The pounding was loud and repetitive, like muffled gunfire from the other side of the walls. When he looked away from the door his eyes were greeted with the sight of a dingy white motel ceiling overhead. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts, remembered where he was and why his head was hurting so badly, and then slowly rolled out of bed. He licked his dry lips and was very aware of the lingering taste of cheap vodka in his mouth.
As he slipped on a pair of shorts, he looked at the clock on the bedside table. Turning his head in such a sudden movement introduced a new throbbing pain that he felt even in his teeth. Through the haze of pain in his head and the blur that was always present when he did not have his contacts in, he read the clock. It was 10:30 in the morning. He counted backwards, did some rough hangover math and calculated that he had gotten maybe five hours of sleep.
The hammering on the door continued. It sank into his head like a steady drill, aimed for the core of his brain.
“I’m coming, already!” Evan stood up, took a second to catch his balance and then walked to the door. He opened it with a hand that felt like an anvil; his entire body was sluggish from last night’s drinking.
Evan had never seen the man on the other side of the door. It was a Native American guy, about twenty or so—roughly Evan’s age from the look of it. He wore a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt and Evan fought the urge to make an ironic musing on the fact than an Indian was wearing a Cowboys shirt. Behind this man, an unbearably hot New Mexico morning pushed humid air into Evan’s air conditioned motel room.
“Are you Sam?” Evan asked, squinting at the glare of the morning sun and the pulsating ache in his head.
The Indian nodded.
“You don’t look like a Sam.”
The Indian shrugged. He held a large briefcase in his right hand which he carried like a burden. It was cheap and beaten with age, the kind that Evan had seen several times before in his line of work.
“Do you speak English?” Evan asked.
The Indian rolled his eyes and stepped inside. “Yes, I speak English you asshole.”
“No need to get defensive, Tonto.”
Sam closed the door behind him, locked it and then set the briefcase on the small table that sat by evan’s bed. He looked around the room distrustfully and suddenly seemed to be claustrophobic.
“Look,” Sam said. “I’m just the delivery boy. I hate these deals they send me on and I hate the people that use this stuff for the wrong reasons. So just give me the money so I can get out of here and go home.”
“Wrong reasons?” Evan asked. “Is there a right way to use peyote?”
“Stupid white man,” Sam muttered under his breath.
Evan smiled wearily at Sam and then held up a finger. “One second there, Sitting Bull.”
Evan walked into the bathroom and took a moment to put his contacts in. He then retrieved his own briefcase from the small cabinet under the sink. He carried it back into the room and placed it on the bed next to Sam’s case.
“Is it all there?” Sam asked. He sounded bored as he asked the question, as if he really didn’t care. It sounded like he was reciting a line for a badly written play.
“Yeah,” Evan said. “And you?”
Sam nodded. “All there.”
They stared at one another for a moment and then, without caring if the other found it rude or not, investigated their briefcases. After a quick inspection, both of them closed their new baggage. With a quick nod to one another as a sign of approval, their business was done.
“Nice meeting you,” Sam said, heading quickly for the door.
“Sure,” Evan said, smiling. “Hey man, you want to go grab a beer later or something? I don’t have anything to do for the rest of the day.”
“Funny white man,” Sam said. “I don’t associate myself with your kind unless I can help it. Besides, from the smell of this room and your breath, I think you did enough drinking last night.”
“Good guess,” Evan said, cringing at the heat from outside as Sam opened the door to leave.
Sam didn’t even grant Evan a smile. He walked through the door and before he made it to the parking lot, Evan was at the door, holding it open and watching him leave.
“Hey man,” he said. “No joke…thanks a lot. You’re saving my ass here.”
Sam, already at his car with the door open, turned to Evan and smiled a fake smile. “I bet you have a lot of people that play that role in your life, don’t you?”
If he hadn’t have been hung over, Evan would have snapped back quickly and without much tact, but it was too early and too hot. Plus, he could still taste last night drinks and he could feel them sloshing around in his bladder. So instead of a clever rebuttal, Evan simply smiled at Sam and waved him away.
Besides, Sam’s description of him was surprisingly accurate. Even with a blaring hangover to dampen his senses, it stung a little.
Before Evan closed the door, he looked out beyond the motel parking lot and to the road that stretched beyond. A desert breeze was carrying dust across the road, but it didn’t block out the sight of three police cars at the intersection ahead, setting up a road check.
“So, what do you know about that?” Evan asked, pointing behind Sam and to the intersection a quarter of a mile up the road.
Sam sighed, clearly annoyed that Evan kept holding him up. He turned to look at the street behind them and was frowning when he turned back to Evan.
“I don’t know anything about that. But I wouldn’t worry. I doubt it’s for you. There was a report on the radio that there was a hit and run somewhere in town this morning. They’re still looking for the driver.”
“Oh,” Evan said, clearly relieved. “Thanks.”
Sam nodded, got into his car and left. As Evan walked back into the room, he muttered, “How in the hell did I let that cowboy joke just lay to waste?”
Inside, Evan looked at the briefcase that sat on his bed. He then picked it up and slid it under the bed next to one of his shoes which had gotten kicked under there in his stumble to the mattress last night. He looked to the bed and was tempted to get another two or three hours of sleep. But then again, he wanted to get the hell out of Shinoe, New Mexico as fast as he could.
He looked out of his motel window, past the parking lot and to the road that ran parallel to it. The heat was already causing shimmers in the air over the hot asphalt and Evan was not looking forward to stepping outside. He managed to look beyond the heat and its impression on the landscape in order to take in the tiny town.
Shinoe was a terribly small place with a population of just around eight hundred. The only reason it even had a motel was for the truckers that often made their way from California or Arizona, headed for Texas or Mexico. There was dust, dirt and grime everywhere and on particularly windy days, the place looked like something out of a western. There were very few reputable businesses and the only bar was at the far end of town, miles away from Evan’s motel room. That little journey had made for an interesting drive back to the motel at five o’ clock in the morning.
After going into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, Evan pulled his cell phone out of his luggage and dialed up his boss. The signal from inside the room was horrible so Evan decided to open the door and stand in the doorway. The signal went up a bit and, from his place in the doorway, Evan was able to keep an eye on the events transpiring at the intersection.
At the intersection there were now five patrol cars and they were beginning to stop traffic. He hoped like hell that they’d find the driver of the hit and run by noon so he could get headed back home to LA. An inspection of his car on the way home would definitely not go over well.
The phone was answered on the second ring. He had been so distracted by the road check that he had nearly forgotten that he had made the call.
“Yeah?” his boss said in his usual gruff voice. His name was Emile Gorrengo and he always spoke as if he had just swallowed a cup of gravel.
“Hey, it’s Evan. Look, I got the stuff. I know you wanted me back as soon as possible, but there’s been a hit and run here in Shinoe and the cops are setting up road blocks. I’m going to hang out at the motel until it breaks up.”
“That’s fine,” Emile said. “Just get out as soon as you can.” And without a goodbye or a thank you, the call was ended. It was the typical Emile Gorrengo phone call.
“You’re welcome,” Evan said to the dead line.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and then returned to the bathroom where he took a long shower. After he had dried off, he got dressed and decided that he would walk down the street to the small diner a block away from the motel to grab a late breakfast. While there, he figured he could eavesdrop on the locals and stay posted on how the hit and run investigation was going.
He stepped out into the blazing morning, looking in the direction of the intersection. The traffic was inching along, the cops doing a quick check of every car and driver and then letting them pass. Evan turned away from this and walked in the opposite direction, towards the diner.
As he walked, he thought about Sam, the very grumpy Native American. But, grumpy or not, there had been one comment that had stung Evan a bit. It was the comment about always having someone save him. Like it or not, Evan knew that it was true. His father had begrudgingly played that part until Evan was fourteen or so and then when his father had left his family of three sons and a wife behind, Evan had been pulled from many fires by his mother. Those two years had been awful, made even worse by his mother’s death. Evan had been seventeen then, already into drugs, already dealing, abusing and running them.
After his mother died, his older brother had tried to play the role of savior but by the time Evan was twenty, there was no saving him. He was making a fortune, working for two different drug curcuits in LA and then dealing on his own on the side. Evan’s father, mother and older brother had all made valiant efforts to get him on the right track, but the allure of money and security had always been more powerful than the words of his loved ones.
Evan winced at the memories. Thoughts of his parents, mingled with his hangover and the unbearable heat, made his head a little swimmy. When he saw the diner just around the corner, he was already sweating from the heat, but his stomach still lurched and growled. He thought he’d get a burger with a fried egg on it, maybe topped off with some chili.
He was so deep in thoughts about food that he almost walked directly into the two elderly men that stood in front of the diner, screaming at one another.
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