed to accept tips, sir.”
Arnie leaned on the counter, never letting the suitcase touch the floor, and took a deep breath through his nose. If he didn’t get himself behind a locked door with a fat joint soon, he felt like he might literally explode. He reached into his windbreaker and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out two hundred dollars in twenties with his thumb and laid it on the counter. “I know you’ve got cameras on you right now. I know you don’t want to lose your job, but there’s a way around that. Trust me. We can make it look like I’m just paying for the room. Take the extra out later when you’re counting your drawer down. It’ll be the easiest hundred and twenty bucks you’ve ever made. Just please, break the rule and let me check in to my room. Please.”
Abby stared at the money for what seemed like forever before she picked up the motel phone. Arnie’s heart sank, and he suddenly became aware of the gun tucked into the waistband of his track pants.
If this bitch calls the cops, I’m screwed. Stop being a dick, Arnie. You can hold out in the lobby for thirty minutes. Don’t blow everything now over a motel room.
He started backpedaling. “Look, Abby. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a prick here. I’m just really tired from my flight and need to lie down. I’m running on fumes here.”
Abby ignored him and pressed some buttons on the phone.
Arnie reached around to the small of his back. “C’mon, Abby. I said I was sorry.”
“Mario?” Abby said into the phone. “Is room 1108 ready yet?”
Arnie took his hand off the grip of the gun. He hadn’t even realized he was going for it.
“I have a guest in the lobby that would like an early check-in.”
Arnie mouthed the words “Bless you.”
Abby nodded and offered him a whatever half smile. Arnie smiled back and tipped his chin. He thought he might even invite her up to his room later. When she saw his bankroll, she must’ve started to understand she was dealing with a baller—a baller, baby. After Mario finished talking, she held the phone against her chest. “He says the room is clean but he hasn’t had a chance to restock the towels.”
“Not a problem. I’ll take it. Bring the towels whenever. I can drip dry.”
“Um, okay.” Abby held the phone back to her ear. “He said that’s fine. You can bring them up later.”
Arnie blew out another deep breath as Abby hung up the phone. She laid out some paperwork on the counter and Arnie grabbed a pen with a huge plastic daisy duct-taped to it out of a jar. He filled out the papers as best he could with one hand, still refusing to put down the case, and then handed over his Georgia ID. The state had taken his driver’s license after his fourth DUI in 2010, so the state-issued ID was all he had. Abby took it, raised an eyebrow at him, and typed something into her computer. It took her forever. Long enough for Arnie to start thinking again about shooting her.
“All right, Mr. Blackwell. You’re all done.” She handed him back his ID. “You’re in room 1108. That’s right outside the doors you came in and to the left around the building.” She tucked a set of key cards and his receipt in an envelope and laid it next to the cash. It felt to Arnie as if she was moving underwater.
“Bottom floor?”
“Yes. That’s on the bottom floor. Out the door to the left.”
“Thanks.”
“What part of Atlanta are you from?” Abby said, suddenly friendly. “I’ve got a friend who lives in Midtown. It’s not really the middle of the city so I don’t know why they call it that. It’s more north than anything else.” Arnie looked at her, confused. He could feel his inner dickhead beginning to surface but decided instead to just ignore her. He blew through his nose and snatched up the envelope, and Abby with the friend in Midtown ceased to exist. He made for the front door.
After stopping at a vending machine to buy a can of Dr Pepper, Arnie soon found himself inside a locked double room, sitting on the bed, crumbling one of the fat green buds he’d pulled from one of Bobby’s “special travel bags” he’d stuffed into the liner of the suitcase. Bobby promised the bags kept anything in them “undetectable, dude.” And fuckin’ A, he was right. Bobby was rarely wrong when it came to weed or weed-related accessories. He had that going for him at least. Arnie rolled the sticky kush in a torn-out page of a Gideon Bible he found in the end-table drawer. He’d make a proper pipe out of the Dr Pepper can when he was done drinking it. When Mario finally knocked on the door with the towels, he slid the case under the bed, feeling no pain and grinning like a damn fool. Maybe he’d get Mario high. The guy’s name was Mario. He had to partake. He had to. And, man, a shower was going to feel damn good after the past three days of dust and grime at the farm, but on the upside, this was the last shitty motel room he’d ever stay in. He’d be laying down the rent on something oceanside by this time tomorrow. Arnie had already stripped out of his sweaty tracksuit and unlocked the door wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a T-shirt.
* * *
He still had the makeshift joint burning between his teeth when he opened the door, swinging it wide without so much as a glance through the peephole. He quickly lost his grin. Pot might make you feel good but it also made you dumb. The joint fell from his mouth and burned his chin before it hit the floor.
“Hello, Arnold.” A short Filipino man with a stiff wave of black hair and a shiny electric blue suit pushed his way past Arnie and entered the room. He wasn’t alone. Another man—another Filipino bruiser about twice the first man’s size with a similar spiked haircut—followed the shorter man in.
“What the hell—Smoke?” Arnie’s mind raced as he smacked at the fresh burn on his chin. He quickly—well, as quickly as his freshly stoned brain would let him—shifted gears to remember where he’d put the gun. The gun he and Bobby had taken such a huge risk for him to have in case something like this happened. Arnie didn’t even know where he’d put it. Again, pot—it made you dumb. His mind started to twist around the absurdity of it. Maybe he was imagining them. He shook his head and blinked a few times. No, they were real, and they were here—in Florida—with him. Arnie’s heart nearly stopped again as the smaller Filipino man cased the room, taking it in as if he’d never seen the inside of a cheap motel before. He looked at the lousy mass-produced painting of a boardwalk-lined beach on the wall and then poked his head into the bathroom. He was pleased to see it vacant. He nodded to his partner, who nodded back, and then reached through the bathroom door and produced Arnie’s gun.