“Cal!” Allen hollered through the French doors, “Can I getthose wings to go?”
Chapter Two
It was two thirty by the time Allen and Frankie returned tothe Sunrise Motel. The paper sign that had been taped to the office door wasgone, and a tall thin woman stood behind the reception desk looking down atsome paperwork.
“Looks like the manager is in, Frankie,” Allen said. “Let'ssee if our room is ready.”
Allen led the dog across the parking lot to the office door,and they went in. By the time they got inside, the tall woman was bent over achest freezer, to the left of the counter, with the lid open. She was shoulderdeep in the old Kenmore.
“Are you stuck?” Allen joked.
The woman raised up, smacking the back of her head on thehalf-closed lid. “Ouch.”
“Sorry about that. Didn't mean to startle you.”
The woman rubbed the back of her head and checked herfingertips. “No blood,” she said. “We're all good.” She closed the lid. “Justmaking sure there's enough ice. Machine's broke, so I gotta put bags in heretill we get her fixed.” She walked across the office, went through a door, andreappeared behind the reception desk.
“Hi,” Allen said. “I just talked to your twin sister aboutthe ice.”
“That was me. I don't—oh, you were pulling my leg.”
“Yup, just pulling your leg.”
“Good one. What can I do for ya? Checkin' in?”
“I am … if my room is ready.”
Allen stared at the woman's face as she pecked away on thecomputer with her long, bony fingers. Although she didn't seem to be elderly,her face, arms, and hands were wrinkled and dotted with liver spots, tellingthe story of a woman who'd seen a lot of sun, booze, and cigarettes. Her crow'sfeet and laugh lines were deep. Her hair, a pinkish bouffant with random flecksof black and gray, suggested a wad of cotton candy in which hapless insects hadgotten entangled. She had bags under her eyes and her cheeks and jowls weredeflated, as though the day before she had weighed a hundred pounds more. Shehummed an unfamiliar tune while she stabbed at the keyboard.
Allen Crane,” she said to herself. “Knew some Cranes once upin Bangor.
Allen primed himself to reply to the Are you Allen Crane,the writer? Reaction he sometimes got—and was always vaguely disappointed whenhe didn't. The manager obviously needed some prompting.
“I'm a writer,” he said. “I came here to try and knock out anew book. A change of scenery's supposed to be just the ticket for curingwriter's block.”
“Uh-huh. I'll put you in room number eleven, Mr. Crane.”
Allen's ego deflated like a balloon. “Okay. Thanks.”
She handed him an old-fashioned metal key on a plastic fobstamped with an image of the Nubble Lighthouse.
“I'm in the room right next door. If ya need anything, justknock.”
“I'll be sure and do that.” Allen looked down at the dog,who was out cold again. “Get up, Frankie.”
The dog opened his eyes and yawned.
“Frankie, ya say?” the manager asked.
“That's what I said.”
“Like Frankie and Johnny?”
“Nope. Like Frank and Lola.”
“Who's that?”
“Just a couple I met in Pensacola. They were on their secondhoneymoon.”
“Frank and Lola, in Pensacola,” she said with a grin. “Itrhymes.”
“Huh. So it does. Someone should write a song.” Allen turnedand headed back to the Jeep.
Allen's luggage consisted of a green nylon duffle bag, asmall black suitcase on wheels, and a leather satchel for his laptop and otherwriting supplies. He put the duffle bag strap around his neck and hung it tothe right, and the leather satchel strap around his neck and hung it to theleft. He raised the handle on the suitcase, closed the door, and walked backtoward the office.
“No, no, Frankie,” he said. “Don't worry. I can get all theluggage. You just get the doors.” He looked down at the dog when they arrivedback at the office door. “I gotta get the doors too?”
Frankie had that expression on his face that all good dogshave when their master speaks to them. It's that look in their eye that says,“I know what you're sayin', man, and I'd answer you if I could.”
“I got it,” said Allen.
He looked over at the manager and nodded, turned to hisleft, and walked up the stairs to the second floor.
Each room had two lawn chairs and an end table sitting onthe walkway. They sat under a picture window that looked out from the room overthe parking lot, the street, and eventually the ocean. Allen slid the key intothe doorknob, turned it, and pushed open the door. The first thing he noticedwas that the room had been completely remodeled since the last time he visited.There was new sheetrock and paint. The furniture appeared to be new. To hisright, past the table and two chairs, was a small kitchenette with a sink, atwo-burner stove, a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a coffee pot.
“Nice.”
Allen shut the door behind him and walked to the bathroom.
“Everything in here is new as well, Frankie.”
Frankie was already on the bed with his eyes closed.
“Asleep again? I think the people at the animalshelter lied to me, Frankie. I don't think you're really four years old. Youact like an old man, for chrissakes. I wonder if there's a butcher knife in oneof these drawers. I'll cut ya in half and count the rings. See how old youreally are.”
Frankie opened his eyes.
“I knew that'd get your attention. Don't worry, I wouldn'tdo that. Too much of a mess. If I've learned anything from writing mysteries,ya gotta freeze the body first and then cut it up with a band saw.”
Frankie closed his eyes and covered them with his paw.
While Frankie slept, Allen unpacked the duffle bag and hungup anything that needed to be hung up and put in a drawer anything that neededto be put in a drawer. He grabbed the suitcase next and tossed that on the bed.He removed a couple shirts to reveal a 12”x9” humidor. He removed the humidorand placed it on the bed. He opened the top. Inside were twenty-four cigarsranging in length from four to six inches. Most of the cigars had
