know, maybe nothing, but I think some very bad people just learned my full name, and that’s the name on the hotel register.”
She zipped out of the bathroom carrying her overnight case and swept the room fast with frightened eyes. I picked up her suitcase from the folding stand, and we were out the door.
We did a fast walk the length of the hall and down the stairs. The lobby was empty so I dinged the bell and a receptionist came from the office, wiping sleep out of her eyes. It took thirty seconds to check out. The Dodge was six spaces down the row. This time I’d gotten smart. I’d found an empty cigarette pack in the gutter, ripped the cellophane off, and stuck a sliver in each door. When I opened the passenger door for Angie, the cellophane fluttered out, so I tossed the bags in back and let her get in. Cellophane was in place on my door too, and one can’t open the hood without getting inside. I jumped in, engine started, and we raced for the Polaris building.
“Where are we going?”
“To change cars. Too many people who might be bad may have seen this one.”
“Don’t you ever make a positive statement?”
“I will, if anything positive happens.” We parked the car in the lot and the attendant took the keys. I popped the trunk and collected the shotgun. It was wrapped in Turk’s blanket, but was still pretty obvious and the attendant was staring. There’s nothing illegal about carrying a shotgun, and it wouldn’t even be unusual in your own car, but it did seem a little out of place in a rental. We ran across First Avenue toward the office, Angie leading, me carrying cases and the shotgun.
“Alex, they must know it’s a rented car, so if they know your name and you rent another, they can check on that.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Yeah, let’s use Mary Angela Demoski. They won’t recognize that name.”
“Mary? Even I don’t recognize it.”
“Yep, on my birth certificate, driver’s license, and credit card. I kept my maiden name when I married Stan. Not disloyalty, it just seemed right.”
Angie took charge, stepped up to the counter, and rented a white Buick Regal. I hovered outside the door, trying not to look like a desperado who might want a rental car to rob a bank. Angie came out dangling a key ring. We walked back across the street to the lot and she opened the trunk. I stashed luggage and shotgun in the trunk. Angie nodded her approval and tossed me the keys. “Now where to?”
“Well, you mentioned dinner, and we are homeless.”
“How about the Maranatha Inn on South Cushman?”
“Never heard of it.”
Angie was nodding. “That’s precisely the point. Neither has anyone else, but the food is excellent. No wine though, it’s run by a religious group of some kind.”
“No sermons?”
“No, but there are bibles in the rooms. The drinks are really funny because the menu lists all the usual stuff, piña coladas, mai tais, whatever, and they’re really cheap. You should have seen Stan’s face when we figured it out. See, we’d been whiffing down hurricanes, really good, and we’d had three or four when Stan realized we weren’t getting drunk. Gimmick is there’s no alcohol in them.”
“Not sure I’m up for being stranded in the desert.”
“No problem, the Squadron Club’s right next door.”
***
The young man behind the counter at the Maranatha had that clean-cut innocent look you associate with Mormon missionaries. Angie’s request for twin beds was what he expected, and this time we were carrying suitcases.
Our room had seen better days, quite a few of them, but it was clean. The beds really were twin size, and sure enough, there was a bible on the dresser where the TV usually sits. I dumped the bags. Angie inspected the bathroom. I opened the curtains and checked out the view. A courtyard had a couple of straggly trees, but they were likely very nice in spring and summer. Fifty feet away, beyond the trees, South Cushman Street was gushing cars
James Patterson, Maxine Paetro