Enrico stepped out first, as was tradition, and opened Ignacio’s door, then the other two bodyguards, dressed in black like the Russian mafia, filed out behind him. Their job was to make sure no radical hick tried to jump him in the shadows.
Even though the motel was small, it was very comfortable in a down-home country kind of way. The lobby was a room about the size of Ignacio’s closet, and was meagerly adorned. A few pictures of barley fields hung on the poop-colored walls, and a stiff wooden chair sat in the corner. The receptionist’s desk was no more impressive. It consisted of an old writing desk and a 1960s style cash register, the kind that made dinging sounds when you pushed the keys.
Ignacio rang the silver bell and waited. He’d figured, since it was such a small motel, it would have excellent customer service, but he’d been wrong. It took fifteen minutes before a wrinkled old man appeared behind the counter.
“Why, hello fellas. What can I do for you?” he mumbled through a mouthful of missing teeth.
“I would like to get a room for myself and my three companions,” Ignacio replied dryly. He was tired, and in no mood to deal with difficult motel owners.
“Well, that would be a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because,” the old man cackled, “we don’t have any rooms big enough. If you want to rent four rooms, suit yourself, but I can’t squeeze four of y’all into one.”
“Fine, then,” Ignacio snapped. “Give me four rooms. The cleanest ones you have.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. All our rooms are guaranteed—”
“I don’t care. Just give me the goddamn keys.”
The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. That will be one hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
Ignacio reached into his jacket and dropped a wad of twenties on the counter. “That’s two hundred dollars—one hundred and twenty for our rooms, and another eighty for you to leave us alone. Got it?”
“Sounds fair to me.”
Ding ding. Ding ding ding.
“You boys aren’t from Missouri, are you?”
“No. No, we’re not.”
“Good. I hate Missouri.”
Ding ding. Ding ding ding.
“You been down to Hansen’s Hardware lately? They renovated the store and I’m not sure I like it anymore.”
Ignacio leaned forward over the counter. He resisted the urge to grab the man’s red flannel shirt and jerk him off his feet. “Look pal, me and my associates are very tired. We would like our rooms, and we would like our rooms right now. Capisce?”
The man didn’t respond. He just looked deep into Ignacio’s eyes and started laughing. “I knew I recognized you!” he chuckled. “You’re that new mayor I seen on the news!”
Ignacio released a long breath. This was going to take a while.
Ding ding. Ding ding ding.
When the dinging finally stopped and Ignacio was able to retreat into his room and collapse onto the bed, he thought he might go insane. The abstract pictures of clowns and china dolls didn’t help, either. Above him, the fan spun quietly, hypnotically, on the ceiling.
Ignacio buried his head in the pillow. He was too tired to disrobe, or even wash all the gel from his hair, but that was before he heard the doorknob turn and the door swing open.
“I thought I told you to leave me the hell alone!” he roared. But the old man wearing the red flannel shirt was not standing in the doorway. No. There were three men wearing black suits, and they didn’t look very happy.
Ignacio sat up and started reaching for his cellphone.
“Please,” the first man smiled. “You won’t need that. Our business is with you. We would hate for things to get…messy.”
“Then what do you want?” Ignacio demanded. He didn’t know who these men were, but they smelled like federal agents. And if they were federal agents, they couldn’t touch him. He knew his rights.
“We represent a very powerful company, a company that wants to share its power with you.”
“Really? Then what does this company want in return?”
The man shrugged. “Nothing much. Just your permission to open a factory in Stone Creek.”
“What kind of factory?”
“The kind that will make you a rich man, and bring industry to your little town.”
Ignacio fingered his chin. “Keep talking.”
“We represent a company called Wonderworld Industries, a company that thinks your town is perfect for our new factory. And, like I said, all we require is your cooperation.”
“That sounds wonderful. There’s just one little bitty problem.”
The man frowned, and the two men behind him frowned also. “What would that be?”
“I don’t have the power to approve or deny your little building project. That’s up to the city council. Sorry. My hands are tied. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
Ignacio slid beneath the covers and closed his eyes, but the men wouldn’t leave that easily. They stood at the foot of his bed until he sat up once more.
“What don’t you people understand about ‘leave me the fuck alone?’”
The man’s thin-lipped smile was back. “I don’t think you understand. This is a one-time offer. Either you agree to help us, or we turn and walk away, and you’ll never hear from us again.”
“I already told you. My hands are tied.”
“Only if you let them be. You know this town is filled with weak-minded simpletons. And you are a very influential man. You have the power to tell them what to do. All we ask is that you convince them to let us build our factory.”
Ignacio released a long sigh. “Fine. If I agree, will you please let me sleep?”
“Of course.”
“Then we have a deal. I’ll mention your factory at the next town meeting.”
“Excellent. We are in your debt, Mr. Salvador.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Just close the door when you leave. I’m feeling a draft, and I don’t want to catch a cold.”
Ignacio squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the door close behind him. What a way to end the day, having three creepy men in suits follow him back to his motel room in the middle of the night. It sounded like the storyline from a gay porno.
Hopefully, tomorrow wouldn’t be so weird.
Chapter 4
Roger woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache. His bed was covered with sweat and he could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. The only problem was, he couldn’t remember driving home or crawling into bed, come to think of it. Someone must have thrown him in the back of a pickup truck and driven him home after he passed out.
God, his head hurt. It felt like someone had taken a saucepan and laid it across his skull.
“How are we feeling this morning?”
Roger squinted through the bright morning sunlight and tried to make his eyes focus. Everything seemed fuzzy and slightly crooked, like he was looking through a pane of warped glass. And maybe he was, for all he knew.
“You took a pretty good fall last night.”
Roger chuckled. “Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Gave us quite a scare. We thought you were having a heart attack.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m not that lucky.”
The figure moved closer, and Roger’s eyes finally complied. It was a woman, Miss Rachel to be exact. She was the only registered nurse in Stone Creek, and not too hard on the eyes, either. Most folks thought she was a nun, judging by the long black robes and golden cross she wore around her neck, but only Roger knew the truth. She was a widow. Her husband had died a week after their wedding and, in the depths of her sorrow, she had sworn to devote her life to the gospel, to serving her heavenly savior.
That meant living a life of abstinence and religious ardor, much to the chagrin of Stone Creek’s community of single young men.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Miss Rachel sat on the edge of his floral-print mattr
ess. “Any pain in your joints? Numbness in your fingers?”
Roger tested his extremities to make sure they were still functional. “Everything seems to be in working order. Except for my plumbing. I’ve been having trouble with that recently.”
Miss Rachel blushed. Her cheeks turned almost as red as her fiery hair. “I’m afraid I can’t help much with that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Roger shrugged. “That’s what proctologists are for.”
“How is your head?”
“Still there. Hurts like hell, though.”
“I’m not surprised. You had almost two grams of caffeine in your system last night.”
“Really.”
“Any more and you might not have woken up this morning.”
“Huh,” Roger breathed. He was beginning to detect a vile taste in his mouth, so he pushed himself into a sitting position. Two blue buckets sat next to his bed, plastered with a waxy brown liquid. The scent of vomit drifted into his nostrils.
“Did I do that?” he asked.
“Yes. You were throwing up all night long. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”
“Maybe it’s for the best.”
“Maybe so.”
Miss Rachel glanced around the room uncomfortably, as if looking for an excuse to leave. She had pretty eyes. Green, and filled with Irish pride. No wonder the young men competed for her attention. She was the last real flower in town. All the other girls had up and left, hoping to do something with their lives—something other than feeding cattle and slaving over a hot oven, that is.
“Did the Hollister boys call you?”
“Excuse me?”
“When I passed out last night. Did the Hollister boys call you?”
Miss Rachel laughed. “Heavens no. Those two were so sloshed they could barely stand up straight, let alone use a telephone.”
“Then how did you know I was sick?”
“Word travels quickly in this town, Mr. Smith. We don’t need a newspaper to tell us what’s going on.”
“Touché.” Roger smiled. “Speaking of newspapers, today’s issue isn’t going to print itself. I need to hurry over to the office before my subscribers start to complain.”
Miss Rachel nodded, and he waited until she’d left the room to shed his sweaty clothes. His joints really did feel stiff, but that was just a side-effect of old age. It was a miracle he hadn’t cracked his hip or separated his shoulder with that fall. All things considered, he’d been pretty lucky. The only thing he had to show for it was a bruise on his face, a headache, and two buckets of puke by his bed.
He would deal with those later.
Roger yawned and shuffled into the bathroom. He needed to take a shower to wash off that cola-and-vomit smell. Pleasant as it was, he doubted his secretary wanted to endure it all day.
The warm water felt good on his sore muscles, and by the time he stepped outside to go to work he felt good as new. He was even looking forward to his daily delivery route.
And then his car died.
~*~
“It sounds like you had fun last night.”
“Oh yes. Oodles and oodles, if you call passing out on the barroom floor fun.”
Mary Anne laughed. “I haven’t had that much fun since my senior year in college.”
“Me neither,” Roger sighed. “And let’s hope I never do again.”
He finished loading the papers into his little gold station wagon and opened the driver-side door. The scent of fresh ink and 50% recycled paper filled his nostrils. There were some parts of the newspaper business that he would never forget. The smells were one of them.
“You look like you just stepped out of a boxing ring.”
“Thanks. I feel like it, too. One of these days I’m going to bite off more than I can chew and end up paying the price.”
“Until then, you’ll be busy delivering newspapers,” Mary Anne chortled. “Good luck out there today. And don’t run over any animals.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Roger turned the key in the ignition and listened as the engine rumbled to life. That was an inside joke between him and Mary Anne. Once when he’d been a new driver, he’d accidentally run over the Barton’s dog. That had been back in 1972.
Gosh, time flies when you’re having fun.
Roger threw the car into gear and eased onto the street. The picture on the front page was another image of the new mayor, this time flashing his signature smile at the camera. He wasn’t too fond of the picture, but the headline above it was a different story. It read Savior or Sinner? in bold red letters. A nice touch, considering he’d put it together in under twenty minutes.
The story about the caffeine-addicted editor would have to wait until tomorrow.
Roger piloted the vehicle across town, making all his normal stops. He went past Lucky Lou’s Corner Store, Hanson’s Hardware, and the Thrifty Shopper Shopping Mart—complete with all the decorations from Halloween last year. That was the great thing about Stone Creek. There were no giant corporate chain stores, just friendly little stores that catered to the individual.
Roger tried imagining what it would be like without all those shops. He tried imagining what it would look like with six-story buildings soaring above him, blotting out the sun, filling the sky with their huge glass-and-metal bulk, but he couldn’t. He had lived in little down-home Stone Creek for so long that he couldn’t imagine anything different. And if that good-for-nothing big city mayor got his way, there would be more Burger Blasters and meat packing plants than you could shake a stick at.
Bob Freeman waved at him from the side of the road. He wore his casual pink cowboy hat and spotted leather chaps. Paired with his stylish yellow aviator sunglasses, he looked like a cowpoke from the Groovy Dynasty—amazing, considering he was almost ninety years old.
“Hey there, Roger! How is business these days?”
“Good. Good. How is your wife?”
Bob shrugged. “She’s ok. Told me to go out this morning and get some exercise because I was getting fat. Can you believe that?” The old man caressed his generous gut.
“You look well. Spry, like a cat.”
Bob laughed. “I always liked you, Roger. You have a way with words.”
“That’s why I became a journalist, Bob. So I could make you smile.”
Roger cranked the wheel and accelerated onto Willow Spring Drive. The road was surrounded by nice little townhouses spaced far enough apart so you could see the rolling hills behind them, and not a fence in sight. That was the beauty of the untamed Colorado countryside. You could see for miles and miles, and not have to worry about skyscrapers interrupting your view. There were just cornfields stretching as far as the eye could see.
“How goes the delivery business today, Roger?”
Mrs. Finch and several of her book-club buddies gathered in her front yard, glancing over their newest literary fodder. This month it was The Town That Forgot How to Breathe, by Kenneth J. Harvey. A book about—who would have guessed?—a town that forgot how to breathe. An odd choice, in Roger’s opinion, but they seemed to be enjoying it.
“It’s ok, Mrs. Finch. How are you today?”
“You know me,” the woman called with a melodic laugh. “Just admiring God’s good creation. Like the song says: everything bright and beautiful.”
Roger nodded and accelerated past the giggling housewives. He couldn’t stand that group of old goats. Beneath their happy, carefree, self-righteous attitudes, they were a bunch of snarling jackals. Especially Mrs. Finch. That whole spiel about God and his good creation was just a bunch of horse shit meant to make her look good. Everybody knew that she was getting it on with the gardener. Everyone but her husband, that is.
As Roger finished his rounds and turned back onto Main Street, he couldn’t help but smirk. Everything about Stone Creek was only skin deep. The government, the community, even the little Baptist church was on the verge of falling into hopeless moral despair. The only thing holding
them together was the hope that one day a savior would arrive, a savior who could deliver them from their hidden transgressions and restore the town to its former glory. But they had made a mistake. Ignacio Salvador was not that savior. He was a money hungry predator, and not even Roger could imagine what he had in store for them.
Chapter 5
If looks could kill…
Ignacio sat at the head of a long oak table, admiring his reflection in a nearby camera lens. He’d spent the past two hours in the motel bathroom preparing himself for this precise moment, shaving his face and waxing his hair until he shone like a human firefly.
The man behind the camera was a different story. He wore raggedy jeans and a faded t-shirt that had duckin frunk printed across the chest.
If there was one thing Ignacio couldn’t stand, it was poor personal image. Ever since the age of five, he’d been obsessed with his image. He would not set foot in public with torn jeans or messy hair. Everything had to be absolutely perfect, from his polished oxblood English loafers to his spotless blue sports jacket.
That wasn’t to say he had a perfect fashion sense. Hell, if he did, he would’ve been a designer, flaunting the latest fashions in Paris and New York. Not some overstressed, under-exercised politician in Stone Creek, Colorado.
Ignacio suppressed a yawn and leaned back in his chair. Everything had gone according to plan. Just two days ago he’d sat in the same chair, looked across the same table, and seen the same pale faces. Except this time he wasn’t asking them to let Wonderworld Industries build a factory in their precious little town. This time he was announcing that Wonderworld Industries would be building a factory in their precious little town.
It had been almost too easy. All he did was make a little speech, show a few slides, answer a few questions, and the deal had been done. The town council members were pathetic, a bunch of old meat sacks with more faith than brains. They’d taken his bait, hook line and sinker. He was like a shepherd, leading his flock of blind sheep.
Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation Page 8
