“How much do
you think the old coot’s got put away, Ray? One, maybe two, thousand bucks?”
Crosby asked, anxiously. He craned his neck around, towards the reception of
the Lucky Charm motel. He saw the old man sitting behind the counter, eyes
glued to a portable TV an unhealthy distance away from him. He was a gaunt,
sickly, looking fellow; grisly and unshaven. It didn’t look like he had money,
not the kind of money that mattered anyway, but, then again, you never could
tell with old farts like him. He’d probably learnt to live on a shoe string most
of his life and had squirreled away the rest.
“Enough,” Ray replied. “Besides, we’re
broke right now, so whatever he’s got is a bonus, right?”
“And it’ll be enough to get us out
of the country?”
Ray nodded, yeah.
Crosby sighed. He didn’t like the
idea of skipping town, but knew if he wanted to remain a free man then he had
to do exactly what Ray said when Ray said it.
“Don’t you dare get cold feet on me,
do you hear?” Ray grumbled. “We’re both in the shit right now. We killed a man
and that means the cops are going to be looking for us. They ain’t gonna pat
you on the back and give you a caution. They’re gonna lock you up and throw
away the key.”
“It was an accident. It’s not like
we intended to –”
“That means shit! We killed a person,
and that’s about as bad as it gets for guys like us believe me.”
Crosby frowned. Guy’s like us?, the frown said.
“Let’s just say we don’t fall into
the right social demographic.”
Nonetheless, Crosby didn’t think the
Lucky Charm motel looked like it did a lot of business. The place needed a lot
of work and a lot of cleaning and fixing up. Still, if the old coot did make any money it was probably from
passing trade: sales clerks, whores, truckers, and the like.
“Ready?” Ray asked. He reached into
his pocket and pulled the .45 he had bought back in Nottingham out and sat it
on his lap. “Once we start there’s no backing out, ok?”
Crosby nodded, yes.
“Ok, here’s what we do,” Ray
soothed. “You walk in, ask for a room – any room – and keep him busy. I’ll come
in a little after you, point the gun in his face, and make him give us the money.” He paused, clamped a hand on Crosby’s
knee, and began again. “Now he’s going to say all kinds of shit to scare us
about how he’s got CCTV and a silent alarm, but all that’s bullshit. He may
even say he has no money at all – again, that will be bullshit too – so no
matter what he says we stick to our guns. We make him hand it over.”
“Ok, Ray, I got it.”
“You better had, kiddo, otherwise
we’re as good as dead.”
Crosby got out and immediately felt
something hot and heavy roll in the pit of his stomach. He turned towards the
reception building, drew a steadying breath, and walked in.
“Help you?” The old man behind the
desk asked without ever looking at Crosby.
“I’d like a room, if you’ve got
one.”
“They’re thirty-five seventy two a
night – non negotiable. The place may look like a shithole but I’ve got to make
a living somehow. Room keys are returnable by midday the following day, a
minute past and you’ll be charged for an extra night whether you use it or not.”
Crosby blinked.
“Well?” He asked, sharply. “Do you
want one or not?”
“Do ... do you take card?” He held
up his debit card. It was useless except for display purposes; the damned thing
hadn’t held a dime since he met Ray.
The old man finally looked at the
card and then back to its owner. “What do I look like, a bank?”
“Most places take ‘em these days,”
he cooed.
“Well not here. I deal in cold,
hard, cash only. It’s policy.”
“Ok, so where’s the nearest cash
machine?”
“Nearest town’s about five miles
north ... suppose you’d find one there if you looked hard enough.”
Crosby snorted. Miserable old coot, he thought.
Then, just as Crosby was certain the
conversation had come to an end, Ray burst through the doors; the .45 held high.
The muzzle rested easily on the tip of the old man’s nose.
The old man’s face suddenly
contorted. His milky eyes narrowing to slits, his brow furrowed angrily, and
his thinning lips curled into a grimace.
“Give me the money old man,” Ray
snapped. “Hand it over or I’ll blow your nasty fucking face off.”
“Who the hell do you boys think you
are?”
Ray smiled. “We’re the boy’s who’re
gonna rob blind, old man. Now hand it over. All of it.”
Anger quickly faded from the old
man’s face and was replaced by mild amusement. His grimace unfurled into the
half smile of a man who had recovered from a stroke, and his hand wafted
through the air as if dismissing an irritant fly.
“There ain’t any money here you stupid motherfuckers.” He
beamed. “There never has been. Not for a long time.” He paused, fingered
something from between his tombstone teeth, and said, “You boys better run
along though, before my boy Jud gets here. He’ll have seen you out there and
he’ll probably have heard the commotion ... so it’d be in your best interest if
you ... well ... if you scoot along.”
“Last chance,” Ray cocked the .45. “Where’s
the money?”
“There is none.” He snorted, hawked
a ball of yellow phlegm, and spat on the floor. “It doesn’t matter now anyway.
It’s too late to run. He’s here.”
The small bell above the reception
door tinkled and a gust of icy autumn wind blew in around their ankles. Crosby
turned his head. And there, framed awkwardly in the doorway, stood the hulk of
a disfigured man dressed in bloodied denim jeans and butchers apron. His face was
a ghastly roadmap of scars. In his hands he held a cleaver. Crosby looked
towards the cleaver then back to the hulks anger riddled face, and felt fear
rise up into his throat.
Crosby reached for Ray but, as the old man said, it was too
late.
Jud growled though torn lips and
swung the cleaver in all directions. Crosby, mercifully, dodged the first swing
and watched as it tore away the back of Rays head. Ray didn’t make a sound. He
simply stood and shook and died where he had stood. The back of his head fell
away, blood and bone and brain left to fall at his heels.
The room filled with cackled
laughter.
Crosby watched as blood pooled
around his feet. It poured and poured and poured ... and pooled around the tip
of his loafers.
Jud grunted. He swung the cleaver a
second time; grazing Crosby with effortless ease.
Crosby didn’t die straight away, he was left to beg and plead and
cajole as Jud stripped the flesh from his bones in an act that would see pain, agony,
and suffering last for what would feel like a lifetime or more.
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