Watts rotated the card so he could read it. He had scraggly blond hair, though his beard was black. A wide, amiable face. Blue eyes whose pupils somehow seemed dusty and dulled. He squinted out the dirty office window at the car and said, “Your friend’s black.” As if Carver might not have noticed.
“That a problem?” Carver asked.
Watts shook his head. “Not with me. Got some real rednecks in Dark Glades, though. Not to mention stiff-necked religious folks that ain’t all that tolerant.”
“We’ll spend most of our time in our rooms,” Carver said.
Watts tried hard not to give him the wrong kind of smile, and couldn’t help shooting another glance out the window. He said, “Sure. Like I said, lemme know if you need anything.” He handed Carver two keys attached to green plastic tags. A third key with a red tag. “The red one fits the connecting door. Other two are to rooms six and seven, right near the center of the building. Best I got. Icemaker and soda machine right nearby.”
Carver decided to let Watts assume a romantic motive for the stay at Casa Grande. It would be more believable and less disturbing than the truth. He laid a fifty-dollar bill on the desk and said, “My friend and I wanted to get away and enjoy being by ourselves for a while. You understand. If anybody comes around asking about either of us, will you let me know?”
Watts laid his palm over the fifty and made it disappear as if he were demonstrating sleight of hand. “Glad to extend the courtesy, Mr. Carver.”
Carver gripped the keys in his free hand and limped toward the door. Behind him Watts said, “I myself don’t care a whit about color. Think black’s rough, try being five feet tall.”
Carver knew Watts would have to stretch high on elevator shoes to top five feet, but he said nothing. It was self-deception that made life tolerable, so why fuck with it when it was harmless?
As he stepped outside, the sauna-like heat folded itself around him. He got in the car, drove down to cabin 6, and backed into a parking slot. “The guy at the desk has the impression we’re lovers,” he said.
Beth was sweating. Her hair had come partly down to curl darkly in front of her ears. Even her gold loop earrings seemed to be drooping. When he turned off the engine, she said, “Carver, it’s not like I don’t appreciate-”
He cut her off by handing her the key to 6. “There’s a connecting door we keep unlocked. We can also keep it closed.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I assumed, but you know how it is.”
“Yeah.” He climbed out of the car and opened the trunk. She reached in quickly and pulled out her Gucci suitcase. He looked around at the looming green swamp and the narrow gravel road. Some sort of brown-and-gray bird with long, spindly legs was standing near the road, studying him with cocked head. It made a throaty clucking noise he’d never heard a bird make before. Carver got out his own suitcase and slammed the trunk lid. “Let’s settle in, then get some supper.”
“Sounds right. Just give me time to take a shower.”
He waited until she was inside, then unlocked the door to 7 and limped in. Warm, stale air gave way for the fetidness of the swamp pushing in around him.
Actually, the room was better than the outside of the motel suggested. It was small and clean, with a double bed, an old walnut chifforobe instead of a closet, and a new-looking K-mart-brand color TV; an oak nightstand and an orange ceramic reading lamp were on each side of the bed. There was a dimestore print of a desert landscape on the wall over the brass headboard. The bathroom had black and white hexagonal tile on the floor, a tub with an added-on shower attachment and plastic curtain, a toilet bowl that was cracked but apparently didn’t leak, plenty of towels and soap. There was a full roll of toilet paper, and a spare tucked in the plumbing beneath the washbasin. Sun poured through the single small window in the bathroom, and everything smelled like pine-scented disinfectant.
Near the bed was an air conditioner like the one in the office, protruding from the wall. Carver hobbled across the worn but clean gray carpet, switched the unit on, and slid the thermostat over to High. It was noisy but seemed to work okay.
He went to the connecting door and unlocked it, leaving the key in it. There was a sliding-bolt lock as well as the lock in the doorknob. It had been painted over years ago, when the door had been enameled white, and was stuck; it took him a while to force the bolt free and unlock it. Probably there was another one just like it on the other side. Carver didn’t try to open the door.
Plumbing rattled in the walls and water hissed. Beth running her shower.
Carver lugged his suitcase over to the bed, opened it, and got out some fresh underwear and socks. He placed the Colt in one of the chifforobe drawers.
He got undressed, then went into the bathroom to take his own shower.
Beth yelped on the other side of the wall as he twisted the faucet handle and water spewed over him. There was a frantic banging on the wall. A faint voice. “Carver, you turned your shower on and my water stopped!”
He picked up the tiny, lilac-scented bar of motel soap and lathered his arms and chest, pretending not to hear.
21
Beth’s shower was still running as Carver toweled dry and limped from the bathroom. The short-napped gray carpet was rough under his bare soles. It was cool in the room and felt good. He sat on the edge of the bed and dressed himself, then scooted around until he could reach the old-fashioned black phone on one of the nightstands. Dialed 9 for an outside line.
McGregor wasn’t on duty at Del Moray police headquarters. Carver hung up. Dialed 9 again, then McGregor’s home number. Got an answering machine.
When the high-pitched tone sounded to signal him to begin his message, he said simply, “This is Carver.”
Click. McGregor was home and had been screening his calls. “Got something for me?” his voice said.
“It’s possible.”
“This line sounds funny. Where you calling from?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“If it didn’t matter I wouldn’t have asked, fuckface. You better not cut up cute with me or-”
“Did I hear you say you had something for me?” Carver interrupted. He was tired of McGregor’s threats; he already knew he was dealing with something sick and vicious with a badge.
McGregor sighed loudly; it was a lonesome sound on the already hissing connection. “All right, I’ll play your game. You want me to say please with sugar on it? Grow the fuck up, Carver!”
A series of sharp raps sounded from the closed connecting door. Beth was working on the painted-over sliding bolt lock on her side, maybe using a shoe for a hammer.
McGregor said, “You at a carpenters’ convention?”
“Just a minute.”
McGregor objected to Carver leaving the phone, but Carver didn’t listen to what he said. A barrage of tinny obscenity trailed faintly from the receiver as he laid it on the nightstand.
Carver got up with the help of his cane. Limped over and pounded on the door a few times with the heel of his hand. Kind of hurt, but he loosened the door where it had been painted to the frame. He heard Beth curse, more sharp rapping coming from near the bolt lock, then a metallic scraping sound. Carver twisted the doorknob. Felt it come alive in his hand as it rotated from the other side. He yanked backward and the door made an odd popping sound and swung open.
Beth was standing with a high-heeled shoe in her right hand. He’d identified the rapping sound correctly; she’d been using the shoe as a hammer on the bolt lock. She looked as if she wanted to use it the same way on Carver. She was wearing faded designer jeans and a blue short-sleeved blouse. White Reeboks. Still had on her gold loop earrings. She said, “This sure as hell isn’t the Dark Glades Hilton, Carver.”