Free A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi Page B

verified the address number I’d written down. 82-420. I was still in the 83s. A little farther on, across more tracks, was a U.S. Border Patrol office, and the police station I knew, was just a few blocks east. That made me nervous. If I’d given myself half a chance, I would have turned around and abandoned the whole venture. Instead, I concentrated on the street numbers.
    I entered the 82-000 block, then passed under Golf Center Parkway. The Amtrak station loomed on my right, followed by another bridge overhead, this time for Jackson Street, and I thought maybe I’d missed it. If I hit Monroe, I’d definitely gone too far.
    Suddenly, it appeared. Its name was lit up in pale blue letters under the jaundiced light from the streetlamps. “ By the week or month .” I read further, and saw that no credit card logos were present. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I went by, taking in the scene as it rolled across my field of view like a painted canvas backdrop on a movie set.
    The Blue Bird was a small place set back from the street by a shallow parking area. Weeds shot up through cracks in the concrete. A dusty old Plymouth that looked as if it hadn’t been moved in months sat in front of the office, inert under a thick coat of dirt. A tumbleweed had blown up against its side. The only other vehicle was parked in front of one of the rooms. A small pickup truck with an old camper shell on its back.
    The building itself was a one-story strip of about fifteen rooms badly in need of a facelift. Disheveled and run-down, paint faded and peeling. A dozen or so roof tiles missing, probably blown off in the gusty winds that sometimes hit this area. The office at the far left end was well-lit, with a neon vacancy sign hanging in the window. About half the rooms’ porchlights were burned out though, including number 2 with the pickup truck in front. Its front door was in shadow, the curtains in the unlighted window closed. The porchlight for number 12 was illuminated, the room faintly lit behind closed curtains.
    I slowly accelerated past the Blue Bird and made a U-turn up the block, hugging the curb as I inched closer to the motel. I stopped two doors away and turned off the engine, my heartbeat going up a few notches. It was now or never, I thought, and got out of the car.
    I started toward the motel as nonchalantly as I could. Passed an auto body shop, then the pest control business next door. When I reached the motel parking lot, I realized I’d left the gloves on the front seat of my car. Cursing under my breath, I wheeled around, feeling naked and exposed, and saw my headlights going full-blast, shining like beacons by the side of the road. Hurrying back to the car, I realized I wasn’t made for this. I’d brought gloves for the remote possibility of a surreptitious search, but no weapon if I had to deal with Turret. Not smart. But the frustration I felt pumped me up and gave me a reckless courage. I switched off the headlights and grabbed the gloves, stuffing them in my pocket as I approached the motel again. I noticed that all the rooms except 2 and 12 had their curtains open wide to the night. The place was practically empty.
    I wasn’t expecting that. I decided not to talk to anyone in the office just yet. Instead, I’d knock at the doors of the two rooms that looked occupied. If Turret answered one of them, I’d take him down immediately—I’d been in enough fights in prison to be confident in that area. Plus I’d have the element of surprise. If someone else answered, I’d apologize and say I had the wrong room. Either way, I’d bring in the cops afterward. I’d try number 12 first, since it was the one with a light on.
    When I reached the door, I paused to give the parking lot and street one last look.
    Nobody.
    I knocked, more tentatively then I’d planned. “Manager,” I called out, improvising. I turned away from the window