Motel. Pool. Read Online Free PDF Page A

you leaving in California?”
    “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
    The highway crested a small rise and distant lights came into view. As the car rolled nearer, Jack could make out a few small, low buildings and one that was larger and two-story. “What town is that?” he asked.
    “Not really a town. There used to be a little mining settlement called Jasper a couple miles south in the hills, but it’s long gone. This is nothing but a stop for weary travelers who can’t quite make it to Flagstaff or Winslow.”
    “I guess that’s me.”
    A large metal sign announced the main attraction, the words outlined in bright neon: MOTEL. POOL. There was a gas station as well, and a café that looked as if it might still be open. Beyond that was a tiny market—dark and closed—and a few even tinier houses. Gravel crunched under the tires as Broderick slowed to a halt in front of the Jasper Motel.
    Jack climbed out of the car, retrieved his suitcase from the backseat, and walked around to the driver’s side. “Thanks for the ride, Officer. I really appreciate it.”
    Broderick shook his hand. “All part of the job, son. Now, you take care of yourself, you hear?”
    “I will.”
    But Broderick still clutched Jack’s hand, and his face had grown very serious. “I mean it. It can be a dangerous road when you don’t know your way.”
    “I’ll be careful.”
    Officer Broderick released Jack’s hand, patted the outside of the door a couple of times, and drove away.
     
     
    T HE ROOM cost five dollars a night and was on the second floor. If Jack looked out the window, he’d see past a walkway to the small pool. Nobody was swimming, but the older couple who ran the place told him it was permitted until nine—or ten, if he promised to be quiet. A few laps seemed like a good idea. He was grimy and his muscles were cramped.
    But first he set his suitcase on the stand and took a quick look around. It wasn’t a bad room. Not much smaller than his apartment in LA, although with no kitchenette, and the place seemed clean. There were two narrow beds with green bedspreads, a cream-colored chair, and a little round table with a lamp. Two of the walls sported poorly done paintings of what he assumed was the Grand Canyon. A coin-operated television held a place of honor atop a scuffed dresser.
    For a while, Jack stood in the middle of the room and contemplated just falling into bed. The hour wasn’t especially late, but he was… tired. God, he was so tired.
    But he was also hungry, and he had a phone call to make.
    He washed his hands and face, then changed into a clean undershirt and a plain white button-down. He combed his hair but didn’t bother with Brylcreem.
    The motel managers had been full of helpful information: the Bluebird Café opened early and stayed open late; the pies were good but the french toast was better; and Lillian, the evening waitress, would cheerfully refill your coffee cup all night if you let her talk about her grandchildren. Jack felt well prepared as he set out across the parking lot in search of dinner.
    The café was tiny. Two of the Formica tables were occupied, one by a middle-aged man in shirt and tie and the other by a young couple staring moonily at each other. Lillian was tall, thin, and gray-haired. She led Jack to a table near a window and handed him a menu. “What can I get you to drink, honey?”
    “Coffee. And a big glass of milk, please.” He didn’t usually drink milk, but his stomach was feeling a little unsettled and the cool, smooth familiarity of it might help. When Lillian returned with his drinks, he ordered french toast with sausage. The motel people were right—the food was very tasty, and after Jack looked at two photos of pudgy babies, Lillian kept his coffee cup full and piping hot.
    The other patrons left, but two men in their thirties came in. They were dressed casually but nicely. Jack watched the careful way they moved near each other, the way they leaned in close to speak