“Hey mister. Time to get off. We’re here.”
Jack glanced out the window. Besides a deserted gas station, the depot, a closed café, and a small pizza restaurant, he couldn’t see much of anything else. Just the blackness of night. “Where’s the town?”
“North of here, twenty minutes by cab.”
“You don’t stop there?”
The driver chuckled and shook his head strolling back down the aisle. Jack grabbed his bag and stepped off. He had one last question but before he had a chance to ask the driver, the lever was pulled and the door sucked shut with a hiss. The smell of diesel fumes lingered as he walked towards a faulty neon sign for Upper Crust Pizzeria, hoping to catch a cab.
Half an hour later, as the cab brought him into the heart of the city, Jack surveyed the silhouette of the mountains in the distance. He could feel the age of the place with its small streets, old adobe buildings and nineteenth century cathedrals. Unlike the depot on the outskirts, the main stretch of downtown was alive with color, vibrant with paper-bag lanterns glowing in the night and shaped by a host of Native American and Spanish culture. It was bursting at the seams with advertisements for opera and seasonal events, and filled with pink temples, mom-and-pop stores, mansions, art galleries, bookshops, restaurants, and signs for local markets.
Under any other circumstances he might have appreciated it all but his mind was distracted by loss and confusion. The driver dropped him outside La Fonda on the San Francisco Street stretch; a few minutes’ walk from the historic plaza Dana had filmed in.
He leaned forward before getting out. “Keep the change.”
The cabbie clenched the extra dollars with a smile. “Thanks.”
Jack looked up at the two-story hotel with its smooth lines, stylish balconies and valet parking. The humid air clung to him as he adjusted the duffel bag over his shoulder and entered through wooden double doors. Inside he was greeted by cool air-conditioning, warm southwestern architecture and a spacious lobby packed with tourists. At the far end, the sound of music seeped from a bar and lounge. After waiting in line for close to ten minutes he dropped his bag and leaned across the counter.
“I need a room for the night.”
“Sorry, sir, we’re booked up at the moment.”
Jack groaned.
“Do you know when room 14 will be available? A friend of mine said it has a good view.”
The front desk clerk eyed him skeptically and tapped a few keys in front of him. “It’s occupied until the end of the week.”
“And you don’t have any rooms available tomorrow?”
“Sorry, with the wine festival this week things are real busy.”
“Do you recommend any other hotels in the area?”
“Depends what you’re after but again with the festival you’ll be hard-pressed to find a decent room.”
Jack nodded and thumbed over to the bar. “Okay to get a drink?”
“Certainly, sir, it’s open to the public but you should know it closes at eleven.”
Jack scooped up his bag and headed in. The aged wooden bar was like the kind found in any airport, horseshoe shaped, pushed into one corner with a mosaic stone floor, and a dozen metal stools butted up against it. The room had a restroom off to the left, a door into a kitchen to the right, and a fire exit slightly out of view. Diners lingered over tiny square tables dotted around the room. There was a small dance floor near the back where a few old-timers wearing cowboy hats plucked out a western tune on worn guitars. It was a slow night, as no one seemed in the mood for dancing. Jack took a stool at the end of the bar and ordered two fingers of whiskey on the rocks. He downed it and felt it burn his throat. Turning on the stool he eyed the room and glanced into the lobby contemplating how he was going to get into room 14. In his younger days he would have muscled his way in with a gun to the head but that was in Jersey, on his turf, in areas where he knew the cops wouldn’t go. This was different. Or was it? He ordered another drink and downed that just as fast to take the edge off. Observing the comings and goings of the hotel staff gave him an idea. Tourists were blissfully unaware. Caught up in the magic of the moment, they didn’t have a clue about who worked there and who didn’t. He set his third drink down, grabbed up his bag and headed out, slipping into the main hallway on the ground floor and ducking into a cramped room that had two vending machines and an icemaker. He removed his jacket and shoulder holster and stuffed them in the duffel bag and tucked it down behind the machine. Next he rolled up his sleeves and went in search of the room.
It didn’t take long.
He knocked twice.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice called out.
“Maintenance,” Jack replied.
“Can you come back?”
“Unfortunately not.”
Jack glanced both ways down the hallway as he heard the occupant shuffle around. The door cracked open and he saw a white guy in his mid-fifties peer around. “What is it? I’m kind of busy.”
“The new guy made a mistake updating the plumbing
