Bitter Sweets by G. A. McKevett

clandestine meetings. Twenty-five bucks would buy you three hours of uninterrupted debauchery beneath mirrored ceilings, on vibrating beds with blue crushed velvet spreads-circa: 1972.

    And if you weren’t fortunate enough to have company in your room, any one of four X-rated cable television stations would show you what you were missing.

    Fourteen units long, the building glowed an anemic bluewhite in the light of the flickering neon sign which announced that there were, indeed, vacancies.

    Each dark blue door bore a crescent moon, reminiscent of a couple of outhouses Savannah had known as a child in Georgia.

    Savannah pulled her Camaro into the parking lot, gravel crunching under her tires. The area was dark and located behind the motel. No doubt to provide even more privacy for nervous customers.

    As she entered the squeaking front door, she spotted the innkeeper sitting behind the counter, his feet propped on a table beside a chrome coffeepot. From beneath the rim of a battered fishing cap, he was staring at a small, black-and-white television set, which had been shoved onto an overhead shelf, above the ancient cash register.

    “Yeah?” he asked without taking his eyes off the TV. She couldn’t see enough of the picture to know what had him so entranced, but from the groans and moans that issued from the set, she assumed he was watching one of his own cable channels.

    “I need-” she began.

    “How long?”

    She stepped closer and caught a glimpse of exaggerated male anatomy on the screen. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

    “How long do you need the room for?” he replied, still not looking her way. “We rent by the hour. I got one with a kingsize water bed and-”

    “No, thank you. I just wanted to visit one of your guests.”

    “Fine with me.” He finally turned toward her and shifted the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. “But, you visit, you pay.”

    “I’m just going to talk to him.”

    “Yeah ...” the guy grinned unpleasantly, revealing teeth that looked as though they hadn’t been acquainted with a toothbrush in a decade or so. They appeared to be wearing tiny yellow-green sweaters. “... you just wanna talk. Now, don’t they all.”

    Unconsciously, Savannah reached for the badge, which she had worn for so many years on a heavy chain around her neck. The badge which had been stripped from her, along with her authority as a peace officer. It certainly made moments like this more complicated.

    “My name is Savannah Reid,” she began, opening her purse to produce her private investigator’s license, “and I-”

    “Savannah Reid? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

    Mmmmmm... he had heard of her; she wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.

    “I didn’t know it would matter,” she replied.

    “Of course it does.” His grin widened, revealing gaps between the rows of “sweaters.” “I got a message for you, right here.”

    He bent over and began to riffle through the pile of papers on his desk top. After tossing aside an assortment of ancient phone messages with curling edges, musty girlie magazines, and wadded gum and cigarette wrappers, he produced a fairly freshlooking slip of pink paper.

    “A message, for me?” she asked. Her stomach began to chum, as though she knew she wasn’t going to like what she was about to receive. “Who is it from?” Do you really have to ask? she told herself.

    “It’s from a fellow who was staying here for a week or so.”

    “A red-haired guy.”

    “That’s him.”

    “You say he was staying? Does that mean he’s gone?”

    “Yep. Checked out a couple of hours ago. Don’t know why he’d leave so late. Might as well have stayed. I’d done charged him for the night. He seemed to be in a hurry to get on his way.”

    Adrenaline flooding through her veins, Savannah unfolded the pink slip of paper and read three simple words:

    Thanks for everything.

    “That’s it?” she asked, staring at the