3.
 After another hour or two, she switched places with Sparto, who rubbed his eyes and yawned. She explained the amusing little encounter, and he stretched left and right. He was the same age as she, 30, but more robust in his physique. She lay back and let herself drift in the heat and sunshine as the tires hummed on the highway surface and cars made quick swishing wind-noises on the opposite side. They talked a while, and then she drifted off to sleep.
Toward dark, they pulled into the parking lot of the Western Sunset Arroyo Motel. The desert had a peculiar alkaline smell, and a night wind blew up out of the black washes and sent tiny puffs of dust across clay-colored ground. The puffs shone in moonlight. Distant town or ranch lights glittered like the stars themselves on horizon mountain ranges. A few tall cacti stood around, a few of which had a branch growing upward as if waving, other branches growing down like arms not waving. “Just like a postcard,” she said, sighing and thinking of her paint set in the trunk.
“Yeah,” Sparto said, turning the key off. The engine went silent for the first time in days, it seemed, and the resulting emptiness was deafening in its own way. They listened for a while. “Hey,” he said, “they have crickets out here too.”
“They have everything,” she said, “remember that, and be careful.”
“Yeah, I will be, don’t worry.”
“I’m not taking a gun,” she said. “If they suspect, then it’s no point. We’re dead anyway.”
She stepped from the car, leaving it in shadow, parked under some trees slightly uphill from the motel. She walked with midi-heels crunching on gravel into the office. She set her white leather purse on the counter and folded her hands on it as she waited for a clerk to appear.
She was surprised she felt so relaxed. She took in every detail—the beat-up counter, the cracked glass top with photos of kids and family under it, the posters on the walls suggesting travel to anyplace but here, the various credit cards they accepted, all national brands, the American Legion gumball machine in the corner, the Kiwanis plaque on the fake paneled wall, the dirty ashtray on the little round table accompanied by two red-plastic, chrome-legged chairs under a panoramic window presently filled with the black of night and a sprawl of endless stars. A plaque read: This motel is a franchise owned by the Association of Western Sunset Arroyo Motel Services. If you’d like to have a franchise of your very own, please call—
A heavyset woman interrupted coming out of a back room, wringing a damp towel in angry red hands. “Yes?”
“I’d like a room for two for a week. We called ahead.”
“Oh yeah?” She had a bun of gray hair and a long-ago pretty face that was now just wide, with burst capillaries on the cheeks and a mean, suspicious coldness in her eyes. Korinta could understand—from years of dealing with deadbeats, weirdos, whatever washed through on the interstate. “You Korinta and Sparto Jones?
“Yes, we are.”
“Mr. Jones with you?”
“In the car getting the bags ready.”
“I’ll need to see both your IDs. Driver’s license, credit cards, one each, will do.”
“Not a problem.” Korinta was glad it was going smoothly. She opened her purse and showed the required ID in her fat red wallet.
“How do you stay so slim?” the woman asked with veiled pleasant jealousy.
“Eat lots of breadsticks and don’t grab any of those restaurant mints,” Korinta said brightly.
The woman looked at her surprised, then burst out laughing. “Regular ray of sunlight, ain’t you?” She turned and ran a hard gray hand along the rows of numbers on the key rack until she found the right one. “Room 202. You wanted a western exposure. That’s a nice one.” She handed the two little dangling keys over. “Drinks and snacks in the fridge, pay as you leave. Fresh sheets, towels, soap, everything should be there, but let me know if anything’s missing. So you are a journalist?”
“Yes,” Korinta said. “I work for NBI.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a smaller international news syndicate. They sometimes contribute video reports on the evening news, but they’re best known for written press reports since World War II. I’m a correspondent, and this piece was suggested by one of our editors who had been driving across country last year and stayed here for a night or two.”
“Oh? Word of mouth. I love it. Is it a guest I know?”
“Margery Wentworth,” Korinta said. “Last July.”
“I’ll look through the guest register when I have time. That’s nice. Tell her we appreciate the word of mouth.”
“You do a lot of good work here,” Korinta said. There would be a Margery Wentworth listed on July 14 of last year, she was sure, if NBI had done their work well.
The woman’s name was Ginger Bancroft and she and her husband Tony owned the motel. Korinta and Ginger talked for a few minutes about giving employment to otherly-enabled persons, and washing the towels in one degree cooler water, and recycling whatever possible. Korinta told Ginger about her plans to stay for a week or so, making frequent trips around the area to paint pictures of the landscape and whatever local people she might stumble on. “It’s our first vacation in ten years,” she told Ginger.
“Been married long?” Ginger asked with a large wry hint that she’d been married a lot longer and had many poignant things to remember.
“Ten years.”
“About time he took you on a trip. Sign here.”
Korinta signed the credit card slip and accepted her flimsy copy.
They waited while a printer whirred.
“You should make him take you on a little trip every year.”
“I’ll bring it to his attention,” Korinta said.
“Tell him to stop by either tonight or tomorrow and show me his ID. I need to see ID on every guest. Nothing personal.”
“I understand. Could you please make a note that we don’t like to be disturbed much. At all, actually.”
“Not even to change your sheets?” Ginger’s tone was wry.
“Once a day will be fine.” Korinta gave her a disarming smile. “We’ll plan on it.” She hurried from the office, got her small carryall from the car, and went up to the room. She’d let Sparto bring up the heavier luggage and her easel and the paints. She entered the pleasant, clean-smelling room and threw her purse on the bed. Korinta was pleasantly and sleepily aware as the shower ran incessantly while Sparto took one of his long showers and sang. He’d picked up a few country western tunes and sang in a drawling accent, “Ah could have hung mah troubles on the wall, but ah took down mah gun to solve it all...” Korinta grinned as she drifted off to sleep.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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