If I never had to go to the Two Lane Inn ever again, I could die a happy man.
I’ve seen a dozen places like it back home. Beat-up motor lodges ring Philadelphia like ticks ready to suck the blood from weary, unsuspecting travelers and folks desperately in need of short-term housing. They’re places for working girls and dealers to sling dope and suck dick, the sort of place that needs to be burned to the ground just to get it clean. The Two Lane’s seen some shit, and now it’s seen the death of five cartel guys all at once. I doubt that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened here.
“What’s this guy’s name?” Sara asks as we sit in the car and case the joint. The front office is a glass-fronted section in the bottom left of the building with huge advertisements for cigarettes blocking the view of the inside.
“Wally Batt,” I say and glance at her. “You didn’t have that memorized?”
“Believe it or not, he wasn’t high on my priority list.”
“Pity. Wally’s an interesting guy.” I nod at the files in her lap. “Take a look.”
She flips through until she finds the short informational dossier on Wally. “Oh, wow,” she says quietly. “That’s one hell of a rap sheet. Why didn’t I see this before?”
“Cops basically ignored him, that’s why, which is strange. Whenever someone ends up dead, it’s always the criminals the cops bother first. And yet, nobody questioned good old Wally. Criminal motherfucking Wally.”
“Breaking and entering, grand theft auto… How’s this guy not stuck behind bars for life?”
“No clue. Good lawyer.” I shrug and open the door. “Let’s go see what Wally remembers from that day.”
She hurries after me, her heels clacking on the pavement. There aren’t many cars out in front of the Two Lane, and I wonder how this place stays in business. Cheap building, cheap workers, cheap everything is probably how. Not much overhead on a place like this if nobody gives a shit about keeping it clean.
“This time, I’m taking the lead,” she says as she yanks the door open.
“Hold on,” I say, but too late. She’s already striding into the lobby looking about as much like a lawyer as it’s possible to look. She’s about to spook this idiot and she’s got no clue. It’s a small space, rundown and stinking like cigarette smoke. An old TV sits in the corner playing a sitcom. The walls are stained yellow, the single chair for waiting patrons has a deep slash on the seat covered by a piece of duct tape. Magazines fill a side rack, all of them out of date.
Wally sits behind a computer clicking away. He’s in his forties, balding, heavyset with a mole under his left eye and bushy brows. His shirt is wrinkled and his jeans are too small, and he looks up with a scowl like we’re interrupting something important.
“You folks need a room?” he asks and looks Sara up and down. “We do hourly if that’s what you need.”
I try not to laugh. The fucker thinks she’s a hooker.
“Wally Batt?” she asks. “I was hoping I could have a word.”
He instantly shuts down. I can see it happen. One second, he’s curious, the next it’s like he pulls on body armor and gets ready for war. He leans back in his rickety chair and crosses his arms over his big chest. “And who’s asking?”
“My name’s Sara Bray, I work for Klein and Houndson representing—”
She doesn’t get another word out before Wally leaps to his feet, the chair clattering down behind him, and bolts for a back door. Sara’s too stunned to do anything but stand there as he yanks it open, his pants falling off his ass, and darts into the back.
“Good one,” I say and try not to laugh. “You really got him talking.”
“But I didn’t even, and now he’s just—” She gestures at me. “Well? Do your job! Fucking catch him!”
“Your wish is my command, oh, lovely ice queen.” I sketch a bow as her face turns red with rage before I step out front and walk leisurely over to the side of the building.
Guys like Wally, they need to be finessed. With a rap sheet like his, any lawyer or cop or anyone with any connection to the criminal justice system is instantly suspect. Walking in here and telling him that she works for a law firm—that was basically begging him to run away.
Wally’s struggling with the door of his Chevy pickup. It’s an old, beat-up piece of crap, and sometimes the handle sticks. Especially, when a guy like me slapped a bunch of that fancy super duct tape along the bottom, the real strong kind. Wally’s in too much of a panic to notice that the bottom’s not coming loose and all he’s got to do is give it one solid yank with all his might. Instead, he’s jiggling the handle and cursing.
“Hey, Wally,” I say. “Stop trying to run and listen.”
The guy looks at me, looks at the truck, and I can see him doing the math. Motherfucker, he better not bolt like a scared deer, I don’t feel like chasing him down.
But Wally’s not bright. He turns his back and sprints as fast as he can—which isn’t very fast—away from the motel and toward the small wooded area that separates the parking lot from the main road and the sidewalk beyond.
I run after him. Bastard, I didn’t feel like getting all fucking sweaty today. He reaches the woods right as I catch up and grab him from behind. His yelp is pathetic, and I manage to yank his arm hard and swing him right into a tree. He hits and crumples, holding his face with one hand and waving the other in the air like he’s warding off a gun.
“Please, don’t, I don’t know anything, I really don’t, I absolutely swear I don’t—”
“Easy, Wally,” I say and crouch down beside him as Sara’s heels clack on the pavement nearby. I glance over as she hurries toward us, looking horrified. “He tripped,” I tell her innocently.
“God damn it, Angelo,” she says, shaking her head.
Wally’s pale. He’s trembling and bleeding from a split lip. But he doesn’t seem to mind the pain. “I don’t know who you people are, but I don’t know anything.” He spits blood into the leaves. “I never know anything! I take bookings, I give out keys, and I stay in my office. That’s all I ever do.”
“Wally.” I lean toward him. “That’s a lawyer behind me. She’s not a cop. She’s not a detective. And she’s definitely not working for some cartel. Who the fuck do you think we are?”
That gets his attention. He takes a few gulping breaths and tries to sit himself upright. I help out, get him to his feet, even brush some dirt off the poor fucker’s jeans. He clears his throat and spits again as he leans against the tree trunk.
“I don’t like cops,” he says. “Or lawyers. Or whatever the hell you are. I don’t know anything and I don’t talk to anyone. That’s all I got to say, all right?”
I glance at Sara as she steps forward. “Wally, running like that is extremely suspicious, you know that, right? I didn’t even tell you what we want to talk about.”
He opens his mouth as if he’s about to blurt it out, but instead snaps his jaw shut and glowers. I almost laugh, the poor bastard. He’s stupid, but not that stupid apparently.
“The murders,” I tell him. “Five cartel guys, dead in your motel. From what we can tell, you were never interviewed by the cops, and we were wondering why.”
He looks surprised. “They talked to me. What do you mean, they didn’t interview me? I spoke to that fucking detective for a half hour. And I didn’t tell her shit.”
I exchange a look with Sara. Now that’s interesting.
“Which detective?” she asks.
“It was a woman. Some bitch—” He clears his throat. “Sorry, uh, some lady named Misty Vance.”
“Sounds fake,” I say.
“Detective Vance is very real,” Sara confirms. “You’re sure you spoke to her?”
“I’m positive. And I’ll tell you what I told her. I stay in my office and I don’t hear anything, ever. That’s it.”
“You’re very helpful, Wally,” I say and shake my head. “Who the fuck has you so spooked, huh?”
“Whoever killed five cartel members, that’s who,” Sara says. “And I’d bet a lot of money that you know something about who did it, don’t you?”
Wally flinches like she punched him in the face.
“Just leave me out of whatever you’re doing, okay?” Wally shuffles away, putting some space between me and him, but heading back toward the motel. Cars zip past on the road and he crunches through leaves with each step.
“You don’t care that an innocent kid is going to get life for this, do you?” I ask him.
“Not my fucking problem.” Wally slips past Sara, gives me one last look, and hurries away.
I let him go. Sara watches with her arms crossed over her chest. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but it’s not good.
“Detective Vance didn’t write up her interview with Wally,” she says and glances at me. “Either that, or the prosecution withheld information.”
“I assume both are pretty bad.”
“Both are pretty bad,” she confirms.
I grin at her. “You were terrifying just now, you know that?”
She snorts. “You’re the one that threw him into a tree.”
“That’s easy. You stood there looking at him like you were going to crucify him.”
“Who said I’m not going to?” She tugs on her hair. It’s a small, nervous gesture. “I don’t like this.”
“You think the detective is involved?”
“I don’t know. Either that or someone higher than her.”
“Five dead cartel members and nobody heard a thing. Makes sense someone in law enforcement might be covering it up.”
“Don’t go there.” She jabs a finger into my arm. “You hear me, Angelo? I know you mobsters love to hate the cops—”
“We love to love the cops. They take our envelopes of cash and we stay out of prison. Mostly, anyway. It’s a great relationship.”
She flinches and rubs her face. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Oh, grow up. You think cops love to make eighty grand a year to put their lives on the line and get shit on by the public every day? ‘Back the Blue’ doesn’t mean a damn thing for some guy trying to buy diapers. They take a little something on the side to make it all worth their effort and you people still get to stay safe. It all evens out.”
“Right, the world’s so messed up.” She trudges back to the motel. “You don’t have to make it even worse.”
“Can you really blame me? I was born with nothing and I was given nothing, so what if I bend the rules in my favor where I can?”
“That’s the difference between us,0 I guess. You bend the rules toward yourself, and I stick to the rules to help everyone else.”
I follow after her. I really can’t tell if Sara’s naive or just principled. No reason it couldn’t be both, and I respect her for it, I really do, but I’ve been in this shit long enough that I know how things go.
Nothing is easy and nothing is free—and nobody is too expensive to buy.
Not even cops. Not even detectives.
