Stardom Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #12

by Connie Shelton

  The clerk turned to a pegboard on the side wall of his cubicle, displaying copious armpit hair as he reached for a key.

  “Number 10, far end of the parking lot. Vending machines’re right here outside the office, checkout time’s eleven in the morning.” His eyes traveled toward the two large plate glass windows at the front of the barren ten-foot-square lobby. Ollie knew he was looking for the car, no doubt hoping to catch a peek at whatever female Ollie had brought with him, but he’d parked on the windowless side of the building. And there was no female with him.

  “Lucky we had a vacancy this early in the day.”

  “Yeah, guess so.” He shuffled slightly, unsure how much chit-chat was required in this situation. “Been driving all night. Gotta get me some sleep.”

  “Yeah.”

  He hated the way the clerk looked at him, critical of his youth and inexperience, or like he knew something was up. Ollie was far too wired to look sleepy right now. He palmed the old fashioned room key with its blue plastic tag and walked out into the blazing Texas sun. He felt the clerk’s stare as he walked around the side of the building.

  The Shady Rest Motel was one of those places that had probably enjoyed a steady clientele of family guests at some point in its life. Somewhere around 1966 the Interstate highway had bypassed old Texas 435 and by the ’70s and ’80s the Holiday Inns and Ramadas had siphoned off the family traffic. The Shady Rest would have become an out-of-the-way place for businessmen from outlying towns to spend their lunch hours with someone else’s wife or the occasional trucker who happened to know the place was here and didn’t have an expense account to cover something better.

  Oliver climbed behind the wheel of the rusted out white ’79 Pontiac and, out of habit, held his breath while the starter ground repeatedly until she finally caught. He tapped the gas pedal a couple of times and black smoke woofed out the tailpipe.

  “Piece a shit,” he muttered.

  The car coughed.

  “Nice piece a shit.” He humored the heap that was older than he was. Hey, even though it was nearly as old as his mother, it hadn’t cost him anything and once it got purring along the highway it didn’t cause much trouble.

  It took a couple of minutes before he was confident enough to put the car in gear, but she stayed running and he eased her out of the open dirt lot beside the motel office and onto the badly paved parking area. Cruising to the far end of the L-shaped building, he caught the smarmy clerk backing away from the windows as he coasted the car into the slot outside number 10.

  Some kind of dusty tree hung over the end of the building here, but its wind-bent branches didn’t put out much shade. Random hollyhock plants grew in a hit-and-miss fashion across the front of the plain cinderblock units, flowers that had probably been planted twenty years ago by some manager’s wife who thought a little cheerfulness would bring more guests. Now they’d gone to seed so many times that they came up wherever they felt like it, including the cracks in the parking lot and one that seemingly grew out of the cinderblock building itself and angled partway across the door to number 10. Ollie gave it a shove with his battered duffle bag while he slid the key into the lock in the flimsy door handle. Dried up seed pods scattered into the twelve-inch strip of dirt that passed for a flower bed.

  Inside the gloomy room he tossed his bag onto the sagging double bed. A wood laminate nightstand with chipped corners and cigarette burns held a teardrop-shaped orange ceramic lamp, which he switched on. Its puny yellow light revealed a dresser of the same era but not from the same set, with a thirteen inch television set crudely bolted to its top. Orange shag carpet, caked now into a mass of flattened strings, and a bedspread in faded shades of orange and brown indicated that someone had once attempted a decorating theme.

  Ollie wasn’t sure what that theme might be exactly, but it was nicer than the efficiency apartment he’d just been evicted from so he closed the door and plopped down on the squishy mattress. He kicked off his work boots and stretched, resting his head on his arms. A contented sigh escaped.

  His eyes opened a few minutes later and he realized he’d drifted off to sleep, his thoughts meandering around the fact that he’d walked off the latest in a series of loser jobs, this time busting tires for a buck over minimum wage. Better than getting splattered with grease at the donut shop, dishwashing at that one diner, or the whole series of other crappy gigs that had barely kept him in rent money these past four years. At least now he had the prospect of some real cash.

  Shit, he thought, sitting up abruptly. The schedule. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 12:03. The guys could be rolling in any minute.

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scrubbed at the sides of his sandy blond hair with both hands. His head felt fuzzy.

  The bathroom glared stark white at him when he switched on the light. A chipped enamel tub sat across one end of the tiny room, matching sink directly ahead. The convenience he was looking for was jammed between the other two. He raised the seat, unzipped and peed long and luxuriously into the clear water, not bothering to remove the paper band someone had strapped across the seat.

  Rearranging himself comfortably afterward, he wished he had brought a woman to the motel. Rena Lynn. The others could be arriving any time now, but she and Ollie were usually quick about it. He shifted the front of his jeans again, trying to make the image of her shimmering blond hair and firm seventeen-year-old breasts go away but it didn’t help. He turned on the cold water tap at the sink.

  The water was lukewarm, reminding him that there weren’t deep, cold reserves of water here, like there were in New Mexico. He let it run for five or six minutes and the lukewarm stream eventually turned coolish. He splashed his face with it, dispersing the sleep-fuzzed lint balls in his brain and taking his libido one step further away from Rena Lynn.

  Another glance at the clock told him it was now 12:13. He walked to the front window and held back one orange and brown drape. The Pontiac was the only vehicle in the lot. Lucky to have a vacancy this early in the day. What a slimeball that guy was, thought Ollie. He spotted the vending machines by the office and suddenly wanted a cold Coke worse than he’d wanted anything in a long time. His mouth felt like the inside of his boot, and swishing the tepid water around his fuzzy-feeling teeth hadn’t helped a bit.

  He dug his hand into his front pocket and came up with the one quarter the clerk had given him in change. That wouldn’t be enough for a vending machine Coke, he knew, and he was all out of small bills. The other pocket yielded the car keys and his four-inch pocket knife. No coins. He really didn’t want to go back and ask the creepy manager for change.

  Besides, what if the other guys called? He again cursed the fact that String hadn’t gotten him a cell phone. He tried to remember the plan. Were they coming directly here or would they call first? After their pre-dawn meeting in Tucumcari, they should have had plenty of time to drive to Albuquerque, do the job and get here. What if something had gone wrong? He tried to remember—was he supposed to leave after awhile, go after them? They’d never talked about the plan not working, what to do if they failed. But it was going to work. Ollie focused on that.

  He stretched out on the bed again but the idea of getting a cold drink from the machines wouldn’t leave him alone. Finally, he shoved his boots back on, grabbed the plastic ice bucket from the dresser top and stalked out the door. In the office the manager was nowhere to be seen. Ollie decided, what the hell. He leaned over the counter and pulled open the drawer where he’d seen the man empty the new roll of quarters. In one smooth move, he grabbed a handful of them, pushed the drawer closed, and jammed the change into his front jeans pocket before strolling out to the set of vending machines.

  Five minutes later he’d settled back in the room with a frigid can of Coke, a bucketful of ice, and two packs of peanut butter crackers. He switched on the TV set and flipped through channels until he came upon something mildly pornographic. But it only served to remind him of Rena Lynn
. He switched the set off, frustrated.

  Soon, he promised himself. He stretched out on the bed again and envisioned the future. With his share of the money, which ought to be at least a hundred thou, he’d buy her a house, a really nice one with a front porch and white walls inside and beige carpet, wall-to-wall. And it’d be big, even bigger than a double-wide. It should have at least two bedrooms, and knowing Rena Lynn’s love of kids better make that three.

  And he’d buy himself a new car, a red Corvette. They could put the top down and take long drives and her silky blond hair would fly in the wind. He could get that puppy up to 120, he’d bet, on some of these straight, endless Texas farm roads. Maybe Rena Lynn’d have so much fun riding in the new car that she’d forget about having kids and it could be just the two of them, riding around and living the carefree life.

  The sound of a vehicle outside popped his future-bubble, sending him to the door so fast that little black dots swam before his eyes. He rubbed at them with his left hand while his right reached for the knob.

  Nothing.

  The red truck he expected to see was nowhere in sight. Instead, a battered blue Chevy Nova was just completing a loop through the parking lot and preparing to swing back out onto the highway. Oliver’s heart slowed back down again.

  Course he wasn’t exactly sure what vehicle to be watching for, he reasoned. Yeah, they’d been driving the truck first thing this morning, but knowing String he’d have been smart enough to trade that out for something else by now. What if they came to the motel and he didn’t see them?

  He closed the door and opened the orange and brown drapes as wide as they’d go, which wasn’t all the way, due to a bent place in the curtain rod, but it was enough that he could sit in the room’s one chair and stare out and pretty much cover the parking lot. Besides, they knew his vehicle. The old Pontiac belonged to String and it had New Mexico plates. So they’d find him, no matter what they were driving. He relaxed into the chair, his Coke in hand as he polished off one of the packs of crackers.

  His stomach growled at the addition of food. Damn crackers, he thought. What he really wanted was a nice, big cheeseburger with some fries and a chocolate shake. He tried to remember whether he’d seen any food places near the motel. Couldn’t think of any. The McDonald’s and Burger Kings were near the Interstate next to the decent motels. Too far to walk and he didn’t dare take off in the car. If the guys came to the motel and didn’t see any sign of him they’d think he’d chickened out and they’d keep his share of the money.

  He downed the other pack of crackers and stood up to dig into his pockets for more change. He was down to two quarters, not enough for another purchase from the machines. Everything cost seventy-five cents out there. The rooms might go for yesterday’s prices but everything else here was top-dollar. He glanced toward the office and could see the chubby clerk moving around inside the tiny space. At least he’d put a shirt on.

  “Well, shit,” Ollie grumbled. No more free quarters and he couldn’t chance it that the guy had already discovered the missing ones. He flopped back into the chair and stared, heavy-lidded, at the driveway.

  When he opened his eyes again the sun was well past mid-point in the sky. His neck had a terrible crick in it and one foot had fallen asleep. His stomach growled and he looked at the clock again.

  A prickle of alarm raced up his spine. It was way too late. Something was wrong.

  He decided to do the one thing he’d been told never to do—call String on his cell phone.

  He rolled his aching neck in a big arc as he punched numbers into the bedside telephone. A familiar voice responded on the second ring.

  “Yeah?” The voice was made of sandpaper with oil spread on top—at once slick and quietly threatening. Ollie’s private parts never failed to shrink just a little when that voice addressed him.

  “String? Where are you guys?” His voice quivered just a little, and he knew String picked up on it.

  “Hey, Kid. Where you at?”

  “Well, I’m at the motel in Texas, just like we planned. But where are you guys? Did everything go okay?”

  “Listen, Kid, there’s been a little change of plans.”

  “What . . . what kind of change?”

  Oliver realized he was speaking to a dead phone.

  Chapter 5

  My head spun. Ransom? I was pretty sure two women were already dead and now these guys thought I could be worth big money to them. I wanted to tell them that they had the wrong person, but then where would I be?—useless and knowing too much—just like Melinda and the other one.

  A cell phone rang and String grabbed his shirt pocket, bringing the phone out and opening it in one swift move. He addressed the caller as Kid, sent a couple of terse sentences his way and clicked the phone shut. A change of plans.

  I really didn’t want to be someone’s change of plans. I wanted to go home—now. I wanted to be lunching in a restaurant with Victoria, then go home and hold my husband and spend the evening having great sex. If I couldn’t have my dream scenario, I’d even agree to having Paul and Lorraine and their kids back for a longer visit. Well, maybe.

  How did my simple trip to the bank turn into a ride with three strange and dangerous men who were now discussing me as if I were their lottery ticket?

  The car’s mushy suspension hit bottom as Mole roared over a dip and onto paved highway. My tailbone cracked against the flooring and I yelped in pain.

  “Boss,” said Billy. “Maybe we better be treating her nicer than this.”

  String turned in his seat and glared down at me.

  “I mean, her being somebody important and all . . .” Billy’s voice had gone shaky again.

  String’s wheels were turning, I could tell. It wasn’t especially surprising that polite gestures didn’t occur naturally to him. I held my breath, half-wishing that Billy hadn’t mentioned me. Being invisible was preferable at this point.

  A slimy grin spread across String’s dark features, revealing pointy teeth and a fair amount of plaque. Not exactly a friendly smile. His eyes were hard, calculating. I really wanted to be invisible now.

  “Let her sit on the seat,” he told Billy.

  I glanced over at my guard. He hustled to follow String’s instructions. While the dark-haired boss turned to watch the road, Billy reached down and put a hand under my arm. With the small boost, I was able to get my feet under me and hike myself onto the back seat, behind the driver.

  “Thanks,” I mouthed toward Billy. He raised one corner of his mouth in a tiny smile.

  “Buckle her up,” String ordered.

  He cared?

  “We can’t afford to get stopped for a stupid seat-belt ticket.” He turned the radio up again and a throbbing rap tune filled the car.

  Now that we were riding in a completely different vehicle from the one seen at the bank, the gang seemed to relax a little. Billy leaned against the window beside him and I caught him nodding off a couple of times. Mole tapped his index fingers on the steering wheel as if he were hitting it with drum sticks, in time with the music. String edged lower in his seat, his head reclining against the headrest. A little post-murder nap?

  I tried to concentrate on what to do about my situation. Roaring down the highway at seventy miles an hour, my hands bound with duct tape, didn’t seem like a feasible time to make a break for it. All three of the men had guns, and although Billy seemed the least likely to use his, I couldn’t be sure of anything. They’d kept me tightly guarded every single minute I was outside the car.

  Who was this actress with whom they had me confused? Cristina Cross. I’d heard the name but couldn’t remember any of her roles. I knew I should have watched more daytime TV, darnit.

  I ran through dimly remembered images of faces I might have seen in my limited exposure to People magazine, women with long auburn hair and maybe with my same green eyes, but that narrowed the possibilities to only a hundred or so. I couldn’t seem to focus very well. Luckily, the gang didn�
�t know much about her either. At least I didn’t have to replicate a voice or mannerisms that I knew nothing about.

  We only spent a short time on the Interstate before String instructed Mole to take an exit. I’d seen no mileage signs, no nice clear list of upcoming cities, so I only had the vaguest notion of our location. Somewhere north of Santa Fe, I thought. Obviously, String wanted us away from the major routes where police cars and other drivers might get a look at us.

  I felt so drowsy. My lips were burning, chapped from the dry air and the fact that the duct tape gag had ripped off any shred of the lipstick I’d put on at some point, about a lifetime ago. These are the times when a woman really misses her purse. All those little conveniences—lip balm, hairbrush, cell phone, pistol. I’d last seen my bag lying on the floor of the bank. I hoped the police had called Drake. I wanted him to come get me. Darn—now my eyes were burning too. I gave in to the lethargy and let my body slump into the corner.

  Chapter 6

  Ollie Trask dropped the dead receiver back into its cradle, his mind numb. String and the other guys wouldn’t just go off and leave him. There’d been the plan. They’d worked it all out. Two guys into the bank, quick and easy. One guy driving the truck. One guy, him, getting the safe house secured. And here he was, in the safe house, a place no one would ever think to look for them and he’d staked it out to be sure no cops came around. So, okay, it wasn’t exactly a house, this fourth-rate motel, but it was about as invisible as you could get. So, maybe he’d dozed off a couple of times. He was still pretty sure no cops had checked out the place yet.