smuggle drugs up from Mexico," she explained. "And he has a huge dick."
Drug dealers have been known to lose day jobs before, but I figured if he was still there he might have had some kind of contact with Alexis.
As I headed up into the mountains, something in my chest loosened. I've never been the outdoorsy type, never been a nature lover at all, but as Osotouy City released its hold on me building by building, the countryside seemed to open up and welcome me. I kept the windows down and smelled the pines on the lazy mountain air.
When the last signs of the city disappeared behind me, I had a rush as if I'd broken away in an escape. My palms against the steering wheel were as slick as a rookie getaway driver's.
It's an odd thing, being released from lock up after a year. When your back is against the wall, you get used to the wall. At least you know there's no one behind you. Now, I kept checking the rearview mirror.
* * *
The Summit Hotel was beautiful. Built in the twenties when Fettle Springs was a booming resort town for bootleggers and various other out-of-state swells who came down for the waters, it sat on the highest point in town and looked out over Quapaw Valley. The historical marker at the end of the drive announced that the Summit Hotel was "a five-story, 350-room Spanish Renaissance masterpiece." I'm not sure what the Spanish Renaissance part means, but the place looked like a masterpiece. Divided into three sections, with the highest section in the middle, it hugged the side of a mountain, with a long veranda running along the back so you could sit there in the evenings and watch the sun go down over the valley. I had sat there once, holding hands with a man as the sun disappeared into the trees, but that seemed like a long time ago.
I parked in the visitor parking and walked up to the front. The entryway was two stories high, and when I walked in I could see hotel guests in white terrycloth robes walking to the spa on the second floor. The whole place smelled like a vacation.
At the front desk, a pretty girl with long black hair, and a green tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her white dress shirt, greeted me with a smile. "Hello. Checking in?"
"I'm looking for someone, actually," I said. "Mule?"
Her professional politeness dropped, and she grinned at me like she knew one of my secrets. "Yeah." She jerked her head over her shoulder. "In the bar."
I followed the signs to the restaurant. In between lunch and dinner, it was empty and the lights were turned down. Mule was the only one there.
Alexis had always had an air of desperation, and the gangly, shaggy-haired kid at the bar looked every bit like the kind of sleazeball she might hook up with. He was sitting at the bar like a customer, but there was no bartender around. On the bar at his elbow was a cold Stella, but he didn't touch it. He was reading a book, and he didn't raise his head when he said, "Afternoon, ma'am. Can I help you find something?"
Every hotel has a Mule. The bellboy or bartender or desk clerk who can get you any kind of alcohol at four in the morning, or weed or hookers or whatever else you're willing to pay for. I knew at first glance who I was dealing with now. The girl at the desk probably thought I was a hooker.
I sat down on the stool next to him. I said, "Maybe. I'm trying to find a friend of mine."
Mule slowly roused his long face and droopy lips. His thick, smudged glasses slid to the end of his greasy nose, and rather than adjust them he just tilted his head back and looked down at me.
I waited for him to answer, and he took his time considering what I said. Finally he closed his book and asked, "Who?"
"Alexis."
"Alexis?"
"Yeah."
He licked his lips with a pale tongue.
"Well," he said.
"Well what?"
"Well alright, you're looking for Alexis. Well alright, I know her."
"She and I were at Eastgate together," I explained. "I just got out, and I thought I'd look her up."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah. And she told me about
Drug dealers have been known to lose day jobs before, but I figured if he was still there he might have had some kind of contact with Alexis.
As I headed up into the mountains, something in my chest loosened. I've never been the outdoorsy type, never been a nature lover at all, but as Osotouy City released its hold on me building by building, the countryside seemed to open up and welcome me. I kept the windows down and smelled the pines on the lazy mountain air.
When the last signs of the city disappeared behind me, I had a rush as if I'd broken away in an escape. My palms against the steering wheel were as slick as a rookie getaway driver's.
It's an odd thing, being released from lock up after a year. When your back is against the wall, you get used to the wall. At least you know there's no one behind you. Now, I kept checking the rearview mirror.
* * *
The Summit Hotel was beautiful. Built in the twenties when Fettle Springs was a booming resort town for bootleggers and various other out-of-state swells who came down for the waters, it sat on the highest point in town and looked out over Quapaw Valley. The historical marker at the end of the drive announced that the Summit Hotel was "a five-story, 350-room Spanish Renaissance masterpiece." I'm not sure what the Spanish Renaissance part means, but the place looked like a masterpiece. Divided into three sections, with the highest section in the middle, it hugged the side of a mountain, with a long veranda running along the back so you could sit there in the evenings and watch the sun go down over the valley. I had sat there once, holding hands with a man as the sun disappeared into the trees, but that seemed like a long time ago.
I parked in the visitor parking and walked up to the front. The entryway was two stories high, and when I walked in I could see hotel guests in white terrycloth robes walking to the spa on the second floor. The whole place smelled like a vacation.
At the front desk, a pretty girl with long black hair, and a green tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her white dress shirt, greeted me with a smile. "Hello. Checking in?"
"I'm looking for someone, actually," I said. "Mule?"
Her professional politeness dropped, and she grinned at me like she knew one of my secrets. "Yeah." She jerked her head over her shoulder. "In the bar."
I followed the signs to the restaurant. In between lunch and dinner, it was empty and the lights were turned down. Mule was the only one there.
Alexis had always had an air of desperation, and the gangly, shaggy-haired kid at the bar looked every bit like the kind of sleazeball she might hook up with. He was sitting at the bar like a customer, but there was no bartender around. On the bar at his elbow was a cold Stella, but he didn't touch it. He was reading a book, and he didn't raise his head when he said, "Afternoon, ma'am. Can I help you find something?"
Every hotel has a Mule. The bellboy or bartender or desk clerk who can get you any kind of alcohol at four in the morning, or weed or hookers or whatever else you're willing to pay for. I knew at first glance who I was dealing with now. The girl at the desk probably thought I was a hooker.
I sat down on the stool next to him. I said, "Maybe. I'm trying to find a friend of mine."
Mule slowly roused his long face and droopy lips. His thick, smudged glasses slid to the end of his greasy nose, and rather than adjust them he just tilted his head back and looked down at me.
I waited for him to answer, and he took his time considering what I said. Finally he closed his book and asked, "Who?"
"Alexis."
"Alexis?"
"Yeah."
He licked his lips with a pale tongue.
"Well," he said.
"Well what?"
"Well alright, you're looking for Alexis. Well alright, I know her."
"She and I were at Eastgate together," I explained. "I just got out, and I thought I'd look her up."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah. And she told me about
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