Taut: The Ford Book

I jump out and walk over to Dallas as he works the truck’s bed controls. “How much?”

“Two-fifty,” he says with a straight face.

I shrug it off and grab three hundred-dollar bills from my wallet. Who cares. He saved my ass. He deserves it. “Here you are. And Dallas?” I wait for his eyes to find mine. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow when Jason opens and we can grab a beer or something.”

This is my new thing, since I met Rook. I’m trying to make amends for any and all weird past behavior. I figure trying to blow him up on the golf course counts as something that requires an effort.

“Jason’s probably not gonna show up tomorrow. And he’s always closed on the weekends, so Monday, huh? If you’re still around.” He takes the money and goes back to his business so I take that as my cue to leave.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and make for the motel office, my head ducking into the wind and snow.

Chapter Four

The bell on the door jingles as I enter the hotel, the faint sound of a TV coming from the back room. An older woman appears and sighs heavily when she sees me, like I’m interrupting her Jeopardy game show and walking up front to wait on a customer is the last straw.

“Help you?” she asks curtly as she punches some keys on her computer.

I put on my I’m not a psycho smile and remind myself that this place was once my home, but she doesn’t look at me, so it makes no difference. I try for directness instead. “Room?”

“One left,” she mumbles. “But you gotta be out by ten, because there’s a tourist bus coming in tomorrow and all our rooms are booked for the weekend.”

“I can manage that. How much?”

“Two-fifty plus tax.”

“Hmmm, everything tonight seems to cost two-fifty.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve. Prime season for us. You want the room or not?”

“Yes,” I say through my smile. “Thank you.” She passes me a form to fill out and give her all my details. When I hand it back she stares at it for a moment, then looks up at me with the same squinting eyes that Dallas perfected back at the tow truck.

“Rutherford Aston.”

“Mrs. Pearson,” I deadpan back at her. “How’s the library treating you?”

“Retired. We manage this place now. Can’t complain.”

And that’s it. That’s all she has to say to me, even though if you add up all the time I spent at the library when I lived here as a kid, it would total in the years.

It’s my turn to sigh heavily and I turn away as she finishes the job of checking me in. She doesn’t inquire why I’m staying here at the crappiest hotel in Vail when I live down the street. She doesn’t inquire why I left the make and model of my car blank on the registration form. She doesn’t say here you go, have a nice night when she slides the key across the counter. The only other thing she says is, “Room 24, last door.”

I nod and smile once more, but it’s futile. She’s already got her back to me, heading into the room where her game show awaits.

I push through the door, the bell jingling my exit, and the snow assaults me as I make my way under the covered breezeway that at least attempts to block out the raging elements. I walk all the way to the end of the building, slip my key into the door and glance over at my Bronco.

It’s not my truck that I’m looking at though. Dallas and the flatbed are gone. Probably more cars to rescue from the storm. It’s the car next to the Bronco that catches my attention. I can still see the girl inside, still fussing around under the dome light.

I twist the key, open the door, find the lights on the wall and flip them on before closing the door behind me.

It’s f**king freezing in here. Like they have no heat at all. I hit up the unit under the window that acts as a heater and air conditioner and turn it to full-blast hot.

Now what?

There’s two queen-sized beds, a table and chairs, a long low dresser with a mirror, and a TV mounted on the wall. I grab the remote and switch it on. The time flashes on the screen for a moment. One-thirty AM. Shit, time has flown by. Last I looked it was eleven-thirty.

Well, happy New Year, Ford. Yet another one spent alone.

I watch a repeat of the ball dropping in Times Square, and then realize the room is not much warmer. I f**k with the controls on the under-window unit for a few minutes, trying to see if the dials are just lined up wrong and another setting will deliver the heat I’m badly craving. But it’s no use. I take out my phone and check the thermometer app. Twelve degrees outside. I calculate the probable temperature in this room and come up with fifty-three.

Fifty-fucking-three degrees. For two hundred and fifty dollars a night.

I can go complain to Mrs. Pearson. Or I can suck it up, go sift through my winter survival bag from the back of the Bronco, and grab the self-heating blizzard blankets.

I opt for the blizzard blankets because Mrs. Pearson is just… no.

The snow is still coming down hard, maybe even harder than before. I can barely make out the garage parking lot and it’s only about a hundred yards away. I jog over and open the back of the Bronco, yanking the tub of gear towards me. The blankets are down at the bottom, so I just dump all the shit out on the bed of the truck and take out the flat packages. I slam the door and a baby’s cry almost gives me a heart attack.

I look carefully at the girl’s car and realize it’s steamed up from breath. They’re still inside.