Speak for the Dead by Rex Burns

Author:Rex Burns [Burns, Rex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-4790-7
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

THOUGH WAGER HAD seen the Jetliner Motel countless times, he’d never been there; it was one of the kind that blended into the tangle of businesses along every highway through Denver. Some twenty blocks west of Stapleton International on Smith Road, it was a convenient taxi ride from the airport and visible but hard to get to from 1-70. Its yellow neon airplane rose in the night sky above lesser marquees and signs beside the bumpy road, and to judge from the neighboring ranks of tractor-trailers, small ill-lit bars, warehouses, and cattle-loading docks, the motel had most of its trade from truckers and visitors to the National Western Stock Show. Wager parked just beyond the A-frame that tried to make the entry look impressive. Through the glass wall at the back of the lobby, he saw a large court of two-story units surrounding a pool. Small wisps of steam rose from the glowing water, but no one was swimming. In the lobby, the ashtrays overflowed onto the orange carpet, and here and there in the short pile, heel marks of old mud aimed at the reception desk. It wasn’t the kind of place Wager associated with either conventions or fashion shows, but a letter board welcomed members of the A.A.A.I. and told them to please register here.

“What’s the A.A.A.I?” Wager asked the clerk.

The slim young man looked as if his feet had been nailed to the floor two days ago. He answered without a smile, “American Association of Artificial Inseminators.”

“They’re having the convention?”

“The regional arm is.”

An arm of the Artificial Inseminators Association? Wager looked to see if the young man was joking, but the gray face was blank.

“Do you want a room?” he asked Wager.

“No. I was told there’s a fashion show here tonight.”

The tired face finally showed a quiver of life. “You’re interested in fashions?”

“Something wrong with that?”

A weary shrug; he saw all kinds on the night shift. “In the Jetliner Lounge. Just around there.”

It was too dark to tell if the lounge was as ill-kept as the lobby. A purple neon tube ran atop the mirror behind the bar and gave a little glow, but most of the light on that side of the room splashed up from the working area beneath the bar. A scattering of orange candle glasses marked tables drifting out to the left; and Wager made out a line of silhouettes sitting on barstools and the pale reflection of clothes and flesh at the dark tables. In the center of the ceiling hung a model 747 with glowing portholes. He groped his way to a vinyl chair that felt sticky and rose no higher than the small of his back.

“Yes, sir?” The waitress wore something like the upper half of a stewardess uniform.

“Is this where they have the fashion show?” He saw no stage, none of the runways or platforms that, from newspaper pictures, he thought fashion shows needed.

“Yes, sir. The girls will be on at seven o’clock. What do you want to drink?”

“Just a draw.

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