sign came into view, shaped like a Spanish castle and outlined in neon.
As he made a sharp right turn and parked near the office, Beth said, “I can’t like alligators.”
“Takes another alligator,” Carver said.
When he switched off the engine, she seemed surprised. She must have thought he’d driven into the lot to turn around. She studied the motel through the windshield, then said, “Oh-oh. This it?”
“It,” he confirmed. He knew how she must feel. The Casa Grande was a U-shaped stucco building with mock-Spanish decor. Ornate wrought-iron window grilles, a sun-faded red tile roof, heavy wooden doors. It had been white but was now a grayish color splotched with yellow where the stucco had been patched; webbed with cracks and exposed lathing where broken stucco had been ignored. Now that the car’s motor wasn’t running, the screaming and grinding of insects was even louder. The swamp grew close to the back and sides of Casa Grande, seeming to loom over it as if waiting for it to surrender to time and vine so the ground on which the motel sat could be reclaimed. There was a battered green Chevy pickup parked near the farthest end unit, a big, dark Harley- Davidson motorcycle parked close to it. Near the center of the low stucco building, a rapacious vine laden with dark red blossoms seemed to be gradually but surely devouring the building. It had once been confined to a trellis, but now only rotting, splintered remnants of fragile wood spindles remained visible, here and there protruding like bleached bones from the mass of waxy-looking leaves. Carver sensed Beth’s apprehension. He said, “It’s nicer inside.”
“Ever stay here?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then how do you know it’s nicer inside?”
“Must be.”
He opened the car door and set the tip of his cane in the gravel. Levered himself up and out from behind the steering wheel so he was standing beside the car. The warm air was humid enough to grab by the handful. It carried the fetid, sulfurous smell of the swamp. Carver glanced around at the green isolation. He bent down over the cane slightly so he could see Beth, still inside the car, and said, “I’ll go make sure they have a vacancy.”
“You taking any bets?”
He ignored her and limped toward the office. He was perspiring heavily and his clothes were stuck to him. A film of sweat clung to his face like a mask. A cloud of gnats followed him; he had to wave them away from his eyes and nose.
A large black-and-yellow butterfly of a type he’d never seen lay fluttering feebly on the wooden steps to the office door, being devoured by huge red ants. Carver stepped on the unfortunate insect to end its misery, then kicked the mess, including some of the ants, aside. A weathered sign on the office door said FREE COFFEE AND DONUTS EVERY MORNING. He pushed the door open with his cane, gripped the wooden doorjamb, and moved inside.
The office was small, painted dead white, probably to make it appear larger. There was a single, blue vinyl- covered chair, a table with a Mr. Coffee on it, and a wooden wall rack of the sort usually stuffed with tourist brochures. This rack was empty.
The registration desk looked homemade out of cheap lumber. It was painted white, like the walls, over a rough sandpaper job, and had a top covered with speckled linoleum. An old GE air conditioner mounted high on the back wall had the office cold enough to chill beer, and the bearded little man behind the desk sat as perfectly still as if he’d been frozen. But his eyes moved, watching Carver.
Carver said, “Got a vacancy?”
The bearded guy smiled and stood up. Or down. When he slid off his stool, his chin was barely higher than the desk. He said, “A single?”
“No, my friend’s in the car. Two rooms next to each other, with a connecting door.”
The man gave Carver a neutral look. “No hitch, I can do that. Thirty a night each.”
“Good enough.”
“Got a credit card?”
“I’ll pay cash in advance. We’ll be here about a week. Maybe longer.” Carver reached in his pocket and dragged out his wallet. He peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the desk. An offering to no- questions-asked commerce.
The bearded man said, “Well, glad to have a guest like you. Whatever your reason for being in Dark Glades.” He waited for Carver to toss back the conversational ball. When there was no response, he picked up the bills and laid a registration card on the desk. He said, “My name’s Eddie Watts. Just Watts is what I’m called, though. I be of any help, you lemme know.”
Carver finished signing the card, using his real name. Why not? If Roberto Gomez traced them this far, he wouldn’t be thrown by a Smith or a Jones on a motel register. But Carver signed Beth in simply as “and friend.” Some sort of subconscious sense of chivalry? Protecting her reputation, for God’s sake?
Watts rotated the card so he could read it. He had scraggly blond hair, though his beard was black. A wide, amiable face. Blue eyes whose pupils somehow seemed dusty and dulled. He squinted out the dirty office window at the car and said, “Your friend’s black.” As if Carver might not have noticed.
“That a problem?” Carver asked.
Watts shook his head. “Not with me. Got some real rednecks in Dark Glades, though. Not to mention stiff- necked religious folks that ain’t all that tolerant.”
“We’ll spend most of our time in our rooms,” Carver said.
Watts tried hard not to give him the wrong kind of smile, and couldn’t help shooting another glance out the window. He said, “Sure. Like I said, lemme know if you need anything.” He handed Carver two keys attached to green plastic tags. A third key with a red tag. “The red one fits the connecting door. Other two are to rooms six and seven, right near the center of the building. Best I got. Icemaker and soda machine right nearby.”
Carver decided to let Watts assume a romantic motive for the stay at Casa Grande. It would be more believable and less disturbing than the truth. He laid a fifty-dollar bill on the desk and said, “My friend and I wanted to get away and enjoy being by ourselves for a while. You understand. If anybody comes around asking about either of us, will you let me know?”
Watts laid his palm over the fifty and made it disappear as if he were demonstrating sleight of hand. “Glad to extend the courtesy, Mr. Carver.”
Carver gripped the keys in his free hand and limped toward the door. Behind him Watts said, “I myself don’t care a whit about color. Think black’s rough, try being five feet tall.”
Carver knew Watts would have to stretch high on elevator shoes to top five feet, but he said nothing. It was self-deception that made life tolerable, so why fuck with it when it was harmless?
As he stepped outside, the sauna-like heat folded itself around him. He got in the car, drove down to cabin 6, and backed into a parking slot. “The guy at the desk has the impression we’re lovers,” he said.
Beth was sweating. Her hair had come partly down to curl darkly in front of her ears. Even her gold loop earrings seemed to be drooping. When he turned off the engine, she said, “Carver, it’s not like I don’t appreciate-”
He cut her off by handing her the key to 6. “There’s a connecting door we keep unlocked. We can also keep it closed.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I assumed, but you know how it is.”
“Yeah.” He climbed out of the car and opened the trunk. She reached in quickly and pulled out her Gucci suitcase. He looked around at the looming green swamp and the narrow gravel road. Some sort of brown-and-gray bird with long, spindly legs was standing near the road, studying him with cocked head. It made a throaty clucking noise he’d never heard a bird make before. Carver got out his own suitcase and slammed the trunk lid. “Let’s settle in, then get some supper.”
“Sounds right. Just give me time to take a shower.”
He waited until she was inside, then unlocked the door to 7 and limped in. Warm, stale air gave way for the fetidness of the swamp pushing in around him.
Actually, the room
