First order of business was accommodation. Looked like the Gage Hotel had the monopoly. Grant left the smell of mint behind and crossed the street. Time to see if the booking clerk was any friendlier than the ticket seller.
The hotel lobby smelled of cracked leather and coffee. It was dark and dingy and should have been filled with smoke. The overall impression was of a gentlemen’s club. Half a dozen leather chairs were grouped in pairs on either side of three glass-topped coffee tables. Two leather sofas against the wall complemented the chairs next to a cigarette machine at the bottom of a carved wooden staircase. The stairs started beside a reception counter that had a heavy- bound ledger and a manual bell that you pressed for attention. The kind that dinged once when the internal hammer struck.
Reception was unmanned.
A smoke-stained wooden fan spun slowly from the ceiling. The gentle thwup, thwup, thwup of the blades reminded Grant of something bigger, but he pushed the thought aside and focused on the reception counter. Patchwork shelving divided into pigeonholes covered the sidewall against the staircase. Each pigeonhole had a hook out front, and each hook held a key. Room numbers went from 1 to 25. None of the keys were missing. All the rooms were vacant.
Grant crossed the lobby and dropped the holdall on the floor. He spun the register on its rotating stand and looked for a pen. The squiggly writing looked faded and old. Proper fountain pen ink, not Biro. He tried to make out the date of the last guest, but it was smudged and indistinct. Didn’t look like yesterday though. An old-fashioned quill pen jutted from an inkwell on the counter. He picked it up and studied the ink-crusted nib.
“You is about to deface a historical document there, son.”
The voice came from the office door behind the counter. The face that went with the voice was drier and more parchmentlike than the ticket seller at the station. The desk clerk limped into the room and spun the register back around. He indicated a desktop computer that Grant hadn’t seen below the level of the counter.
“We’ve gone all newfangled for checkin’ in.”
The desk clerk scrutinized Grant’s face.
“You must be the fella got off the Sunset.”
“That obvious, is it?”
“Sure is. First time the Sunset’s stopped here in over a year. First new face in town for almost the same.”
“I guess I’ve got a choice of rooms, then.”
“Ain’t got no rooms.”
Grant let that sink in. This fella was no more welcoming than the welcoming committee at the station. Only difference was, where the ticket seller had nobody to sell tickets to, the desk clerk had a customer right in front of him but wasn’t about to rent him a room. Grant figured that made him even less of a welcoming committee. The elephant in the room was the keys hanging from each pigeonhole. Grant nodded at them.
“Got a lot of keys though.”
“That I do. But each one’s taken.”
Grant felt like he should fold one arm up his sleeve. This was playing like an homage to Spencer Tracy in Bad Day at Black Rock. He wondered briefly if the clerk was having him on—a little gentle humor—then he dismissed the thought. The lines etched into the clerk’s face were more from grimaces and frowns than smiles and laughter. His voice was gravel dry.
“Block bookings.”
Grant smiled just to show the clerk how to do it.
“Let me guess. Cattlemen from the local ranch. For when they come in town after driving the herd.”
“Ain’t no cattle ranches in Absolution.”
“Oil men then. For a break from the rigs.”
“No oil neither.”
Grant kept his voice conversational.
“Place hasn’t got a lot going for it, then, has it?”
“It’s got enough. We like it the way it is. Don’t need strangers comin’ in and tellin’ us our business.”
Grant leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter.
“And what business is that?”
“None of yours. That’s what.”
“Tourism maybe? You’ve got Big Bend National Park just south of you.”
The man tensed. Grant had touched a nerve. Maybe the lack of tourists was part of the reason the town looked so dry and lifeless. The clerk didn’t expand on the theory.
“We get by.”
Grant shifted his weight to one elbow and reached over the counter with the other hand. He slipped the nearest key from its hook and tossed it in his palm.
“Well, you just got by with one extra guest. I’ll take this one.”
The clerk looked indignant.
“That room’s taken.”
“I know. By me. If the fella who’s block booked it drifts into town, I’ll change rooms. Name’s Grant. Jim Grant.”
Grant picked the holdall up, grabbed a town map from the display stand on the counter, and turned for the stairs. The fan continued to thwup, thwup, thwup. Grant continued to ignore the memory. There was a thump outside as one of the chair-leaners on the porch stood up. Grant was on the second step before the front door opened, but he didn’t look back. He already knew who it was. The one in the boots and cowboy hat. The clerk finally found his voice.
“I need more than that. For the register.”
Grant leaned over the banister rail.
“Thought you’d gone all newfangled.”
“Same applies. Name won’t do. Where you from?”
Grant set off up the stairs again and spoke over his shoulder.
“Out of town.”
The stairs creaked all the way up.
Checking the map in his room explained why tourists didn’t stop here on their way to Big Bend. The founding fathers had pinned their hopes on the Southern Pacific and built the town on either side of the railroad tracks. Road traffic used the 90 just north. The 385 ran north to south all the way down into Big Bend National Park. The crossing of those two roads was at Marathon, west of Absolution. The road through Absolution went nowhere.
Grant picked all that up from the inset map of the area in the corner. A small square indicated the desert town’s position, and the rest of the page was taken up by the Absolution street plan. It didn’t really need a full page, but there were more streets than Grant had first noticed. Traditional US grid pattern. Streets running east to west and avenues north to south. The main road was First Street with North Second to North Eighth spreading one way and South Second to South Fifth the other. The main crossroad was Avenue D, the rest being Avenues A to K. If there were any more shops, they’d be on Avenue D.
The Trans Pecos Bank was on Avenue D.
Grant left the map on the bed and unpacked his bag. The hold-all had traveled the world with him, and he knew how to fold his clothes to best effect. Partly military training and partly the boarding school his father had dumped him at as soon as he was old enough. The British Army and Moor Grange School for Boys had a lot to answer for. He hung the orange windcheater on the back of the door and put the T-shirts and jeans in the drawers. He slid the long velvet box from the bag between the T-shirts. His fingers played gently over the scarred fabric, then it was gone. Living in the present was Grant’s preferred modus operandi, but sometimes the past wouldn’t stay buried. An ironic thought, considering why he was here.
With his normal preparations complete, if not necessarily in the usual order, it was time for a shower. First thing was always to get a map. Second was scout the location. Third was check for enemy personnel. That was from his army days. As a cop, the third option was more wide reaching. As a tourist, all but number one were moot points. He just couldn’t turn them off. Getting laid wasn’t an option this time. Not in his current mindset.
The en-suite shower was hot and roomy. He could stand tall and not bump into the showerhead. That was pretty tall. His shoulders didn’t bang the sides. As hotel showers went, this wa
s built for size. He guessed what he’d heard about Texas was right. It was big country for big men. He toweled dry and walked, naked, back into his room.
He stopped in the doorway. The muscles of his thighs turned to knotted ropes and his shoulders tensed. He wasn’t alone. The man in the cowboy hat was sitting in the bedside chair, leaning it back on two legs against the wall.
About the Author
Ex-Army, retired cop, and former scenes-of-crime officer Colin Campbell is also the author of British crime novels Blue Knight, White Cross and Northern eX. His Jim Grant thrillers bring a rogue Yorkshire cop to America, where culture clash and violence ensue. For more information, visit www.campbellfiction.com.
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