by R. A. McGee
He reached his hand out and helped her off Joker’s bike. “Be careful with those stupid heels.”
She obeyed, carefully dismounting the motorcycle.
“What’s your name?” Porter said.
“T-Tammy.”
“Tammy, do you have a light?” Porter said.
“Huh?”
“A light. Do you have a light?” Porter said.
Tammy reached into her bra and pulled out a disposable Bic, handing it to Porter. “You’re not gonna light them on fire, are you?”
“What? No, don’t be stupid,” he said. “Still, you may want to step back a little.”
She moved backward, away from Porter and the motorcycles. He stepped over to the one Joker had gotten off of; unfamiliar as he was with bikes, he still recognized the Harley Davidson logo. He unscrewed the gas cap and pushed the big hog over. He did the same to Priest’s bike, watching as the streams of gasoline intermingled on the blacktop of the parking lot.
Then he touched the Bic to the gasoline. He didn’t even have to get too close—the gas vapors were flammable and caught first, transferring the flame to the actual puddles. The fire crept along the gasoline and into the gas tanks, until both of the pricey motorcycles were on fire.
The heat grew overwhelming and Porter stepped back. He slid the Bic into his pocket and jumped into his truck.
Tammy followed, giving a wide berth to the flaming motorcycles, and knocked on the window. “Hey, how about a ride?”
“I’m sure there’s someone else you can call,” Porter said. “I’ll bet your Rolodex is full.”
“Rolo-what?”
“Never mind,” Porter said.
“You can’t just leave me out here,” Tammy said.
“Watch me.”
“But I want to go with you,” she said, switching to her best sultry voice. “Besides, I like black guys.”
“You’re out of luck. I’m only half.”
“It’s okay, I like Spanish guys, too.”
Porter laughed as he rolled up the window, and was still shaking his head as he stomped the gas and left Tammy, the engulfed motorcycles, and the unconscious one-percenters in his rearview mirror.
Four
Porter stepped off the elevator, hand squeezed tight around the handle of his duffle bag. He trudged through the lobby, over the shiny tile floor, and back to the front desk, ignoring the aches in his back and legs. He leaned on the counter, coming face-to-face with the thin man with the golf-ball-sized earrings weighing down his lobes.
“Problem?”
Porter held his clenched fist out in front of him, then opened it, letting a snapped room card fall to the counter. The man with the earrings, whose shiny nametag read “Clarence,” looked down at the pieces.
“What’s this?”
Porter dropped his duffle bag, then looked at the younger man. “How about I ask a question?”
Clarence scrunched up his face.
“What part of ‘non-smoking’ didn’t you understand?” Porter said.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Are you just playing dumb, or is this a full-time thing for you?” Porter said.
Clarence’s mouth opened, then shut.
Porter continued. “I got here, what, an hour ago? I had to wait for you to check in the person in front of me. No problem, I’m not special, I’ll wait my turn. Then you took a phone call and disappeared for damn near half an hour. I’m patient; I get it. All I asked for was a non-smoking room. And you give me that shit.”
“All our rooms are non-smoking.”
“Then why does five-twenty-five smell like a cigar bar?”
Clarence looked at Porter, then tapped away on his keyboard. “That’s all I got, pal.”
“‘Pal’? Okay, ‘buddy,’ here’s the thing. I got up way earlier than I’d have liked and drove halfway up the Eastern seaboard. All I want to do is sleep somewhere that doesn’t smell like a chain smoker's asshole. Can you make that happen or not?”
There was a small ding from the smartphone next to the hotel employee. He eyed the phone, then eyed Porter.
“Don’t do it,” Porter said.
Clarence snaked his hand out and grabbed his phone, turning it over to text.
Porter laughed to himself. “So, you aren't giving me a new room?”
“One second,” Clarence said, fingers blazing away at the keyboard of the phone.
Porter reached over the counter and engulfed the man’s phone, hands still attached. He squeezed. “It’s been a second, Clarence.”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch? You have earrings the size of grapefruits and you say ‘ouch?’ You know what? I’ll handle this myself. You can’t be the most important person around here. Where’s your boss?”
“We don’t need to call hi—”
Porter pulled the man’s hand toward him, dragging Clarence halfway across the counter. “Sure we do.” He let go of Clarence and looked at the wide Formica counter in front of him. At the end was a flip-up door, like a bar would have. Porter pushed it up and stepped behind the counter.
There was an elevated platform that the whole thing stood on. While they were talking, Porter and Clarence had been nose-to-nose. Now that he stood on the platform, Porter looked down at the hotel employee.
“You can’t be back here. It’s for employees only.”
Porter watched Clarence briefly think about trying to bar his way, and then think better of it.
“Smart move, Clarence.”
Porter walked down the hallway behind the counter. “Hey, boss? Boss, where you at?”
The hallway was narrow, and Porter’s shoulders almost touched the sides. There were several empty offices, their blinds open, lights off. Down at the end of the hallway sat a lone office, metal blinds down and twisted shut. Faint lines of light leaked through the sides.
Porter’s Chuck Taylors squeaked along the shiny linoleum as he walked toward the far door. “Hey, boss? I have a question.”
He tried the handle. It was locked, so he knocked. “Is Clarence’s boss in there? I have a question about hiring standards.”
From behind the door, there was a faint rustling. “Just a minute,” came a muffled reply.
Porter kept knocking. “Hello?”
“I said wait a damn minute.”
Porter didn’t let up, slamming his fist into the door over and over again.
The door swung open. A red-faced man answered, looking down at his belt buckle as he tried to fasten it. “Clarence, would you wait one fu—”
The man looked up at Porter and stopped talking. He dropped his belt, letting it hang from his waist. “Can… can I help you?”
“I would love some help. Mind if I come in?” Porter said, stepping past the man and into his office.
The manager stammered as Porter went by.
In the corner, by the window with the closed blinds, Porter saw a pretty woman with red hair pulling down her pencil skirt. He looked back at the manager. “Getting some cardio in?”
The woman began to blush, smoothing out the wrinkles on her blouse.
“Just… ah… just get me those profit and loss statements when you get a chance, Cynthia. Thanks,” the manager said, standing straight and adjusting his tie.
Cynthia nodded and skinnied past Porter to get to the door. She broke into an awkward jog once she hit the doorway.
Porter sat heavily in the chair opposite the manager’s. He took a quick look around and saw golf trophies and award plaques made out to James Huggins, a desk full of paperwork, and a small television in the corner. Most interestingly, he saw several photos of a handsome group of children, posing with their father and a mother who was decidedly not an attractive redhead.
The manager shut the door behind Cynthia and walked around his desk, gave one last sweep of his hand to check the status of his belt and fly, then sat down.
“What can I do for you, Mr…?”
“Porter.”
“Mr. Porter, what can I do for you?”
“Just Porter.”
“Okay, just Porter. What can I help you with?” the manager said, the red flush in his cheeks draining away.
Porter gave a quick rundown of the interaction with Clarence. The manager put on an overly sympathetic air.
“We have had problems with Clarence in the past. I assure you, I’ll speak to him about this incident.”
“I don’t care what you do, Jim. Just give me a room that doesn’t smell like a forest fire.”
“I can make that happen,” Jim the manager said, firing up his own desktop and tapping away noisily on the keyboard. “Just give me a couple minutes.”
“That’s mighty white of you,” Porter said with a smirk. He reached across Jim’s desk and picked up a picture. The entire smiling brood was posed in front of a ship’s railing. “Have fun on your cruise?”
Jim stopped typing and took the picture away from Porter. “We had a great time.”
“I’ll tell you what—why don’t you give me the type of room you’d let your family stay in if they were spending the night?” Porter said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your kids? Wife? What kind of room would you put them up in? If you give me that one, I’ll know I’m getting the all-star treatment.”
Jim cleared his throat and went back to typing. “I would put my kids up in our best suite. Top floor, jacuzzi tub and all the amenities.”
“Wow. So generous,” Porter said. “How could I say no? I mean, if it’s good enough for the Huggins family, it should be good enough for me.”
Jim the manager worked feverishly, typing away on his computer. When he was done, an ancient printer whirred to life behind him, spitting out a piece of paper with all the proper information on it. “I was just thinking, my kids would get a comped room if they stayed. Only right I treat you the same.”
“I like free,” Porter said.
Jim handed Porter the new reservation printout. “All you have to do is see Clarence and he’ll get you your new room key.”
“You know, I’m not a big fan of Clarence. Maybe you should go and get it for me.”
Jim chewed his lip, then stood and stepped out of the room. In less than a minute, he was back, holding a folded envelope with two room keys. “I trust your stay will be enjoyable.”
“It better be, or I’m going to look you up again,” Porter said.
Jim forced a smile. “Mr. Porter?”
“What’d I say?”
“Porter… one thing about my kids. They are excellent at keeping secrets. You follow my meaning?”
Porter took the key and smiled, leaving the manager hanging as he turned to seek out his new room.
Five
The suite didn’t disappoint.
Porter guessed it was nearly a quarter of the entire top floor, with absurdly expensive flooring and a bed that must have been larger than a king.
He pushed back the curtain to look at the city’s skyline. While not as nostalgic as New York or as recognizable as the Sears building in Chicago, he had always liked the view of Charlotte. Despite having lived there for some time when he was younger, the only thing he could pick out was the Bank of America Stadium. He wondered if there would be a chance to catch a Panthers game while he was in town.
A long shower later, Porter felt almost human again. The aches and pains of the car ride had been washed away by enough hot water to sink the Titanic.
He took another look at the skyline and the late-afternoon sun washing over it, and set an alarm on his phone.
Sleep took him immediately.
He was rousted by a Johnny Cash song blaring through the shrill speaker on the bottom of his phone. Something about killing people just to watch them die.
He turned the alarm and pushed himself to his feet.
Porter had heard the song a hundred times, but it seemed like it was in another language. The power nap hadn't worked, and now he felt worse than before, his eyes almost glued shut.
He hit the shower again, hotter than he preferred, his skin actually pink in spots from the heat. As much as he hated staying in hotels, at least he didn’t have to worry about paying the water bill. There was an added bonus of as many clean towels as he could get his hands on.
The towels were laid out on the floor, protection against whatever funk could be on it. The cream-colored tiles looked clean, cleaner than most of the places he stayed, but the thought of getting some sub-Saharan parasite between his toes before he put his socks on turned his stomach.
Porter dressed quickly, finishing his outfit with his favorite pair of Chucks and slipping his Glock 17 into his waistband. The pistol was larger than most would find comfortable, but for a guy his size, it fit like a glove. He was happy that North Carolina and Florida honored each other’s concealed carry handgun permits.
He’d hate to have to break the law.
A quick elevator ride later and Porter was again in the lobby, which was empty save for Clarence talking away on his cell phone. He turned around when he saw Porter, who waved at the young man.
He stepped out into the crisp fall air. If there was anything that could get him to leave Florida for good, it would be the fact that the weather was atrocious and the heat was unbearable. A place with all four seasons had its appeal.
Porter fired up the Yukon. Although it was nearing a decade in use, it still ran like a top. He dropped the shifter into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.
It had been twelve years since he’d worked in Charlotte. He hadn’t kept up with the city in the interim, but he knew that if he was going to look through Joe’s file, he’d need some brain food.
Fortunately, his favorite pizza joint was right where he’d left it, a bit older and more worn, but standing as a beacon of familiarity. He ordered his favorite and in minutes the big box was ready for take-out. Porter stepped to an empty table, stuffed a slice into his mouth, and closed the box lid, taking the rest to go.
Porter hopped into the Yukon and ran smack into one of the things that was very different from what he remembered: traffic.
He sat in the stop-and-go affair for nearly thirty minutes, trying to relax.
Stuck in traffic, his takeout pizza rapidly growing colder, Porter drummed his fingers along the steering wheel to “All Along the Watchtower.” Before he could make a fool of himself with an air guitar solo, his phone rang. He let the call filter through the car’s speaker.
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m sitting in traffic. You?”
“Just got done with the worst client. In school, they always talk about a mythical person who’s a decade behind on their taxes and comes into your office with everything in a shoebox and dumps it on you. I met that person today.”
“Ross?” Porter said.
“What?”
“I didn’t actually want to know that boring shit. I was just being polite.”
“And you wonder why you’re single,” Ross said.
Porter laughed.
“How did the meeting go with your old boss?”
“It went. Some kid disappeared,” Porter said, trying to cut into a lane of traffic.
“You’re gonna help… Joe, right? That’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I should.”
“Yeah, you should. Guy takes a bullet for you and you won’t go and look into a missing kid for him? That’s shitty,” Ross said.
“What happened last time I did someone a favor? You were there; tell me. I’ll wait.”
“What happened, you big asshole, is you found the kid.”
“I got shot,” Porter said.
“So?”
Porter frowned. “Maybe I will.”
“How much is the reward?”
“Seventy-five thousand.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Porter checked his rearview mirror and pulled all the way into the lane. “I don’t know. It’s weird�
�the kid, she’s like thirteen. She’s probably stoned on the couch at her boyfriend’s house. Older kids always have a habit of just being somewhere they aren’t supposed to be.”
“Who cares? Find her high at her boyfriend’s house. You’re still getting the same check.”
“You just want your cut of the money.”
“My cut? My cut? When did I start taking a cut? That’s news to me. I know I invest your money. I know I grow your money. I don’t remember ever getting a cut,” Ross said.
“If my best friend charges me for financial advice, what’s the world coming to?”
“Don’t worry. One of these days I’m just going to sell your house or something. I’ll get mine.”
“I’m sure you will,” Porter said, eyeing the sign for his exit.
“Go help those people. Find the runaway, make a nice payday. What else are you doing?”
“When you’re right, you’re right.”
“Glad you admitted it. And Porter?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to be an asshole, okay?”
The phone clicked off, and the speakers were filled with Jimi Hendrix again.
Porter’s Yukon bumped along the surface street until he turned into the parking lot of his hotel. He grabbed the cold pizza box and the file Joe had given him and walked into the lobby.
Clarence had been replaced at the front desk by someone who was much blonder and decidedly better-looking. She wasn’t on the phone, and looked up and smiled at Porter when he walked by.
He briefly thought about heading to the front desk to chat, but wasn’t sure how effective a greasy pizza box would be at picking up women. Instead, he rode the elevator to his fancy suite and locked the door behind him.
Porter spent the next several hours poring over every piece of paper in Joe’s file. As much as he liked to rag on the FBI, their agents had been thorough. There was a record of everyone they’d interviewed in the short time since Pima Newton had gone missing. They’d partnered with the probation officers to roust all the registered sex offenders and grill them. They’d gone through Pima’s school, asking every kid they could find if they knew anything that could help. They’d gone door to door in the neighborhood, asking if anyone had seen anything unusual.
