The Starlite Motor Lodge was a tired mid-century throwback on a dusty stretch of highway five miles outside of Las Vegas. Unlit neon. Pink stucco caked with grime. A rusty handrail bordering its second-story walkway. The kind of place that advertised clean rooms and color TVs, and made you wonder whether either claim was true.
I pulled my rental into the Starlite’s lot as sunset painted the horizon red. The place was pretty empty, so I had my choice of parking spots. A twentysomething in an undershirt and a faded pair of Levi’s sat reading Hunter Thompson in a lawn chair outside his room, a crumpled takeout bag from the taqueria next door at his feet. As I climbed out of the car, he whistled.
“Uh, Mikey—did you just get catcalled?” Even through the cheap Bluetooth earpiece, Lester’s amused tone was hard to miss.
“I’m pretty sure he was whistling at the car, jackass. I told you it was too flashy.” Lester was my tech guy. My right-hand man. A master forger and a genius with computers, he always set up my aliases and handled my travel arrangements. But the fucker had a sense of humor. This trip, my IDs all read Zack Carey—after Kyle MacLachlan’s character in Showgirls —and the rental car he’d booked for me was a ’67 Mustang GT convertible in Acapulco Blue.
“Aw, come on. Loosen up a little, would you? You’re in Vegas, baby! As far as I’m concerned, that car’s barely flashy enough. Besides, I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re a very handsome man, Michael. Everyone thinks so.”
“Yeah? Everyone who? You aside, the whole world thinks I’m dead.”
“Oh. Right. Guess it’s just me, then.”
The desert heat was nigh unbearable. This time of year, even nightfall offered little relief. My throat was parched. My clothes clung to my skin. Sweat gathered beneath the concealment holster on my hip. A hand-painted sign on the roadhouse across the street promised live music and ice-cold beer. Right now, that sounded like a better way to spend my evening than what I had planned.
“What room did you say she was in again?” I asked.
“201.”
“Thanks.” I eyed the dingy old motel. The office was bottom right. 201 was the room farthest from. Light showed in two ground-floor windows, and—my rented Mustang aside—there were three cars in the parking lot, all clustered around the office. There weren’t any bus stops nearby, so my guess was she took a cab here and asked for a little privacy when she checked in.
“Listen, Mikey, are you sure you wanna do this? Because it’s not too late to walk away.” Lester had been trying to talk me out of this job since it popped up on our radar. He thought the potential payout was too small, and the odds of getting paid at all were lousy. For what it was worth, I didn’t disagree.
I sighed. “We’ve been over this already, Les. I’m not going to change my mind now.”
“All right, all right—I’ve said my piece.”
“I’m going dark for the duration of the approach. I’ll call you back shortly.”
“Good luck,” he said. “Destiny awaits.”
The stairs clanged beneath my boot treads. A warm breeze kicked grit into my eyes. Blackout curtains blocked my view of the rooms I passed. Their windows were closed; their AC units, idle.
Room 201’s air conditioner was on, though. It rattled and wheezed like an asthmatic in the grip of an attack, and dripped discolored water onto the walkway. The curtains were open. The lights and TV were off. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered inside. Saw a queen-size bed with a busy floral comforter. A Formica table and two chairs. A torchiere lamp. A low, wide dresser with a television atop it—color, maybe, but not a flat screen. A suitcase on a luggage rack, unzipped and hemorrhaging clothes. Near as I could tell, the room was currently unoccupied.
I knocked. When no one answered, I tried the door. It was locked, but I could see through a gap in the doorjamb that the deadbolt
I pulled my rental into the Starlite’s lot as sunset painted the horizon red. The place was pretty empty, so I had my choice of parking spots. A twentysomething in an undershirt and a faded pair of Levi’s sat reading Hunter Thompson in a lawn chair outside his room, a crumpled takeout bag from the taqueria next door at his feet. As I climbed out of the car, he whistled.
“Uh, Mikey—did you just get catcalled?” Even through the cheap Bluetooth earpiece, Lester’s amused tone was hard to miss.
“I’m pretty sure he was whistling at the car, jackass. I told you it was too flashy.” Lester was my tech guy. My right-hand man. A master forger and a genius with computers, he always set up my aliases and handled my travel arrangements. But the fucker had a sense of humor. This trip, my IDs all read Zack Carey—after Kyle MacLachlan’s character in Showgirls —and the rental car he’d booked for me was a ’67 Mustang GT convertible in Acapulco Blue.
“Aw, come on. Loosen up a little, would you? You’re in Vegas, baby! As far as I’m concerned, that car’s barely flashy enough. Besides, I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re a very handsome man, Michael. Everyone thinks so.”
“Yeah? Everyone who? You aside, the whole world thinks I’m dead.”
“Oh. Right. Guess it’s just me, then.”
The desert heat was nigh unbearable. This time of year, even nightfall offered little relief. My throat was parched. My clothes clung to my skin. Sweat gathered beneath the concealment holster on my hip. A hand-painted sign on the roadhouse across the street promised live music and ice-cold beer. Right now, that sounded like a better way to spend my evening than what I had planned.
“What room did you say she was in again?” I asked.
“201.”
“Thanks.” I eyed the dingy old motel. The office was bottom right. 201 was the room farthest from. Light showed in two ground-floor windows, and—my rented Mustang aside—there were three cars in the parking lot, all clustered around the office. There weren’t any bus stops nearby, so my guess was she took a cab here and asked for a little privacy when she checked in.
“Listen, Mikey, are you sure you wanna do this? Because it’s not too late to walk away.” Lester had been trying to talk me out of this job since it popped up on our radar. He thought the potential payout was too small, and the odds of getting paid at all were lousy. For what it was worth, I didn’t disagree.
I sighed. “We’ve been over this already, Les. I’m not going to change my mind now.”
“All right, all right—I’ve said my piece.”
“I’m going dark for the duration of the approach. I’ll call you back shortly.”
“Good luck,” he said. “Destiny awaits.”
The stairs clanged beneath my boot treads. A warm breeze kicked grit into my eyes. Blackout curtains blocked my view of the rooms I passed. Their windows were closed; their AC units, idle.
Room 201’s air conditioner was on, though. It rattled and wheezed like an asthmatic in the grip of an attack, and dripped discolored water onto the walkway. The curtains were open. The lights and TV were off. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered inside. Saw a queen-size bed with a busy floral comforter. A Formica table and two chairs. A torchiere lamp. A low, wide dresser with a television atop it—color, maybe, but not a flat screen. A suitcase on a luggage rack, unzipped and hemorrhaging clothes. Near as I could tell, the room was currently unoccupied.
I knocked. When no one answered, I tried the door. It was locked, but I could see through a gap in the doorjamb that the deadbolt
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