I couldn’t have been happier had our quarters been a Four Seasons, until we were informed at the registration desk that the restaurant had closed, room service had ended, and there was no bar. In fact, the clerk advised in his North Carolina accent, at this hour we would be better off looking forward to breakfast instead of looking back at the dinner we had missed.
“You got to be kidding,” Marino said, thunder gathering in his face.
“If I don’t get something to eat my gut’s going to turn inside out.”
“I’m mighty sorry, sir.” The clerk was but a boy with rosy cheeks and hair almost as yellow as the motel’s sign.
“But the good news is there’s vending machines on each floor.” He pointed.
“And a Mr. Zip no more’n a mile from here.”
“Our ride just left.” Marino glared at him.
“What? I’m supposed to walk a mile at this hour to some joint called Mr. Zip?” The clerk’s smile froze, fear shining in his eyes like tiny candles as he looked to Wesley and me for reassurance. But we were too worn out to be much help. When Wesley rested his bloody panty-hose wrapped hand on the counter, the lad’s expression turned to horror.
“Sir! Do you need a doctor?” His voice went up an octave and cracked.
“Just my room key will be fine,” Wesley replied. The clerk turned around and nervously lifted three keys from their consecutive hooks, dropping two of them to the carpet. He stooped to pick them up and dropped one of them again. At last, he presented them to us, the room numbers stamped on the attached plastic medallions big enough to read at twenty paces.
“You ever heard of security in this joint?” Marino said as if he had hated the boy since birth.
“You’re supposed to write the room number on a piece of paper which you privately slip to the guest so every drone can’t see where he keeps the wife and Rolex. In case you ain’t keeping up with the news, you had a murder real close to here just a couple weeks back.” In speechless bewilderment the clerk watched Marino next hold up his key as if it were a piece of incriminating evidence.
“No minibar key? Meaning forget having a drink in the room at this hour, too?” Marino raised his voice some more.
“Never mind. I don’t want no more bad news.” As we followed a sidewalk to the middle of the small motel, TV screens flickered blue and shadows moved behind filmy curtains over plate-glass windows. Alternating red and green doors reminded me of the plastic hotels and homes of Monopoly as we climbed stairs to the second floor and found our rooms. Mine was neatly made and cozy, the television bolted to the wall, water glasses and ice bucket wrapped in sanitary plastic. Marino repaired to his quarters without bidding us good-night, shutting his door just a little too hard.
“What the hell’s eating him?” Wesley asked as he followed me into my room.
I did not want to talk about Marino, and pulling a chair close to one of the double beds, I said, “Before I do anything we need to clean you up.”
“Not without painkiller.” Wesley went out to fill the ice bucket and removed a fifth of Dewar’s from his tote bag. He fixed drinks while I spread a towel on the bed and arranged it with forceps, packets of Betadine, and 5-0 nylon sutures.
“This is going to hurt, isn’t it.” He looked at me as he took a big swallow of Scotch.
I put on my glasses and replied, “It’s going to hurt like hell. Follow me.”
I headed into the bathroom. For the next several minutes, we stood side by side at the sink while I washed his wounds with warm soapy water. I was as gentle as possible and he did not complain, but I could feel him flinch in the small muscles of his hand. When I glanced at his face in the mirror, he was perspiring and pale. He had five gaping lacerations in his palm.
“You’re just lucky you missed your radial artery,” I said.