by Jeff Strand
"What sort of business in this?" she asks.
"Naked women."
Harriett raises an eyebrow. "So, we're to feel sorry for their lack of clothing? It's like a charity?"
"No, you're just supposed to look at them."
"It seems undignified."
"It is."
"Do you visit often?"
The second-to-last time we were here, I bought Becky a lap dance. It didn't turn her bisexual, but she did give me a lap dance of my own when we got back to the hotel. I decide that this is not information to share with Harriett at the current time.
"Nah."
"I've no interest in it myself, but I'd wait outside."
"I'm good. Should probably mourn my wife a while longer before I start hitting the strip clubs."
"That's sound logic."
It's starting to get dark. Neither Becky nor I were heavy drinkers, but we certainly enjoyed a few choice beverages on Bourbon Street after dark. Considering Harriett's lack of self-control with the chocolate, I feel that it's best not to introduce her to a Hurricane.
Instead, we walk around for a while longer, then return to the car. We drive out of the French Quarter, where the hotels are way too expensive, and stop at a cheap motel just outside of the city limits.
"I don't see a good spot to pitch my tent," says Harriett. "It's all pavement."
"You're not going to sleep in a tent."
"In the car, then?"
"If you want to. But we're going to be spending all day tomorrow in the car, so I recommend getting a room and sleeping in a real bed."
Harriett considers this. "It would be inappropriate for us to share a bed."
"We're not going to share a bed. This place has lots of beds. We'll each have our own room."
"Oh. That sounds lovely."
"Do you have a credit card?"
"No."
"We'll put it on mine. You can just give me the cash."
"All right." She unzips the pocket in her backpack, and for the first time takes out an enormous roll of bills. If they're all twenties like the top bill, then she must have...well, I'm not good at calculating how much money is in a roll of bills. A lot. Thousands.
She peels off the top bill, revealing a hundred dollar bill underneath.
"How much is a room?" she asks.
"The sign said forty. This isn't going to be a great motel."
She hands me the hundred. "That's for both rooms. Was the gasoline more than twenty?"
"Yeah, but don't worry about it."
She gives me another hundred. "I'm paying for these things, as per our agreement."
It's pretty ridiculous for me to feel guilty about taking money from her, considering that this whole trip is for her benefit. "We'll put the rest of it toward the next tank."
I get our rooms, which are right next to each other on the second floor. Harriett tosses her backpack on the bed and looks around her room, fascinated.
"Do you want me to show you how to work the television?" I ask.
"Isn't it a vessel of evil?"
"Depends on what you watch." I hand her the remote control. "Basically, these two buttons change the channel, and these two buttons control the volume. Just flip around until you see something that looks interesting."
"Understood."
"Knock on my door when you wake up, and we'll head off."
"I will. Thank you, Evan. You've been very kind to me."
"Anytime. Get some sleep. Don't order any pay-per-view movies."
I go to my own room and give Becky's sister Marjorie a quick call to let her know that everything is fine. I tell her that I'm on a road trip to clear my head, but decide not to tell her that I'm traveling with a lady who wants to kill a Cyclops, which she might find peculiar.
Then I take a long, hot shower. I bought new socks and underwear, along with some basic toiletry items and a phone charger, so I'm in good shape for tomorrow.
I towel off, put on my new underwear, and climb into bed. It's a more comfortable bed than I would've expected, with no springs digging into my back and no cockroaches writhing beneath the sheets, so I close my eyes and within a couple of minutes I've—
There's a knock at the door.
I get out of bed. I consider pulling on my jeans, but Harriett is strong, I think she'll somehow be able to recover from the sight of me in boxers.
I open the door. Three men are standing outside. They look like the kind of gentlemen who break thumbs over unpaid debt.
The man in the center is wearing an eye patch.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Is this Harriett's "Cyclops?"
How can he not be?
When I have the rare experience of seeing somebody with an eye patch on the same day that I have the even rarer experience of spending time with somebody who's hunting a Cyclops, I have to assume that the two elements are connected.
"May I help you?" I ask.
"Can we come inside?" Eye Patch Man asks. He's probably about fifty, with sunken features and a thin gray mustache. The men flanking him look twenty years younger. The one on his left has chubby cheeks that aren't quite adorable enough to balance out his beady, glaring eyes. The one on the right looks like he's been punched a lot, but has punched back even more.
Though I want to speak with them, they definitely don't look like the kind of men you want to let into your motel room. "Let's talk downstairs," I say. "Give me a second to put on some pants."
All three of them take a step forward. "Here is fine," Eye Patch Man says to me.
The two younger men push past me. I step out of the way, because I'm not inclined to put up a fight against three thumb-breaking drug dealers or whatever these guys are. They aren't dressed well enough to be mobsters.
Eye Patch Man steps inside my room and closes the door behind him.
I hope I don't look as scared as I feel. If this were a comic strip, you'd be able to see actual droplets of sweat flying off my head.
"We ain't here to hurt anyone," Eye Patch Man assures me, unconvincingly. "We just wanna talk."
"Fine," I say. I wish my cell phone was tucked into my boxers instead of lying on the nightstand.
"Have a seat."
"I'll stand."
"You seem stressed out. Relax. I promise, we ain't gonna hurt you. You must have a guilty conscience if you think you're in danger."
"Sure, three guys show up after dark and force themselves into my motel room. Can't be any danger there. Mind if I get dressed?"
"Go right ahead." Eye Patch Man sits down on my bed while I start to put on my clothes. "My name's Reginald. I hate that name. Call me Reggie. And you are...?"
"Evan."
"Nice to meet you, Evan. You must have a pretty good idea of why we're here, right?"
I shrug. If I thought they were cops, I'd cooperate fully, but everything about them screams "bad guys," so I'm going to play stupid for as long as possible.
"The woman you're with, Harriett Lancaster. She's deeply disturbed. She's a danger to herself and those around her. We're here for her protection."
"Are you her doctor?" I ask.
"Nah."
Point for Reggie. If he'd said yes, I'd know he was lying. Whatever he is, this guy is not a mental health care professional.
"Are you a cop?"
"Hell no." Another point.
"Bounty hunter?"
Reggie chuckles. "Not quite. Yeah, we're here to collect her, and yeah, we're being paid to do it. But we'll be returning her safely home to her family. I ain't Boba Fett."
"What do you want from me?"
"We wanna know where she is."
Since Harriett is right next-door, this must be a trio of spectacularly crappy bounty hunters. But I'm starting to doubt whether I'm doing the right thing by keeping mum. Whatever their story, it has to be more credible than saving a small town from a Cyclops. If these guys weren't so scary-looking, I would've told them everything, immediately.
Common sense says that I should rat her out before
these guys begin the physical violence portion of our night. But common sense and I have been on poor terms recently, and I find it hard to believe that Reggie is truly planning to take her home unharmed.
"She told me that her parents were dead," I say.
"And you believed her?"
"I had no reason to think she was lying."
Reggie grins. The only way it could be a more sinister grin is if he had fangs. "No reason, huh? And what about the Cyclops? You thought that sounded real?"
"What Cyclops?"
"She didn't tell you?"
"No."
"Harriett has this tendency to take pieces of reality—" he taps his eye patch, "—and distort them into her fantasy world. She needs to be returned to her family."
"Where do they live?" I ask.
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to take her back. Tell me where her parents live and I'll drive her there. You can have the fee. It's win-win-win. Harriett gets home safe, you get your bounty, and I don't lose sleep from having turned her over to people I don't quite trust."
"You don't trust me?"
"I don't know you."
"And you know her?"
"I know her well enough to not want her to get hurt."
"You look scared, Evan."
"No, I'm fine."
"It's okay," says Reggie. "You can be honest. If we're honest with each other, this will be a lot more pleasant. So let me be honest with you. When I've gotta go searching for the person I'm trying to help, instead of getting that information from somebody who already knows where she is, it makes it more likely that innocent bystanders will get hurt. Sometimes parents bring real young kids to a motel, maybe on their way to visit Grandma and Grandpa, or maybe they're on a road trip to Disney World because the kids are so excited to meet Mickey Mouse in person, and by pure bad luck they were part of my room-by-room search. Little kids don't know that they should just keep their mouths shut. How would they? They're just little kids. That means, though it's nobody's fault, that I have some witnesses I can't trust. And then I have to take care of that problem. It's heartbreaking." He gestures to me. "Well, it's not nobody's fault. After all, the person with the information could tell me what I wanna know and save a lot of bloodshed."
I'm sick to my stomach. I've spent my whole adult life working in a cubicle; I'm not equipped to deal with this.
The only plan I can think of right now is to walk across the room, then pound on the wall and shout for Harriett to get out of there. She can handle these guys. She'd be fine. The question is, will I be fine, or will they make sure I don't ever try something like that again?
I'm an unemployed widower, but I've got plenty of reasons to live. I don't want to die. To a lesser extent, I'd also prefer not to end up in the hospital with dozens of broken bones or brain damage. I want to resolve this in a way that doesn't involve me experiencing pain.
They wouldn't stick around to deal with me, would they? They'd immediately go after Harriett before she escaped. I'd have time to run.
Casually, trying not to give away my intention, I wander toward the other wall.
"I don't get why you're threatening me," I say. "I offered a perfectly good compromise. If you're only in it for the money, why not let me take her home? You can tell her parents what's going on. Get the payment from them before I bring her back. Everybody's happy."
"Why should we trust you?"
"Why not? I'm just trying to be a nice guy."
"Yeah. Driving her all the way to New Orleans. That's pretty darn nice."
Do they know that I drove her all the way from Tampa? Surely they haven't been following us this whole time.
I'm not sure that this is the best time to explain how my life has reached a point where taking this road trip with Harriett seemed like the right thing to do. I decide to make up something more feasible. "Well, she's pretty hot, right?"
Reggie nods. "Thought you were gonna get some of that?"
"I don't know. I wasn't going to push the issue. She's worth seeing what might happen, though, don't you think?"
"She's hot, but she's mental. Not worth it, my friend. Not worth it. Your best bet is to tell me where she is, get back in your car, and drive home. Consider yourself lucky that you didn't get more involved."
"I don't know about that. I've been with some crazy chicks. It's usually worth it."
"How about you tell us where she is, and we won't tell your wife that you're playing around?"
"My wife is dead."
"Oh, yeah? How long?"
"A couple of years."
"A couple of years, huh? Sure it's not a couple of weeks? We've done our research."
This seems like a really good time for me to pound on the wall.
Until Reggie points a gun at me. Then it suddenly doesn't seem like quite as good of an idea.
The other two guys also take out guns. Had I not gone to the bathroom right before climbing into bed, they'd see exactly how terrified I am.
I have decided that it is not in my best interest to pound on the wall.
"It's gonna take very little effort for us to find her," says Reggie. "All we're trying to do is keep this as simple as possible. If we have to kill you, that means wrapping you in plastic, sneaking your corpse out to the trunk of our car, chopping you up, and getting rid of the pieces one at a time. It's fun but it's time consuming. And unfortunately we're running out of time, so tell me where the hell she is before I decide that you're useless to us."
I realize that a tear is running down my cheek. Yep, I'm so scared that I'm crying. And my hands are trembling. But, to my credit, I haven't dropped to my knees and begged for mercy. I'm very, very, very tempted to tell them that Harriett is in the next room, but somehow I'm going to force myself to take the risk that they're still willing to talk for a bit longer.
"Call her parents," I say.
"What?"
"Give her parents a quick call. If they're happy to hear from you, I'll tell you where she is."
Since I don't actually believe that these men are here to return Harriett to her parents, it's probably not a good idea to trap them in their lie. I wish I'd considered my words a bit more carefully before I said anything.
Reggie reaches into his pocket and takes out a cell phone. Using just his thumb, since his other hand is currently occupied pointing a gun at me, he taps the screen a couple of times, then raises the phone to his ear.
Nobody says anything for a few moments. I wish I were a kung-fu master. That would be extremely helpful right now.
Finally, Reggie speaks. "Hi, it's me. We've found her. Call me back as soon as you can. It's important." He taps the screen again with his thumb and slides the phone back into his pocket. "If we're lucky, she'll return my call right away. If not, I'm afraid we have a problem."
I'd like to see his phone to verify the call, but with three guns pointed at me, I'm not inclined to make further demands.
Again, Reggie's story makes so much more sense than Harriett's, especially if you consider the Eye Patch Man = Cyclops equation, but I have difficulty trusting the trio of scary-looking men who are threatening my life.
"I'd love to sit around and wait for her to call me back," says Reggie. "But Harriett could be on the move, so it's time for you to tell us what we wanna know, or for us to kill you and start looking ourselves. Which is it?"
"Neither," I say. "I'm not going to just send you after her, but I'll take you to her room. I'm going to be there to make sure you don't hurt her."
"That works," says Reggie. He puts the safety on his gun and reaches behind his back, presumably tucking it into the waist of his pants. The other two do the same.
"I need to pack up my stuff," I say.
Reggie shakes his head. "We'll get it for you." He looks at the chubby-cheeked guy. "Get his stuff."
"There's not much of it," I say. "Let me at least—"
"You're starting to piss me off," says Reggie. "Stop gabbing and take us to her room."
I walk over to the door and open it. What I'd like to see outside is Harriett standing there with her pole. She'll say something witty (I can't think of anything at the moment, but she'll have had time to come up with a good one-liner while she was waiting) and then beat the men senseless.
But, no, there's nobody out there. I walk out of the room and turn right. Harriett's room was to the left.
Here is my plan, in its entirety: I am going to wait for a good opportunity to run, and then run.
This motel has only two floors, so the longest I can stretch this out is to walk down the flight of stairs and then to one end of the building, which will only take a couple of minutes. I assume the motel has security cameras. Even if not, I assume that Reggie and his cronies are cautious about the possibility of them. So they won't just pump me full of bullets where it could be caught on video. In theory.
I walk slowly, followed by Reggie and the guy who's been punched a lot. That's one fewer gun available to shoot me, at least until the chubby-cheeked guy realizes that my belongings consist of very little beyond a phone, wallet, set of keys, and pair of dirty underwear. He probably won't even bring the underwear.
Reggie requests, in a very stern tone of voice, that I walk at a faster pace. I do.
I'm hoping for some sort of distraction. Maybe a nice drug deal happening outside. A couple having a really loud fight with their door ajar. But even though it's not all that late, the motel feels like it's the middle of the night, and it's deathly quiet.
I walk down the stairs. Reggie and the other guy, who I've decided to nickname "Pulp," are right behind me.
I'm not sure where to flee. There'd be somebody in the lobby, but that would be a bad thing if the guys ran after me with guns blazing. Got to find a way to ditch Reggie and Pulp and call the cops without putting innocent lives at risk.
We reach the first floor and I walk past the row of rooms. There are only about ten of them, so I don't have much time. The guys are walking close enough to punch me in the back of the head if they were so inclined.
What the hell am I going to do? If I reach the end and say, "Oops, my mistake, I seem to have led you in the wrong direction," they'll see right through my not-all-that-clever-in-the-first-place ruse.
Fake a heart attack, maybe?