Replaceable: An Alan Lamb Thriller (8 page)

Chapter 9

It was well
into the evening by the time Alan pulled into his space at the Patriot Inn.

Guy Bernard was standing against the railing on the second-story walkway watching the events unfold on the lower level of the building across from them.

Before exiting his car, Alan glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Bruno talking to two Latino men outside a room in the adjacent building. Alan wasn’t in the mood to involve himself in any drama, even if it was as removed as viewing it from a distance, but Guy Bernard was the man he needed to talk to.

He got out of the car, stopped at his room long enough to throw his suit coat onto the bed, and then climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the second floor.

Guy wasn’t alone. Two men stood with him. Alan recognized them as the motel’s two full-time maintenance men.

One was in his fifties. Thinning white hair, narrow frame, shorter than his counterpart, who appeared to be slightly younger, and despite his age, appeared to be the more dangerous of the two.

Both of the men that comprised the entirety of the Patriot’s maintenance crew were named Bob. Bob Doherty was the larger of the two, and was also the foreman. The other man’s name was Bob Nice. Alan most often heard these men referred to by their nicknames: High Bob and Biker Bob.

Biker Bob was easily the surlier of the two. He was in his late forties and balding, but looked the older of the two men, which Alan attributed to years of drug abuse and heavy drinking. He had once belonged to one of the more notorious biker gangs in the area, but had given up that life when he had gotten married and started attending weekly Mass at one of the local churches. Biker Bob still had a rugged and used up quality about him, and Alan knew from experience that the man possessed a mean streak and a hair-trigger temper. Back when he had been a prospect, part of his initiation into the gang had been to skullfuck an old hag with a glass eye. Alan had heard the story on several occasions. He was also aware that Biker Bob hadn’t entirely extricated himself from his drug fueled days. He knew firsthand that on occasion both Biker Bob and High Bob liked to spend their lunch breaks smoking crack in one of the vacant rooms located at the motel’s farthest building because it’s east side faced barren forest rather than the busy highway.

High Bob, on the other hand, was somewhat meek and prone to frequent bouts of self-pity, often prefacing these tales of woe with, “Not that I’m complaining, there are people that have had it a lot worse than I do.”

He was upfront about the fact that he had once been an alcoholic, most often discussing those bygone days when he was several cans into a case of Budweiser. He was a mellow drunk. He, like Alan, was a full-time resident of the motel. He didn’t have any close family except for a younger sister in Topeka, Kansas. He had never been married and had never had any children. He was a perpetual bachelor.

Alan sometimes feared that when he looked at High Bob what he was actually doing was gazing into a mirror, but instead of showing him his reflection, this was a magic mirror that showed him his future. And what that mirror showed him was a lonely man with no close ties to anyone.

For the longest time, despite Alan’s refutations to the contrary, both Bobs had suspected him of being part of an undercover sting operation whose sole intent was to bust them in the act. Even so, both men had confided in Alan as though he were their personal priest. Neither man seemed in search of atonement, and neither man made any attempt to hide their continued drug use from him. To Alan it seemed to be an oxymoron that the Bobs were so outspoken about their illegal endeavors yet so vocal to the one man they believed to be out to get them.

At their best, both men seemed to be intelligent and proficient at their chosen trade.

Guy Bernard was aware of the Bobs’ activities. Was cognizant of the fact that both men used drugs, occasionally stole motel property, and that on more than one occasion Biker Bob had used Internet chatrooms to summon cheap prostitutes to his motel room (Biker Bob’s wife was apparently in the dark about her husband’s secret domicile and extracurricular activities). But Guy let these transgressions slide. He said both men were useful in different ways; both Bobs had connections that Guy might someday have necessity to use. According to Guy, sometimes it was better to keep a few wild cards in your back pocket for safekeeping.

Alan didn’t ask questions.

In many ways, the Patriot Inn served as its own ecosystem, cut off from the city that surrounded it. It served the purpose of providing a self-sustaining sanctuary for those lonely souls that could find acceptance nowhere else.

Guy was smoking one of his customary cigars. He held a Tom Collins in his other hand. An orange slice graced the rim of the glass; a solitary cherry floated above the ice. He spared a quick glance at Alan before his gaze returned to the disturbance taking place on the other side of the parking lot.

“Agent Lamb,” Guy said. “You’ve arrived just in time for the fireworks. Care for a drink?”

Alan passed on the drink, focusing his attention on the building across from them, where Bruno was arguing with the two Latino men.

“What’s going on?” Alan asked.

The sound of their voices carried, but not enough for Alan to be able to discern what they were saying. The smaller of the two Latino men, at least a foot shorter than Bruno, started to beat his chest with the palms of his hand.

“Simple eviction,” Guy said. He shook his glass until the ice cubes shifted and then took a drink.

“These two jokers phoned the front desk and said their air conditioning unit was on the fritz,” High Bob said. “Then they have the gall to leave a crack pipe laying out in the open when we showed up to fix it.”

Biker Bob shoved a hand into his pocket and when he brought it out he was holding a narrow glass cylinder. “Finders keepers,” he said and dropped it back into the pocket of his pants. He grinned at Alan, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth. “Be surprised what people leave in their rooms.”

“And you just confiscate it?”

“If it’s contraband? Sure.”

Guy said, “These people, they always make a fuss. They’re clearly in the wrong, yet they act like their rights are being infringed upon. They’re two weeks behind on rent. Erik gave the greenlight to give them the boot. I’m surprised Bruno’s stayed cool for this long. Maybe therapy is working.”

But the optimism was missing from Guy’s voice. And, sure enough, as one of the angry Latino men violated Bruno’s invisible bubble of personal space, the stacked bodyguard clamped a hand around the man’s throat and smashed him up against the wall. The other Latino, this one larger than his companion, dressed in jeans several sizes too big and a soiled wife beater, attempted to intervene. He grabbed Bruno’s arm. Bruno’s arm formed a ninety degree angle. He brought it back swiftly, his elbow making brutal contact with the Latino in the saggy pant’s face.

The Latino man crumpled to the ground.

With his hand still choking the life out of the smaller man, Bruno delivered a quick kick to the man’s shin and then tossed him to the ground.

Bruno towered over them, waiting to see if either of the men were dumb enough to retaliate.

Neither of them did.

The smaller of the men helped his friend up and they limped their way over to an old Dodge pickup. The larger man left a trail of blood behind him, both hands cupped over his broken nose.

“He gets a lot of enjoyment out of what he does,” Guy said. “How does the old saying go? ‘If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.’ Bruno is in love with his job.”

At that moment, Bruno glanced up to where they stood against the railing of the second floor walkway. He waved up to them, seeming to have forgotten that he had an audience.

“One step closer to cleaning up the community,” Guy said and raised his empty glass toward Bruno.

“It’s the Lord’s work,” High Bob said.

Alan said, “You have a minute?”

“For you? I’ve got all the time in the world. What’s up?”

“I may have some work for you.”

“I see. Let’s step into my office.” To the two Bobs he said: “We’ll talk to you gentleman later.”

The door to Guy’s room stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped aside, gesturing for Alan to enter first.

This was the first time Alan had been in Guy Bernard’s makeshift office. It was a standard-sized room, same layout as Alan had on the first floor, but Guy had taken the time to furnish it himself. A 55-inch plasma screen TV sat atop an expensive-looking entertainment center the color of polished obsidian. The counter top that served as a kitchen area was decorated with a number of neatly stacked glasses, flanked by an assortment of various bottles of liquor. The twin-sized bed was shoved up against the outer wall to make room for a long oak desk that was at least three times the size of the one that had come standard in Alan’s room. In addition to an open laptop and a laser printer, the desk was piled high with stacks of case files.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“This feels too formal,” Guy said. “Have a drink. I insist. I’ll even make it for you.”

“All right. Rum and Coke then.”

“Simple yet elegant,” Guy said and moved over to the counter. He dumped his dirty glass in the sink and pulled out two clean ones. He tossed a handful of ice cubes into each glass, poured in a generous amount of Captain Morgan, and then pulled a can of Coca Cola from the mini-fridge and filled each glass to the brim. He carried them over to his desk and handed one to Alan. “Have a seat,” he said and gestured toward the bed.

Alan sat down on the edge of the bed. Guy plopped down into his swivel chair, spilling a fair amount of his drink onto his shirt. He twisted around and opened a box of cigars, selected one and stuck it between his lips, but didn’t light it. “I don’t like the smell of smoke in my room. It lingers. Nothing pisses me off more than to wake up to that smell. Makes me want to kill somebody. How’s your drink?”

Alan took a sip of his Rum and Coke and nodded.

“So, what’s this possible job opportunity you were speaking of?”

“How would you feel about doing some
pro bono
work? Strictly research.”

Guy leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “I assume this isn’t research that would be sanctioned by the federal government?”

“Times are tight,” Alan said. “I could do the legwork myself, but somehow I have a feeling that you could get answers faster than I could.”

“I make it a point to never work for free. Once a person starts doing that, word gets around. Pretty soon, everyone and their mother comes looking for a hand out.”

“In that case, I might be wasting your time,” Alan said and stood up from the bed.

“Hold on. Just listen for a second. Finish your drink.”

Alan sat down and waited.

“All I said was that I don’t typically work for free. Occasionally, I’m willing to make an arrangement where services are performed in exchange for commodities other than money. Not often. But I do have a soft spot for a friend in need.”

“Such as?”

“Certain favors,” Guy said.

“What kind of favors?”

“The to-be-determined kind. Nothing drastic, but sometimes a favor owed is better than money in the bank. Don’t worry, I would never ask you to compromise your delicate moral sensibilities.”

Alan took another drink of his rum and Coke. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“At present, that’s neither here nor there. What do you say?”

“Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?”

“Every man has some devil in their heart,” Guy said. “Surely, you of all people know that. You’ve dipped your toes in the abyss the same way I have. It’s just most people are smart enough to keep the devil where he belongs.” Guy finished off his drink and moved over to the counter to mix himself another. “Anyway, tell me about this little research project you have for me.”

Alan ran into Bruno on the stairs as he was headed back to his room.

Bruno was seated on the top step, face buried in his hands. For a moment, Alan thought the bull of a man might be crying.

“That was quite a show you put on across the way,” Alan said.

Bruno glanced up. His face was red but his eyes were dry. “It’s always the little guys,” he said. “They always try to act bigger than they are. Like they have something to prove. They always try to solve their problems with violence. But that’s no excuse. I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have resorted to laying my hands on them.”

Bruno didn’t come across as the type of man that would illicit sympathy, but Alan couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He was like anyone else. A man constantly striving to become a better version of themselves, but always trying to come to grips with the fact that there would be failures along the way.

“I think it’s normal to lose your temper once in a while,” Alan said. “God knows I have on more than one occasion.”

“Still…I know better. And I was really making progress.”

“I wouldn’t beat yourself up over it. Tomorrow’s another day.”