A homemade white poster board sign written in red ink was taped on the window of the office: $39.99 per night. Special Rate of $10.99 per hour!
It’s always good to have options, I surmised.
Opening the door, the metal handle rattled and felt like it might fall off altogether. Three vending machines took up most of the space, one filled with salty snacks, one with eight different soft drinks, and another with about twenty-five versions of condoms. Once again, options. The owner had thought of everything.
“What can I do you for?” A middle-aged man with a patchy bed of hair on his face snickered at his own lame joke and curled specs around his ears, the glasses thicker than bottles, giving his veiny eyes a three-dimensional vibe.
“Hi.” Learning forward, I read a crooked named tag. “Carl.”
He shuffled his feet, and I wasn’t sure that was his real name.
“I’ve been driving all day, coming up from the Rio Grande Valley, and I’m bushed.”
“He-he. We’ve had some bush come through here today, I tell you.”
This might be easier than I thought, and I forced out a chuckle. “I’m sure you have. In fact, I thought I saw a little Asian piece waggin’ her tail as I pulled into your motel.”
He grinned and looked away again. “Yeah, I did happen to notice her. I think he called her Lola.” He quickly covered his mouth, like he’d just shared information only the National Security Agency had access to.
“I need a room for a few hours. I’ll even pay your hourly rate,” I said, pulling out my wallet, thumbing greenbacks. No way in hell was I letting this establishment touch my credit cards.
“All righty, if you can fill out this form, I’ll get your key.” He flipped around a clipboard with a pen that had a string tied to it. Then he leaned down, moved his arm back and forth,like he was sifting through a treasure chest of fine metals.
Not thrilled with touching even a pen in this place, I used two fingers to write my name: Jay Z. Turning the clipboard around, Carl seemed unfazed by my name. I think it came with the territory of running an hourly motel.
“You’ll be in room two twenty-three. I’ll need a two-hour down payment.”
“Carl,” I chuckled again. “I need a nice diversion from all the traveling and pressure I’ve felt lately, know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I think.”
“Sure you do. Someone like yourself, working in a motel like this…”
He just nodded.
“I’ve been around the block a few times, and I got a feeling that most of your rooms have hidden peepholes into adjoining rooms. Isn’t that right?”
“That is illegal,” he said monotone, with no conviction.
Leaning back on my heels, I buried hands in my pockets, safely away from germs. “It’s only illegal if people don’t want to be seen. Isn’t that right, Carl? In fact, anyone that visits the Motel 9, don’t they really expect people to watch? That’s part of the fun. Isn’t that one of the perks of why you work here?”
He forced out air through his stuffy nose. “I suppose.”
“Tell you what. Since you’re being so helpful to me, I’m going to give you a bonus. Just give me a room right next to that Asian girl’s room and show me how I can—”
“It’s room two nineteen. The hole is behind the headboard and is plugged with a white plastic screw. Just twist it off, and it’s showtime.” Waving a hand upward, his eyes lit up.
I threw in an extra twenty dollars and picked up the key with my fingernails, then padded back to the door.
“Hey, you never asked why we call it Motel 9.”
He actually thought I’d cared to know? “Okay, I’m game. Why do they call this…establishment Motel 9?”
He released a frothy laugh, and I think I saw spit flying from his mouth.
“We’re the opposite of the other place. And when you put us together, what do you get?”
I narrowed one eye.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? Sixty-nine. Get it? Motel 6 plus Motel 9 equals sixty-nine, which is what everyone thinks about when they visit here.”
Sure they did. “Thanks for the help, Carl.”
“No problem. We’ll keep the lights on for you.”
I rolled my eyes and let the door shut behind me, then angled toward the nearest outdoor staircase. Prancing up two stairs at a time, yet quiet as a cat prowling a fly, I pulled the railing for an extra surge to the second floor. Just as I pulled, the railing gave way, two screws popping out of the concrete, metal spindles tilting out. With my toes hanging off the edge of the fourth to last stair and one hand still gripped to the piece of railing dipping outward almost ninety degrees, my weight moved over the ledge, my eyes transfixed on broken metal and concrete twenty feet below.
Quickly realizing I couldn’t alter gravity, my mind searched for options—wasn’t that what Motel 9 was all about? I released the railing and jumped, twisting my body in midair, lunging for the second floor. Just as my hand hit concrete, my body swayed, and it started to slip. Kicking my legs, they found part of the dilapidated metal, fifteen feet of it now curling downward. The surge pushed me upward just enough to swing my other arm and grab hold of the slick concrete above.
I paused, tried to catch my breath, and wondered how my heart hadn’t exploded out of my chest. Focusing, I lifted my body, mostly a finger pull-up. My chin touched the cool, glossy concrete, made even slicker by perspiration pouring off my face. The railing and another anchor had been yanked off the second floor surface, taking away any type of leverage I might have in pulling myself up.
Glancing down, I pondered jumping. While the drop would have likely only sprained an ankle or a knee, the downward path was now littered with sharp metal and screws, and if I hit where I thought I would, my weight would yank the web of metal and concrete right on top of me. The thought of a rusted screw puncturing my lung thwarted my attention to my only other option.
For whatever reason, images of the last summer Olympics shot through my mind, gymnasts torqueing their bodies to thrust their weight up and over a bar a horizontal bar.
Using my chin to hold a portion of my weight, I could hear myself panting breaths through my nose, and I caught another waft of the dead skunk. I swung my legs back about a foot, then let them swing out farther the second time back. Just at the perfect moment, I centered all of my energy on my legs, then kicked and grunted, propelling my body up another two feet, the edge of the concrete and something sharp digging into my chest. With my weight still on the verge of slipping off, I wiggled and squirmed, inching my body up to the second floor, a sharp jab of pain, tearing flesh from mid-chest down to my waist.
My chin and arms hugged the concrete, allowing me to lift a knee up to the same level. I moved forward another couple of feet, then collapsed, my heart pounding so hard my back elevated with every beat.
Still breathing like I’d run a marathon, I flipped around and sat on my butt and surveyed the complex. The manager’s office showed no action. In fact, there wasn’t a soul outside, on the landing, or in the parking lot. Everyone was either a sound sleeper or very distracted.
I touched all pockets, feeling for the pricey digital camera as another surge of panic engulfed my body, now sapped of energy. It just hit me. I’d left it in the car. Standing up, my legs wobbled like stilts made of toothpicks. I backtracked, staying clear of any railing, pulled the camera from the car, and plodded across the lot and back up the staircase, shaking my head at the site of twisted metal dangling in midair.
“How the hell does this piece of shit motel stay open?” I asked aloud.
Passing by the destroyed railing, stings of pain lit up my torso. I looked down and found a thin crimson trail soaking through my old sweatshirt.
Drowning out the pain enough to focus on the plan, I quietly made my way to room two nineteen, my eyes shifting left a couple of times as I turned the key. Once safely inside, I flipped a light switch and didn’t move.
“Damn, I wish I’d
brought Lysol or some disinfectant wipes,” I said quietly to myself, staring at a wad of sheets lying on a mattress that looked liked it was used as a canvas for one of those modern paintings, except all of the colors were in the yellow-brown range.
I took hold of a strap on the side of the mattress and yanked it off to the side, against a dresser that had carved writings on it. I spotted one that said, “Debbie does Dallas and the doorknob.”
Maybe I’d see her on one of those pseudo-reality talent shows.
Flipping my head back around, I eyed the box springs, a rectangle with six tattered holes in it. No way it would hold my weight, so I carefully found the bottom edge and raised the box in the air, then slid it off to the other side near the bathroom. I craned my neck and my eyes spotted a mouse chewing on something in the sink. I think it might have been the remnants from one of the vending machines, the non-edible one. As I took in a breath, a blunt odor smacked my face, emanating from the toilet area.
I cursed under my breath, questioning why we’d taken such a job. Then again, as a cop, I recalled kids chunking balloons filled with piss on Paco and me. It ranked in my top five of most disgusting days in uniform. But at least those perps were kids. Now working incognito, I was quickly changing my assessment of which age range was more willing to live like animals.
Big Al popped in my mind, then I wondered if Britney had arrived at my place. She had a key, and if the motor-mouth macaw got out of hand she could just throw a towel over his cage.
A stack of soiled towels were piled inside the rectangular metal bed frame. They looked like they’d been sitting in that one spot since the Berlin Wall came down. Not wanting to germinate my Doc Martens, I walked around the towels and approached the headboard.
“Figures,” I said, realizing the headboard, made of cheap rattan, was simply leaning against the wall.
Just as I curled my fingers around the top, I heard a rhythmic thumping and a woman’s voice.
“Showtime.” I set the frame against the box springs, then spotted the plastic screw, just as Carl had described.
I paused, and the thumping continued, along with the cadence of a woman grunting out a high-pitched phrase. I twisted the plastic, careful to be as quiet as possible. I grabbed my camera, got down on one knee, and couldn’t believe what the optical lens had caught in real time.
“Bring it. Bring it. Bring it. Wooo!” Wearing the odd combination of frumpy sweatpants and a gray USC Trojan T-shirt cropped to reveal her petite waist, Lola jumped on a squeaky bed, scooping mounds of popcorn in her mouth—half of it dropping to her tiny bare feet. She giggled, then twisted her head. It appeared she was staring at a TV screen just to the left of my camera lens.
Lowering the camera, I recalled the early investigative work on this case. Janice Pittman had seen our sign affixed to the brick exterior at The Jewel, the same day she’d decided to drink herself into oblivion. Sensing a client opportunity, Alisa went from waiting on Janice to sitting at her table and listening to her entire sob story, like she was her new best friend. The story went something like this:
Janice and Spencer met while attending Ohio State University. Both marched in the Buckeyes band, Janice playing the piccolo, Spencer a tuba. But not just any tuba. He was the top kahuna, the number one tuba player in the band, which afforded him the opportunity to dot the “i” when the band spelled out Ohio in their halftime show each week.
A shy Midwestern girl who grew up in a family with an overbearing father, Janice quickly found herself swooning at the feet of Spencer. He, apparently, was quite accustomed to “the swoon”—at least on a marching band level.
Over time, Janice finally tamed the tuba stud, and he proposed to her on the fifty-yard-line with the big-headed Buckeye mascot cheering him on. Spencer’s family insisted on hosting a raucous wedding with more than three hundred in attendance, at least half being OSU graduates. The party lasted deep into the night, and Spencer insisted on dancing with each of Janice’s bridesmaids.
Red flag.
Following a honeymoon that essentially accompanied the football team to their bowl game in Phoenix, Arizona, the Pittmans decided to lay down roots. Spencer considered himself quite the salesperson and job hopped his way up the compensation ladder, while Janice birthed two kids, went to every school and sporting event, and eventually started her own blog. The former tuba stud spent more and more time at the office. Janice had her suspicions, but Spencer always had an excuse.
The couple moved to Dallas because of an opportunity Spencer had to partner with Mike Paxton, whose brother had starred in classic movies like Weird Science and Twister. Janice considered it a cleansing period for the couple, hoping Spencer’s new entrepreneurial venture would refocus his attention on what mattered: his new business and his faithful wife.
The staffing services company opened their doors during a slowdown in the economy, but as the job market picked up, the Pittman and Paxton business ignited. The Pittmans changed zip codes three times in five years, all within a ten-mile radius, each time increasing their home value three hundred thousand. Then, something changed…not just Spencer going out to happy hours and flirting with the waitresses, or even hooking up with one or two—she’d once caught him with his pants at his ankles in his truck, a girl’s face bobbing up and down in his lap. As usual, he had an excuse, saying she’d lost an earring, and he thought it might have fallen down his pants when they were dancing.
Right.
Back to the changes. Spencer started packing on the pounds, while also engaging in some odd fetishes. He went through one phase where he coddled female toes. While initially sickened by her husband’s strange fixation, she went with it. Anything to keep the flame burning in their love life. But the more weight he gained, the stranger his fascination with all things oddly sexual, or sexually odd, depending on your perspective. Janice wondered how he manufactured the ideas, let alone the desire. Until she met Lola.
When she initially walked into the offices of Pittman and Paxton a year prior, Lola had just escaped from a manufacturing plant/encampment surrounded by barbed wire near Sacramento, assembling black market cell phones. She’d been brought to the states illegally in the hull of a cargo ship with fifty other women, then sold to the highest bidder and told she could work her way out of the slave labor conditions.
At least that’s how Spencer recited the story. It became his go-to excuse on why he hired the diminutive twenty-two-year-old with no office or business experience as his company’s receptionist. “The face of the franchise” is how he phrased Lola’s importance to Pittman and Paxton Staffing Services one afternoon when Janice dropped by in nothing more than an overcoat. In her purse, she carried a bundle of sexual toys she’d purchased two hours earlier at a shop called Sonya’s Secrets, including a vibrating dick ring.
Alisa, in replaying the story to me, couldn’t stop laughing.
Back to the Pittman saga. Locking her husband’s office door, Janice put on a sultry striptease act, teasing him with toys, oils, and a few moves she’d learned on the Internet. Anything for true love, apparently.
But he couldn’t get it up. And that’s when Janice knew she’d lost the war.
When we first received the case, our first order of business was to investigate Lola’s background. Turns out she grew up in Huntington Beach, an affluent community just south of Los Angeles, her mother a vice president at a resort company and her dad a professor at USC. She became a Trojan cheerleader—the ones with the cropped sweater tops—and she got her film degree after three years.
Six months after graduating, following a procedure to enhance her breast size threefold, she broke into the heavily competitive film industry, taking a lead role in her first motion picture, titled Thigh Busters. She quickly developed a following, and she signed a contract with a production company, starring in ten more films over the next few months. When the production crew traveled to Dallas and insisted on featuring animals in the next series of films, she quit. The very next day,
she traipsed into Pittman and Paxton, perhaps putting on her best acting performance to date.
All in the name of money, I suppose.
Hoping I could quickly catch a couple of lurid, i.e. repulsive, shots of Spencer and Lola doing the big nasty, I centered the RX10 on the hole in the wall.
Lola had disappeared. All I could see was a disheveled bed and kernels of popcorn. But I heard muffled sounds, voices most likely. Was that a TV show or movie, or were Lola and Spencer revving up their engines off camera? Maybe they’d left the room altogether?
Dammit. Hopping over dirty, crusted towels and the bed frame, I peeked through plastic curtains, glancing right. No visual of Spencer or Lola. I looked just beyond the second-floor railing down below, and Spencer’s Expedition still sat motionless at the same cocky angle.
Just then, I felt the floor shake. I froze, then took a step toward the peephole. Another vibration and the doorknob to my room rattled. Might have been the wind. If it hadn’t been a still night.
Hurdling the frame and towels in one leap, I turned the knob and opened the door.
“Carl?” I asked, then swung my neck down the outdoor hallway and found not a living soul.
He shuffled a shoe and tossed coins in his pocket. “Can I join you? I haven’t had any fun in weeks.”
Shaking my head, I realized I was dealing with a man-child, or a man-child-pervert.
I pressed my hand downward—the signal to keep the volume low—and let him know that wasn’t going to happen. “Carl, I’m in the middle of something important.”
His upper lip twitched. “I thought you said impotent. Get it?”
“Carl, you’re going to have to leave.”
“But I don’t want to. I’m bored down in the office. I want to be where the action is. And the action is in room two nineteen, actually in two seventeen. He-he.”
His definition of action was warped, but I couldn’t say that exactly.
I pulled out my wallet and sifted through bills. Only a few ones and two fives.
“Do you want ten dollars?”
“Hey, what happened to your sweatshirt?” He pointed at my chest, his eyes dazed and very confused.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 33