Selena

by Greg Barth

  I slipped off the hoodie and sports bra, went to work on washing the blood from my body with paper towels and water from the sink.

  I leaned over the sink and rinsed out my hair. The pink water pooled in the bottom of the sink, circling the drain.

  I then washed and wrung out my sports bra. Rather than putting it back on, I tossed it in the trash and pulled my hoodie back on. I slipped the hood over my damp hair.

  I took the key back to the clerk. I bought a pack of Winstons, a six pack of beer, and had him hold a fifty for me while I filled the tank with gas.

  I got back in the car and took the on-ramp back to the interstate.

  Back on the road, I sipped one of the cold beers and smoked as I drove. I felt tired but knew I would be good for a few more hours before I would have to stop.

  I wanted as much distance between me and the murder scene as I could get. The cops would be looking for me. Some guy named Faranacci that I knew next to nothing about would be after me as well. I didn’t know which to fear more.

  Murder. That was the only word for what I had done. Sure they had it coming, but what I had delivered was premeditated and cold-blooded. Society has legislated against that type of activity since, well since forever, I guess.

  But fuck society.

  I felt neither guilt nor remorse for my actions.

  I drank one beer after the other and chain-smoked the cigarettes as I put the miles down. I wanted to get off the road before the sun came up, so I pulled off the interstate on an exit that took me into a small town. I was tired, hoping to find a good place to rest and lay low for as long as a couple of weeks.

  All of the traffic lights flashed yellow that time of night. The only traffic out was a newspaper deliverer.

  I spied a small, rundown motel called the Apple Valley Inn on the edge of town next to a laundromat, convenience store, diner, and liquor store.

  Perfect.

  I drove past the motel for about two miles. The town road turned to country. There was an unused lot grown up with weeds off to the side of the road next to a level field lined with trees. I drove through the lot and into the field and parked by the trees. I wanted to be rid of the car, as it was tied to both me and the crimes I had committed.

  I got out, opened the trunk, grabbed my duffel bag. Next to it was my remaining shotgun. I broke it down in two pieces and placed them each inside my duffel bag along with my clothes and a box of Remington double-aught buckshot shells.

  The bag already contained the small amounts cocaine and marijuana I took from Lenny’s apartment. I stuffed the sack of cash from Dello’s safe down inside as well.

  I walked through the dark field, back across the lot, and to the road. I walked along the road in the direction of the motel I had passed.

  I had gone maybe a quarter of mile when a red Ford pickup came up from behind me and pulled off the road.

  An old man leaned out and said, “You need a ride into town, son?”

  I looked up at him from under my hoodie. I couldn’t see the old man very well. I could tell that he was wearing a ball cap and a denim jacket. He seemed safe and friendly.

  “Oh, well you’re a girl,” he said.

  “Yeah, last time I checked,” I said.

  “What are you doing out on the road this time of the morning? You broke down somewhere?”

  “Just trying to get into town. Can you give me a lift?”

  “Yeah, no worries. Climb in. Looks like somebody gave you a shiner, huh?”

  I threw my bag in the back of the pickup truck and opened the passenger door. There was a large, black-and-white border collie in the seat.

  “Hi there,” I said. I held my hand out for the dog to sniff. He sniffed and then lapped at my knuckles. His snout was warm.

  “Make room, Max,” the driver said.

  Max moved his head over and freed up a few inches of seat. I climbed up into the cab. Max rested his head on my lap.

  “My name’s Henry,” the old man said.

  I noticed a lever-action deer rifle hanging on a gunrack mounted to the back window of the cab. “That a .30-30 Winchester?”

  “No. It’s a .44 Magnum. Shorter range for the thick woods around here and lot more knockdown power.”

  Henry wrestled with the gear shift until he got the old truck in first.

  “You do a lot of deer hunting?”

  “Not so much these days. I like to get out in the woods and all, but I don’t care so much for shooting at things anymore.” He held up a thermos. “Would you care for some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  He placed the thermos on the bench seat between him and the dog. “There’s plenty here if you change your mind.”

  “You know, you remind me of my grandfather.”

  “Which one?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve got two, don’tcha?”

  “Yeah,” I said. And I thought about both of my grandfathers. They were like two bookends that I lived my life between. One, on my mother’s side, was a fundamentalist, Pentecostal preacher. The other, on my father’s side, was a hard core drunk and whoremonger. I felt like I had tested the extremes of both and come up lacking.

  “You remind me of them both,” I said. “The best parts anyway.”

  “Either of them spend any time in Vietnam?”

  “Uh, yeah. Both did. Both were infantry.”

  “Sounds like we’ve got that in common at least. You still have them?”

  I shook my head. “Both have passed.”

  He didn’t respond, and we rode in silence. Max put his snout on my lap and I rubbed his head.

  “Where are you going again?” the old man said.

  “Just up the road about a mile or so. Do you know the Apple Valley Inn?”

  “Yep. I’m stopping at the store next door to get some gas. I can drop you off there. I don’t get over to the Inn but about once a month or so after I get my pension check and I’ve had my testosterone shot.”

  It took me a minute, but I put two and two together and realized what type of establishment the Apple Valley Inn was.

  I patted Max on the head and said, “Well maybe I can babysit ol’ Max here the next time you come by.”

  The old man looked at me and smiled.

  This town is as fucked up as every place else.

  TWO

  I stepped through the front entrance of the Apple Valley Inn. It wasn’t a whorehouse. It looked nothing at all like the cover to a Lords of Acid CD. It just looked like your normal, rundown, small-town motel. The kind that litter the off-interstate county roads of America by the thousands.

  Inside the front lobby was an old couch, two high-backed chairs, and a coffee table in front of them covered with old magazines. Mostly Time and Newsweek, but I also spied a copy of Maxim, an old one with Tara Reid on the cover doing the hand-bra thing. A bookshelf stood in a corner that held a few used romance paperbacks along with some hardcover Reader’s Digest condensed books.

  There was a long counter at the back of the room. Through the open door behind the counter. was a cluttered office. The TV inside was loud enough that the clerk hadn’t heard me enter. Either that, or the clerk was asleep.

  I sat my duffel bag down by the door and pulled my hood down in front of my forehead to cover as much of me as I could. I stepped up to the counter and hit the bell with my hand. A musical ding rang out, and someone stirred inside the office.

  A couple of seconds later a tall man came out through the door behind the counter.

  This guy towered over me. He was at least six-six, and lean. He had straight dark hair just over his ears. His hair was thinning on top, and he had a careful comb-over pasted to his scalp with gel. He was dressed in a blue-checkered flannel shirt and jeans. He had apparently suffered from a severe case of acne that bordered on smallpox at some point in the past. Red spots and pock-marks covered his face. His cheeks were gaunt. His eyes looked yellow around the pupils and were sunken into his
skull.

  Shit he was ugly. Talk about faking an orgasm.

  He cleared his throat a couple of times. “Hey there, lady,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a place to stay.”

  “This is an odd time to check in. We have check out at noon, so I’d have to charge you for a night.”

  “That’s no problem. Do you have weekly rates?”

  “We do. How long are you thinking of staying?”

  “Couple of weeks max.”

  “How are you paying?”

  “Cash,” I said.

  “I see. We’ll need a major card, though, for incidentals.”

  “There won’t be any.”

  He cleared his throat. “You may want to get a movie or something.”

  I gestured toward the bookshelf. “I’m more of a reader.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can work something out. I will just need an ID.”

  “No.” I looked him square in the eye. “You won’t need an ID. You’ll just need cash.”

  He looked down at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “You running from something?”

  “No. I just like to maintain my privacy. That’s all.”

  “I don’t want any trouble in my establishment. You know my brother is Sheriff here?”

  “I will be the quietest guest your motel has ever had. Pinky promise.” I held up my little finger.

  “You ain’t planning on coming in here and whoring around, are you?”

  I chuckled. “No. I’ll also be the most chaste tenant you’ve ever had.” I smiled at him and held my finger up again. “Pinky?”

  He considered this. He looked me over from head to toe. “If you’d be interested in earning anything, it has to come through me.”

  “I’m not looking for work.”

  “That’s what they all say.” He quoted me the weekly rates, and I paid him for two weeks up front. He gave me the key.

  “You be careful in this town. Take my word for it. Things around here are exactly what they appear to be.”

  I took the key and nodded. I grabbed my bag on the way out the door.

  I went to my room and settled in. I put away my clothes in the dresser drawers. I put the bag containing the shotgun, drugs, and money on the high shelf inside the closet. I took a hot shower and climbed into bed. I lay there naked in the dark, snuggled in my sheets and blankets and thought about my options. They weren’t many.

  ***

  The next morning, I got up and got dressed. I went to the convenience store and bought a honey bun, a chocolate milk, and a newspaper. I know, right? Total sugar shock.

  I then walked down to the liquor store next door to see what time they opened. It was only 9:30 and they wouldn’t be open until 11:00. I was okay with that. You had some serious problems if you could not wait until 11:00 AM for your first hard drink of the day.

  I went back to the lobby and borrowed a couple of romance novels from the bookshelf there. They had my favorites, Harlequin Blaze and Silhouettes. I always liked the mistaken-identity romances. It was fun to read about when the woman thinks she is falling for the wrong type of man and finds out he is the right type, or vice versa. There were a few Regency romances as well, and I took one just in case I needed help falling asleep at night.

  I went back to my room and crashed with the books. I drank the chocolate milk and checked the time.

  Come on 11:00.

  ***

  When 10:55 rolled around, I was at the liquor store waiting on the clerk to open the door. I wasn’t the only one. An old man was in line ahead of me. For the record, he looked more impatient than me. When the door opened, he went in ahead of me and grabbed a miniature grocery buggy from a small line of them at the front. I shit you not. I watched him as he went around and put in several fifths of vodka, gin, and bourbon into the buggy.

  When I retire, that’s me. It only took me a second to follow up with, Retire from what?

  I got a couple of bottles of Buffalo Trace bourbon. Then I selected one of the more-expensive bottles of Maker’s Mark premium from the top shelf. Hell, I could afford it.

  I paid the clerk and he put the three bottles in a paper sack, and I carried them back to my room.

  I spent the next two days drunk.

  My mother died from alcohol poisoning, but it was never something I was afraid of. I knew my limits. I also knew what happened when I went well past my limits. For the most part, I would lapse from consciousness. My body would just go to sleep. That’s what I did for those two days, off and on.

  I vaguely remember the maid coming in the second day to clean my room. Finding me naked on the motel room floor, she put a pillow under my head and covered me with a blanket.

  Salt of the earth, that maid.

  I don’t have a guilty conscience. I just drink a little on occasion.

  THREE

  On the third day I crawled to the bathroom. My head throbbed with pain. My mouth was dry as cotton. I pushed a finger down my throat and vomited into the toilet. My arms trembled. I got into the shower and stayed in until I had used up all of the hot water.

  I did two lines of coke on the dining table and felt much better.

  I dressed and walked over to the diner for breakfast.

  I sat in a booth and nibbled at a few pieces of bacon and scrambled eggs. I sipped at coffee with cream and began to feel more alive. Coke alone can only take you so far when you’re dealing with a two-day drunk hangover.

  After breakfast, I went back to my room and stuffed my dirty laundry into a basket that came with the room. I grabbed a paperback and walked over to the laundromat.

  Everything in the laundromat spoke of age and much use. The front consisted of a large, dust-covered picture window and single glass door with the hours of operation painted on the front. Dirty, cream-colored tiles with black cracks in between covered the floor. The walls were painted dirty-armpit white, and laminated paper signs in both English and Spanish laid out the rules. Olive-colored, coin-operated washing machines sat in horizontal rows inside, several with out-of-order signs taped to the tops. The glass-doored dryers were set into the walls opposite. A line of folding tables took up the space between. No smoking signs were posted inside, which sucked, but you could see the old cigarette burns on the table tops that spoke of a time before public indoor smoking bans.

  There was no air conditioning in the laundromat. The front and back doors were propped open for the dry breeze from outside to blow through. Box fans spaced out intermittently and set on high. Ceiling fans spun overhead. The drop ceiling above was covered in brown water spots that looked like Rorschach ink blots. This one is a vagina. This one looks like...a vagina.

  A Ms. Pac-Man machine sat by the bill changer and played music every few minutes. The tune was followed by a series of chomping sounds only to then fall silent again after having gotten your attention.

  I selected a machine and dropped my clothes inside. I went over to the detergent dispenser on the wall and put coins in it to purchase a one-use pack of Gain detergent powder. I poured the detergent into the machine, fed it a bunch of quarters through the push-in slot, then sat nearby reading a romance novel while the machine did its thing.

  A dirty-faced toddler dressed only in a sagging diaper walked back and forth through the laundromat while her young mother folded their laundry.

  I sat there with my hood up, trying to be inconspicuous while my clothes washed.

  A young woman sat off to my right. Her laundry tumbled in the dryer. She chewed on the eraser of a pencil while working a crossword puzzle in a folded-over Dell magazine. She had bleached blonde hair that was short on the sides, long on the top in that Wrecking Ball fashion becoming popular with those young enough to get away with it. She had bright, pretty blue eyes with long lashes. She looked to be about 19 years old. While I was five-four and ninety-five pounds, she was a good two inches shorter than me and twenty-five pounds heavier.

  I thought she was beautiful. />
  About the time I noticed her, she looked up from her crossword puzzle, her pencil eraser tapping against her chin. “Does anyone know a five letter word for ‘cause to vibrate?’” she said.

  The mother of the toddler looked up from her folding and smiled. “Stress,” she said.

  The blonde smiled at that. “Yes it is.” She looked back at the paper. “No. That’s too long.”

  “Boredom,” I said. That got a laugh from the both of them.

  “Too long,” the blonde said.

  “Well, it’s a cause for me,” I said.

  “I think it’s ‘thrill,’” she said. “Yeah, I think that’s it.”

  “That works too.” I turned back to my novel while my laundry spun in the washing machine.

  The mother finished folding her clothes and carried the basket in one hand while resting it on her hip. She took hold of her toddler’s hand with her other hand.

  “Bye, bye,” the little girl said.

  I waved at her and smiled.

  The blonde girl came over and sat next to me.

  “Hi,” she said. “You’re new around here, aren’t you? My name’s Emily.” She extended her hand.

  I set my paperback to the side, open pages down, and shook her hand. “Hi,” I said.

  This was awkward. I couldn’t very well use my own name, but I hadn’t thought of an alias either. I decided to keep it real, and went with my middle name. “I’m Marie,” I said.

  “Are you staying at the Inn next door?” she asked.

  “Yeah. For the time being. You?”

  She nodded. “Passing through. I ran off from my old man. It was either that or kill him.”

  I chuckled. “Same here,” I said. “Sort of.”

  “Let me guess. You killed him?”

  “You’d have to prove it.”

  She giggled, flashing those bright teeth of hers.

  I learned that she was nineteen, ten years younger than me. I also learned that she turned tricks as needed to get by, but she had to give a cut to the motel owner.

  I described my encounter with the creepy night clerk to her.

  “That’s the owner,” Emily said. “His name is Harvey. He covers second shift and the overnights. That’s when the under-the-table action’s the busiest, and he doesn’t trust his girls to be honest and give him his cut. So he keeps a close eye on things.”