Calvin parks his motorcycle and we are about to get out of the car and meet him when he signals for us to stay put. He walks over to our car and I roll down my window.
“Wait here,” he says, leaning down close enough for me catch a whiff of something spicy and tantalizing. “I want to approach them alone first. I don’t want it to seem as if I’m making any assumptions or putting them on the spot. I’ll come out and get you if things look good.”
We sit and wait, watching the activity around us. And the Grizzly is plenty active. Within a few minutes, the door to one of the rooms opens and two men emerge, climb into separate cars, and drive away. Minutes after that, a maid enters the just-vacated room with a cart loaded with towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies. Speedy nighttime maid service isn’t the hallmark of your typical roadside motel. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Grizzly is renting rooms by the hour.
“Interesting place,” I mutter.
“It’s clean and the owners are discreet,” Dom says.
I shoot him a look. “You know this place?”
“A little. I came here myself a time or two, years ago. Before Izzy.”
I ponder that.
“And before you get all high and mighty,” Dom continues, “you might want to know that the owners aren’t particular about who they rent to. Yes, it’s a popular spot for us homos because the place is clean and quiet and the owners are willing to look the other way. But we’re not the only ones who find that appealing. There’s a brisk hourly trade among the breeders here, too.”
Sure enough, another door opens a few minutes later and a man and woman step outside. The man escorts the woman to her car, leans in through the window to give her a kiss, and then watches her pull away before climbing into his own car. A few minutes later, yet another maid appears, wheeling her cart into the room the couple just left.
“Good Lord,” I say, shaking my head. “What if some family showed up here to spend the night?”
“The entire left wing is reserved for regular overnight business,” Dom explains. “Only the right wing rooms are available to the hourly crowd.”
Calvin reappears then and I fear bad news when I see the grim expression on his face.
“Randall isn’t here right now but his sister is,” he says, leaning in through my window. “She isn’t real pleased with me for bringing you here and she won’t commit to anything. But when I told her why you needed the information, she said she’d hear you out as long as you promise her the Grizzly won’t get caught up in some official investigation. It wouldn’t be real good for business…if you get my drift.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “I can’t guarantee that the cops won’t show up here on their own, but I can promise that I won’t bring them here.”
“Tell her that, not me,” Calvin says. “Come on and I’ll introduce you.”
Dom waits in the car while I follow Calvin into the office. A thick fog of cigarette smoke hovers in the air and the tiny room has a dull, dingy look to it as if everything is covered with a fine layer of dust and ash. Behind a small, yellowed countertop stands the biggest woman I’ve ever seen. She has to be close to seven feet tall and has the broad, thick shoulders typical of swimmers. Her hair is cut short in a Joan-of-Arc-type fringe and she is wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans. I can’t see her feet but mentally outfit them in a pair of heavy work boots. I nickname her Babe, like the blue ox.
“This is Mattie Winston,” Calvin says, gesturing toward me.
“Winston, eh?” Babe says, her brows knitting together.
“Yes.”
“And this,” Calvin says, giving Babe a nod, “is Cinder.”
“Cindy?” I say, not sure if I’ve heard right.
“No, Cin-der,” the woman says, enunciating each syllable in a voice that I’m sure could rattle windows.
“Oh, okay. Like Cinderella,” I say, smiling. The smile doesn’t last long, and if looks could kill, Calvin will soon be hauling me out of here in a body bag. Cinder’s face looks like a major storm front, the kind that spawns giant hailstones and F5 tornados.
“It ain’t Cindy,” she growls. “And it sure as hell ain’t Cinderella. Got that?”
I nod so vigorously I give myself a mild case of whiplash and decide that Cinder is obviously short for cinderblock.
“Calvin here says Mikey got kilt by someone,” she says. “And that you think maybe the friend he usta bring here might know sumpin ’bout it.”
“Yes.” I say nothing more. It is hard enough getting that out; my mouth is so dry, my tongue keeps sticking to my palate.
I hear the door open behind me but don’t look. In fact, I instantly drop my gaze to the floor, resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes closed. I feel like a witness to a killing, knowing that if I dare to look at the murderer, I’ll become the next victim.
Cinder reaches beneath the counter and I half expect her to come back up with a gun. Instead she is holding several sheets of paper, stapled together. She hands them to me and says, “These are the titles we have in stock. VCR rents for ten bucks an hour.” Then she dismisses me and turns to whoever came through the door. “Help you?” she grunts.
I get the hint, but just in case I didn’t, Calvin tugs at my arm, pulling me off to one side. I look at the papers Cinder handed me and realize it’s a list of videos available for rent. And not just any videos. I scan the titles, finding such gems as Ass Ventura: The Crack Detective, The Blow Bitch Project, and Bonfire of the Panties.
I am vaguely aware of a man checking in for a room, but keep my eyes on the list. Ferris Bueller Gets Off, Forrest Hump, Good Will Humping.
The man checking in pays and Cinder gives him a key. I keep reading. The Madam’s Family, Muffy the Vampire Layer, Position: Impossible.
The man finally leaves and I hear Cinder clear her throat. I scan a few more titles as quickly as I can—The Sperminator, Saving Ryan’s Privates, Snatch Adams—before reluctantly handing the pages back to her.
“Calvin says you work with Izzy Rybarceski,” Cinder says.
“I do,” I say, raising Cinder up a notch for pronouncing Izzy’s name correctly and without hesitation.
“He here?”
“He’s out of town.”
“You’re not a cop, right?”
“No way, Jose.” I giggle then, a stupid-sounding nervous giggle that I fear might be grounds for murder. Cinder narrows her eyes and it is enough to scare the giggle right out of me. I try to swallow and can’t.
“We have a lot of respect for our clients’ privacy here, ya know.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“We figure what they do on their own time is their business. Long as they’re adults, pay for the room and don’t bust nothing up, we don’t care what they do.”
I nod.
“We don’t even pay attention to who comes with who or who leaves with who.”
My hopes sink like a two-bit criminal tossed into the East River wearing a pair of cement overshoes.
“But I don’t cotton to people killing one another. That’s wrong.”
I barely dare to breathe. What is she saying? Does she or doesn’t she know anything? And if she does, is she going to tell me?
“So happens I did see who it was came to meet Mikey one time,” Cinder says. “Just a few days ago, in fact. I guess there was a mix-up cause he didn’t know what room to go to. So he came here first. I don’t usually ask for names or nothing but I seen this guy before someplace else. Knew him from there.”
“Where?”