Freedom Beer, Part 5

Hank let his motorcycle cruise into the parking lot of the Lizard Belly Motel on the outskirts of Bleached Skeleton. A cluster of houses and small shops had sprouted up around a gas station like Cyperus papyrus around the Nile. Despite the clear air and the altitude, the winter sun failed to provide any warmth. The motel parking lot was as cold and desolate as any place could be at noon on a Tuesday.

The half dozen other cars were distributed into the parking spaces like men at a bank of urinals.

Hank considered such rules to be as binding as uncomfortable briefs and disregarded them just as readily.

He put down his kickstand unnecessarily close to a luxury car. Zelphia climbed off of the back of the motorcycle, removed her helmet and shook her lustrous hair free. Hank was sorry to feel her go. Each turn on their ride resulted in her arms wrapping around him a little tighter.

"Is this where you last saw Mr. X?" Hank put a toothpick in his mouth.

"I told you that I've never met Mr. X. I've only been in contact with the Viper, who must be one of his lieutenants."

"So this is where you last saw the Viper?"

"Not exactly. This is where I last spoke with him. I've never shaken hands with him, or even seen him. I don't know what he looks like. He sat in the bathroom with the door closed and shouted orders at me."

Hank grunted and got off the bike.

"I really don't like being here. Seriously. You should have taken me to the airport. I could have been on my way out of the country already. And it was cold in that tent in the woods last night."

"You could run but you can't hide. If we're talking about a somebitch rich enough to buy the Humping Stones, we're talking about a somebitch with international contacts. Bullies don't learn anything if you show 'em your tail. First, you gotta show 'em your fists, and then you let their dentist show them an astronomical dental bill."

"Fighting doesn't solve everything."

"I had room in my sleeping bag," Hank said, skimming over the philosophical riposte. "We had to sleep in the woods in case any other attackers arrived before dawn."

"We could have stopped on the way here and had a real cup of coffee."

"What was wrong with the camp coffee?"

"You put a whole egg in it. I don't like shells in my coffee."

"That's egg drop coffee. You can barely taste the egg."

Hank and Zelphia went into the motel office. A rat in a pressed white shirt, a tie and slacks oiled up from behind a desk made out of more metal than an aircraft carrier.

"I'm sorry, we don't offer hourly rates," the rat said, leering at Zelphia. She made a face at him and investigated the complimentary coffee.

"Do you have anything that doesn't smell like scorched hog anus?" she asked.

"That's for motel guests only."

"Leave it, toots," Hank said. "You don't want to drink something that a rat's touched. They don't know how to live clean, how to wash their hands."

"I know how to wash my hands." The rat sneered.

"I'll bet that you're real good at it, too, because you practice every week," Hank said. "Listen, I need to know the name of a fella who stayed at this flystrip. He would have checked out two days ago."

"I'm sorry, but are you a police officer?"

"No."

"I didn't think so," the rat said, twitching his whiskers. "And you would need a warrant for that information anyway."

"Okay, well, how much for a room?"

"I know that I complained about the sleeping bag but I've changed my mind," Zelphia said.

"Thirty seven dollars," the rat said. He looked Hank up and down. "Cash."

Hank dropped two twenties on the desk.

"And I have a special request. Room 203."

The rat handed him the key.

"Why do you want that room?"

"I think I'll like the view," Hank said. He took his toothpick out of his mouth and set it on the desk. Then he held the door for Zelphia and stared down the rat while he tried to get a better view at her backside.

"What a creep," Zelphia said.

"I like guys like that. They're so two-dimensional that when they die the newspaper can print their obituary right on them. Easy to read."

Hank led them up to room 203. Zelphia was right about the view. It occupied the corner of the building. The balcony provided a commanding view of the road for miles. Hank started to put the key in the lock, but then thought better of it. He jiggled the handle and pushed on the door. It swung open.

"I think that my tent was sturdier," Hank said.

They went inside the room. Two twin beds stood on either side of a small bedside table. A filthy lamp with a metal flower lampshade stood atop it. The walls had been upholstered with violently green twill. The room looked like an interior decorator from the early seventies had too much to drink and threw up into a time machine.

"Right here," Zelphia said, walking over to the second bed. "I sat here. The Viper sat in the bathroom. I couldn't see him."

Hank went into the bathroom and came back out a few minutes later.

"I was assaulted by those fixtures. I've seen less orange in a mimosa. But it's clear of any evidence."

Hank began to sweep the room. He pulled the beds away from the walls, yanked off the sheets, examined their frames. He pulled out the drawers and felt around inside. Even the TV wasn't safe. With a screwdriver from his multitool he pried off the plastic case and peered into its guts.

Then he grunted.

"So the trail has gone cold?" Zelphia asked.

"I don't think that our lead is in this room." Hank peered very intently at a spot on the wall.

"Is the wall to threadbare for your taste?"

Hank didn't respond. Instead, he punched the wall. His fist went through like a piston through a piece of cardboard. He punched through his other fist. Elbow-deep in the wall, he planted his feet and jerked his body backwards and hauled a man through the dusty hole. In one smooth motion he bodyslammed his victim on the bed.

"A sophisticated listening device!" Hank roared, snatching a drinking glass from the man and holding it up. "I heard it scraping on the other side of the wall! You obviously never had any siblings who wanted to rat you out, you rat!"

Zelphia recognized the man as the motel clerk.

"You fucking pervert!"

"I don't know shit!" the rat yelled.

"You're denying things a little early, buddy! Who hired you?" Hank asked.

"Nobody! I'm just a pervert! Like the hottie said!"

"Remember when I said that I hadn't killed a man in my line of work? I'm not on the job," Zelphia said, grabbing Hank's screwdriver from the pile of broken television parts and approaching the rat. Hank held her back.

"A dead rat's even less useful than a live one."

"I'm not a rat, just a pervert."

"A pervert would use higher-tech equipment. I know what you are. You're not even a rat. You're just an appendage, the scummy fingers attached to the end of a scummy arm, feeling out something for the brain so that it doesn't have to get itself dirty up there in its safe little skull tower!"

"I don't know what you're saying."

"You have two options. The first is tell us everything and then we call the police. The second is that I walk out of that door and let my friend do whatever justice she felt with that screw driver, then we call the police, and then you tell them everything. What's it going to be, rat?"

"Perry Easton! Perry Easton! Perry Easton!" The rat kept his beady eyes focused on the screwdriver while he shouted the name.

"Perry Easton."

"Yes! He came here last week. He gave me three hundred bucks and all he asked is that he not be disturbed. I did as I was told. When you came around here snooping I figured that I could either get more money out of him or get some money out of you! That's it! I swear!"

Hank dropped the man onto the bedspread, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed a number.

"I'm looking for Colonel Joson," Hank said. He picked something out of his teeth. He tapped his foot. He menaced the rat with a fist. His face brightened.

"Colonel Johnny Joson! It's Hank Rockjaw here. Good, good. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Yep, yep. I got the name of a dirtbag for you to look up. I know. No, it's not part of any sanctioned law enforcement. All I hear is 'Hank, I'm a goody two shoes that wouldn't clobber a bandit to save my little old grandma.' You're goddamn right that's why I was never in the military. Okay. Thanks. His name is Perry Easton."

More menacing, teeth picking, foot tapping.

"The Sonoran Desert? The Mexican side? No kidding. Listen, would you mind if I swung by? I'll give you more details when I arrive. Great. Fuck you, too, I can't wait to see you."

Hank hung up.

"We're heading to the Doctor Ariel Hanson Air Force Base. And you," Hank said, turning to the rat, "go ahead and pass this on. But make sure that we don't find out that you did, because we'll be back and she'll have a bigger screwdriver."

Zelphia stabbed the screwdriver into the bedspread.

Hank and Zelphia went back to the parking lot and put on their helmets.

"Why did you say all that in front of him? For all we know this Perry Easton fellow is the Viper. It sure sounds like it. Which means that the Viper knows where we are. And where we'll be."

"We're traveling along a major United States highway on our way to an air force base. The Viper, whoever he is, would have to cast a big shadow to be any threat to us. And if he is, I'll sock him in the mouth and settle it once and for all. Trust me."

"The Viper wants me dead. Mr. X wants me dead. And all you've done so far is tell them where I am. Why should I trust you?"

"Because you're still alive to do the trusting."

Hank opened the throttle on his bitchin' hog and the pair rode away into the distance.