The Spur was everything the Saddle Up wasn’t. At night, I couldn’t tell what color the three-story brick building was-light pink? — and in truth it was nondescript and institutional-looking. But the big elaborate boot-shaped neon complete with spinning-neon spur, all green and yellow and orange, had enough flash for four motels.
All I had for a suitcase was a brown vinyl carry-on, slung over my shoulder when I entered the lobby of the motel, which proved to be a mini-casino. Well, that might be an exaggeration-it was just slots that ringed the walls, though the coffee tables around which comfy chairs were arranged were embedded with poker machines. About half a dozen guests were making use of them.
The cowboy trappings were limited here-the lobby was modern and bright, with only a couple of large framed western prints (a rodeo scene, a desert vista) to hint that we were in Boot Heel, Nevada. Behind the long check-in counter were three stations, but only one clerk was working, an attractive big-hair brunette in her midtwenties, with luminous brown eyes and a nice tan and an immediately friendly smile. She was in a green blazer the same startling color as her eye shadow; whether fashion statement or coincidence, I couldn’t say.
Her name tag said tina.
“Hi, Tina,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation.”
“No problem, sir. We have rooms available. Facing the pool, if you like.”
“Cool.” I leaned an elbow on the counter and gave her my friendly, shy smile. Maybe she was just a good clerk, but the vibe I was getting said she didn’t find me repulsive. “I’m here to do some PR for the movie company that’s in town. Art Stockwell is an old friend of mine.”
She got even more pleasant and friendly. “Well, I can put you on his floor, if you like.”
“That would be great. Closer the better.”
She checked her book. “How about…across the hall? Down a little, but real close.”
“Perfect. What room is he in again?”
“Three-thirteen. You’re in three-sixteen. Your room looks out on the pool, but don’t worry. There’s no swimming after ten, so it shouldn’t be noisy.”
“Great. Say, I just got in. Is Art back from the day’s shoot yet?”
“No, Mr. Stockwell is still out.”
We did the check-in stuff, and I gave her a credit card that said JOHN H. REYNOLDS. I had two on that particular name, attached to a legit bank account. She wondered if I’d want the room charged to the Stockwell Production Company account. It was tempting, but that might require some kind of clearing process, so I said no.
“Tina, could you give me a call when Art gets in? Assuming you’re still working.”
“Oh, I’m on night shift. I’ll be here. So should I have Mr. Stockwell call you, then, Mr. Reynolds?”
“No. Please don’t. We’re old pals and I want to surprise him. He isn’t expecting me till the weekend. You call me, please.”
“Glad to, Mr. Reynolds.”
We exchanged smiles that were polite but with promise. My general policy was no sex on the job. Too distracting. Fortunately, I was completely inconsistent on this point.
I went up the elevator to my room. It was surprisingly spacious, nicely modern, nothing western in the appointments beyond another desert vista print and an earthtone color scheme. I unpacked, wishing I could risk a shower, but I didn’t know when the phone might ring announcing Stockwell’s presence.
The nine millimeter, which I’d transferred from the Nova’s glove compartment to the carry-on bag, I rested on the nightstand by the phone. I turned off the lights, stretched out on the bed, propped a couple pillows, and used the remote to check the TV stations on the nice big 21” Sony on the dresser. They had satellite. Bruce would have loved it here.
Enough time passed that I was suddenly watching Johnny Carson. I realized I’d dropped off to sleep a few times, and that was no good. I got up and went out on the little balcony to stretch and let the night breeze wake me up a little.
Someone was swimming down there.
The motel, I now realized, was a squared-off U-shape, the short, flat part of the U representing the lobby wing facing Main Street. Within the U was a courtyard that was mostly swimming pool. Few lights were on down there, but the pool glowed from underneath, making the gracefully swimming figure a near silhouette.
A woman.
What from here, at least, seemed to be a lovely woman…longish dark hair, long legs, a slender, shapely body in a black bikini against a tan that aided and abetted the silhouette effect. According to Tina at the desk, the pool wasn’t open this late. But who was going to complain about this nymph relaxing with a solitary swim? Not any male guest, anyway.
The balcony I stood on was wrought iron and fairly small and I was wreathed in darkness, as the only light behind me was from The Tonight Show. When she swam on her back, she either couldn’t see me or didn’t care that I was up there leaning at the rail, gazing down admiringly.
Funny. With the pool’s under-lighting and the slice of moon’s grayish ivory, she eventually became somewhat more distinct in my night vision, less of a silhouette, and I’d be damned if she didn’t remind me of Joni. A little. Of the adult woman Joni at thirty-something might have grown up into, if she took decent care of herself and didn’t run to fat or anything.
The phone rang.
FOUR
It was pushing midnight, but I took the time to shower and make myself presentable. You don’t want to drop in unannounced on somebody, with a wild tale of hitmen on the loose, looking like the long day you’d just had.
I even shaved, and took the time to put on my creamcolor sport coat over a rust-color polo and brown jeans. I had put the sport coat in the closet when I unpacked, and it was fairly hung out from its time in the carry-on. It would give me a nice young professional look, and cover the nine millimeter stuffed in my waistband.
Earlier, when Tina down at the desk called, I made sure she hadn’t spoiled my surprise-she hadn’t-and then laughed and said, “Bet Art’s in one of those crazy Hawaiian shirts of his.”
“Uh, no-I think he just had on a t-shirt and jeans.”
Before the confusion in her voice could turn into anything, I said with another laugh, “Must be a little too warm out here in the desert for the Don Ho bit. I tell you, back in L.A., that’s his uniform.”
She managed to laugh at that, and I thanked her for her help and she said not at all, and I didn’t sense anything suspicious in her voice.
I’d just wanted to make sure I knew who I’d be talking to when I knocked on the door of 313. And a good thing, too, because the guy who answered was not wearing t-shirt and jeans.
Whoever-this-was in the doorway had on a pink polo shirt and off-white slacks with a puka necklace and sockless sandals (somebody was doing the Don Ho bit after all). Tall, slender, almost skinny, with a dirty blond early Beatles haircut, he wore aviator glasses whose lenses were tinted a faint rose. The light blue eyes behind rosecolored glasses were wide when the door opened; but they immediately became hooded when he saw a stranger before him.
Till then, he’d been smiling and I’d describe his expression as friendly-a pleasant-looking man in his forties, well-tanned, his boyish features slightly marred by pockmarked cheeks-but seeing me, his demeanor went freezedried.
That made sense, both his answering my knock so easily and then reacting negatively. I figured a movie company was a little world unto itself, with lots of people coming and going, so you wouldn’t think twice about opening a door half-past-midnight.
And that door had opened wide, giving me a glimpse of a guy sitting at a table, with paperwork spread out in front of him. A guy in a white t-shirt and jeans. Then the one in the pink polo narrowed the door to not much more than a crack.
Making three syllables out of it, he said, “Yes?”