by Gavin Bell
5
2:40pm
BING.
The little brass bell on the Halfway Hotel’s reception desk was louder than it looked, the sound filling the quiet like a cough during a minute’s silence. When there was no response after a few seconds, I craned over the desk and peered through the open door beyond that led into the office. There didn’t seem to be anyone in there, so I turned around and leant back on the desk to have a look around. The foyer was high-ceilinged and roomy; the Art Nouveau decor lending the place a preserved turn of the century feeling. Judging by the yellowing wallpaper and well-worn carpeting, that was the last time it had been decorated. Three ceiling fans hung thirty feet up, but only one was working. There was a curving staircase that led up to a mezzanine, where there was an archway with a neatly painted sign that read To All Rooms. The handmade sign fit in with the overall ambience of the hotel. As an entity, it seemed somehow out of place; not just in the present day, but in the town. Even in mild neglect, the building was too grand, too distinguished for its setting. It felt like it had been built for a more consequential place. Perhaps Halfway had been a more populous settlement in 1902.
Across the tiled centre of the foyer, adjacent to the main entrance, was a small bar. I hadn’t noticed it, or the fact that I wasn’t quite alone, when I’d walked through the double doors. A redhead in a light blue sundress was perched on a stool, looking right at me, inspecting me as I surveyed the foyer. I looked away instinctively, the way people do when they’re gazing around aimlessly and happen to make eye contact, but when I glanced back again, she was still looking. The redhead took a sip from whatever she was drinking and her eyes smiled.
I heard an impatient throat-clearing from behind me. Turning around, I found myself facing a short, slight man in his late fifties. What was left of his hair was greying, and he sported a creased blue short sleeved shirt tucked into too-tight chinos. A grimy name tag was pinned to his breast pocket. It said Bill, Manager. Going by his expression, it might as well have said Don’t Ask.
He snapped open a black leather-bound reservation book, and I noticed that there was only one other entry on the page, even though there was space to take bookings for the whole week. Idly I wondered if the other guest could be our fence, here already. In any case, it looked as though there wouldn’t be too many other guests to witness our stay, which suited me fine.
“You want a room?”
“Good guess.” I smiled amiably. No reaction from Bill. “Yeah, I want a room. One with a bathroom, if possible.”
The manager began to write in his reservation book and then paused: “You’re English, right?”
“Something like that.”
He nodded, as if this explained everything and looked back down at his book: “Name?”
“Morricone.”
“How long’ll you be staying?”
“Just tonight.”
“Just you?”
“I’m with two friends, they’ll be along in a minute.”
“You’ll need two rooms, then.” His tone indicated that I’d tried to put one over on him, but he’d been too smart for me. He stuck the pen between his teeth and punched a few digits into a chunky Casio desktop calculator that looked around a 1982 vintage.
“That’ll be a sixty six dollars apiece for the rooms, plus tax comes to a hundred and forty two fifty six.” He turned to take a key from the board on the wall. “Upfront.”
I slid my wallet out of my back pocket and paid him. He took the money, made change and handed over the key, eyeing me with an equal mix of suspicion and distaste. I couldn’t help but smile: real keys instead of keycards, a leather book instead of a PC, this guy instead of polished American customer service; it was all refreshingly old-fashioned. I didn’t think they made places like this anymore. I asked Bill if he knew anything about the cops down the road, trying to sound like I was just making conversation.
“Don’t know nothin’ about that.”
Immediately, a lighter and more pleasant voice piped in: “I heard somebody got killed.”
I turned around to check that the girl in the blue sundress was talking to me.
“Yeah? You’re kidding,” I said, walking over to the bar and pocketing my room key. The manager shuffled back into his office, muttering. Up close she looked younger than I’d thought at first; she was in her late twenties at most.
“A friend of mine was in here a couple of minutes ago, she said somebody just got shot over at Jake’s… that’s the barber’s.”
“What happened?” I asked, marvelling at the speed information can travel through a small-town grapevine. It brought to mind another consideration: perhaps we were actually fortunate to have shown up coincident with the shooting. It meant our arrival was probably only the second most interesting thing to happen to Halfway this month.
The girl finished her drink before answering my question, sucking on the straw until it made a loud, unabashed slurp at the bottom of the glass. “I don’t know. Nadine – the girl I was talking to – just ran like hell and called the cops when she heard the shots.”
I looked towards the double doors at the entrance. Twin sunbeams burned through the narrow panes of glass on each door, spearing a cloud of dust motes. “Looks like there’s quite a crowd down there.”
She glanced over at the sunbeams dismissively. “Not a lot of entertainment in this town.”
“Maybe somebody didn’t like their haircut,” I suggested. I thought about going back to the car. Then I reminded myself how much better Travis had looked a few minutes ago. He had water and shade, he’d be fine for another ten minutes. Twenty, even. “Can I get you another drink?”
“Sure,” she said. “But just a grape juice, I’m on my way to work. I’m Midnight, by the way.”
“Midnight?”
She made a good-natured grimace. “Yeah, I know. If I ever meet my mom we’re going to have words about that. I sound like I should be a porn star.”
“I was going to say superhero,” I said, reaching a hand out. “John. John Park.” I don’t know why I gave her my real name. I suppose I thought it was safe enough, since she wasn’t going to be writing it down in a logbook. Maybe it was more than just that.
I nodded at the bartender, who had sauntered over at the sound of a fresh customer.
“Another of these and a beer?”
He gave me a bottle of a brand I’d never heard of. ‘Simarro’ or something. It wasn’t the best beer I’d ever had, but it was cold at least, and in this heat I wasn’t complaining.
“This guy bothering you, Middy?” the bartender said with a mock-suspicious look at me.
Midnight kept a straight face “I’ll let you know when you can toss him out, Tom.”
“Just gimmie a shout then.” He winked at her and disappeared into the back.
The fresh drink didn’t come with a straw, so Midnight shook off the old one and deposited it in the new glass. She took a quarter-glass sip right away. She nodded at me. “Nice accent. Where are you from?”
“Scotland,” I replied, getting ready to elaborate.
Midnight giggled. “I know that. I meant which part?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, grinning sheepishly. “Glasgow.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. It looks like a beautiful country. So green.”
“It’s green for a reason; you’d get pretty tired of the rain after a couple of weeks. That’s why I came over here.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her face to the ceiling. I liked how animated she was with her body language. “Ugh, I’d kill for rain. I mean, you’ll get a real monsoon out here every so often, but you can’t rely on it anymore. They tell me it used to pour down every afternoon like clockwork, this time of year. Now it can be a week or two in between, and the rain just comes when it wants. It feels like an eternity since it came.” She paused and took long sip of her drink, as though just talking about it had parched her throat. “I always liked the heat before I li
ved here, but now… it’s just day after day after day.”
“You’re not from here?”
“Nope.” She smiled and blinked twice, playfully withholding further information.
I sighed. “It is hot,” I agreed. “I just love this kind of country, though. I watched too many westerns at an impressionable age, I suppose.”
“Ah, a John Wayne fan?”
“He’s okay. I always preferred spaghetti westerns though. Fistful of Dollars, Once Upon a Time in the West…”
Midnight shook her head. “I’m afraid we can’t be friends.”
“No?”
“No. I’m a John Ford girl. Rio Grande, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. John Ford made real westerns, everything else is superfluous.”
“All right, you’re a romantic, I like blood and violence. Can we agree to love the scenery?”
She laughed. “So. Besides scenery, what really brought you over here?”
I thought for a second. No reason to lie, exactly. Vague would suffice. “I came over a couple of years ago to visit a friend. We did some work together, a couple of opportunities opened up, and I’m still here.”
“And what kind of work do you do?” She looked from side to side and dropped her voice, conspiratorially. “That is, if you’re allowed to tell me.”
I sighed, as though I was so bored with my job I could barely summon the energy to speak about it. “I’m in finance.”
“Good with money, huh?”
“I wish.”
“Do you like it?”
“Money?”
“The job.”
I shrugged. “Not the work itself. I like the travelling. Seeing new places. Meeting new people.”
Midnight raised her eyebrows and nodded, signalling that she got it. In her own way, she was as out of place in this town as the hotel. Next to Pete the gas station guy and Bill the manager, she stuck out like a great song on daytime radio. I decided that the conversation was getting a little too focused on me and steered it back towards her.
“How about you? Do you live in Halfway?”
“Just on the outskirts of town,” she answered, gazing back at the door. “It’s a pretty quiet place. A little boring, actually, if you want the truth.”
“Yeah, I can see that, I mean it’s nearly three o’ clock and you’ve only had the one homicide.”
Midnight laughed guiltily, giving me a mild punch on the arm as I finished my beer. I thought about getting another one. The sound of somebody leaning on the horn outside reminded me that Tony and Travis were still waiting in the car. Regretfully, I got up from my bar stool.
“Anyway, I better go get my friends. They’re not too patient,” I said, envisioning Travis kneecapping me for keeping him waiting.
“I have to go too, actually. It was nice talking to you,” she smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you around town.”
“That would be nice. Good afternoon Midnight.”
I turned and walked over to the entrance doors, wishing wholeheartedly that I had left Travis and his shot shoulder in Phoenix.
Want to read the rest?
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HALFWAY TO HELL
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Also by Gavin Bell:
Short Story Collections
The Misfortune Teller
A Living
One Shot
Non-Fiction
Shining in the Dark – Stephen King: Page to Screen
Get in touch with the author at [email protected]
