The Holdup

Chapter 3

3

I leave the gents and return to the bar. There's a row of tables down the left-hand side and the bar itself on the right. The glare of daylight from the street casts everyone in shadow. As I approach the bar, the silhouette of a woman walks towards me. My eyes adjust and I get a good look. Her high heels make a racket over the old wooden floorboards. Her red dress hugs the life out of her slim curves. With straight raven hair down past her shoulder blades, she's an exotic beauty. And angry.

Angry at me?

"You bastard," she says, slapping me across the face.

As I shake off the sting, Al slides a fizzing G&T across the bar top. She grabs it and throws it in my face.

Quite refreshing in the circumstances.

"You not got anything to say to me?" she says.

"Yeah, thanks for the drink," I say, brushing past her.

I walk out of the bar and look up and down the main street. Dig a hand in a trouser pocket and feel a key attached to a thin, oval piece of metal.

I take it out. The keyring has Mountain Spring Motel engraved on one side. The number six engraved on the other.

A quick glance to my right and I see the sign a short walk to the right across the street. The Mountain Spring Motel is a shabby, low-rising strip of rooms a little back off the road, framed by a palm tree at either end.

The motel has nine rooms in total. I come to number six. Slide the key in the door and open it slow. The first thing I do is check behind the door—an old habit dying hard.

I check out the rest of the room. Small but clean. Bed made fresh. No obvious clues as to what I've been doing here.

Into the bathroom and I wash my face and neck, making sure I'm clean of any blood and booze. I go to rinse off my hands again and realise there's a series of numbers written on the inside of my wrist in black marker pen.

09204012

I peel the sweat-soaked t-shirt off my skin and haul it over my head. I take a plastic white liner from the empty bathroom bin and bag up the t-shirt. I move into the room and slide a wardrobe door to one side. I find my black holdall packed at the base of the wardrobe, as if I was ready to leave. I pick up the bag and carry it to the bed. I find a fresh black t-shirt on top of folded clothes inside. I pull on the clean one and stuff the sweaty one in the bag.

I zip up the bag and wonder how I'm gonna get out of town. The last thing I wanna do is steal a car, but I'm not exactly flush with options.

I don't fancy hanging around for a Greyhound or a train that might never come. And this doesn't seem like the kind of place you can catch a cab or hire a car.

No, a stolen set of wheels it'll have to be.

There's gotta be a car parked down a side street. A clapped-out one I can boost and drive to the next town.

As I zip up the bag, there's a heavy knock on the door--even-spaced thuds. I return the bag to the bottom of the wardrobe and slide the door closed. I walk to the front door and open it a crack.

Peering out of the gap, I see a small, plain woman in brown and beige uniform, sandy hair tied up under a hat, with thin, crooked lips and a jaw that looks like it could take a punch.

She wears a badge that says Sheriff Dooley.

Her cruiser is parked behind her. She rests a hand on the butt of her weapon, the holster unbuttoned.

She removes her mirrored aviators. "Charlie Ronsen?"

"I don't remember."

"Motel owner seems to," she says.

"Then I guess I must be.”

"Yeah, I guess you must be," she says, pulling a pair of cuffs from her belt.

"You got a warrant to go with those?" I ask.

She cracks a wry smile. "Not yet." She tucks the cuffs away. "Worth a shot."

"What's this about, Sheriff?"

Dooley runs a tongue inside her mouth and looks up the street. "I thought you might tell me."

"I'm just a tourist. Passing through."

"Passing through, huh?"

"Yep," I say.

"Then a friendly chat it is," she says, waving a hand towards her cruiser. "Unless you want me to come back with that warrant."

"I can do friendly," I say, opening the door wider. I step outside the room and lock up behind me.

The sheriff opens the near rear door of the cruiser. I duck to climb in.

"Mind how you go," she says, pushing my head under the lip of the roof. "Wouldn't want another bump on the head."