Chapter 7
SLOANE
Ithought jail was bad but at least in jail the mattress had the decency to be uniformly terrible.
This mattress has a dip in the middle that I can't escape from, like a human-sized bowl.
The sheets are polyester and they generate static every time I move, which means I spent the night being gently electrocuted in a crater.
The mini fridge is the main problem. It has a compressor that kicks in every forty minutes with a sound like a lawnmower starting up. It runs for about fifteen minutes and then shuts off with a final shudder.
I pick up the phone and dial zero for reception. It rings. And rings. And rings. Nobody picks up. I try again. Same thing.
I need coffee because I can't function, think, walk, or be civil to another human being without coffee.
So, I check the bag Irina packed. There are a few practical items I'm not sure are mine alongside sneakers, and she's thrown in a pair of seriously dated sparkly stilettos and a little black dress and a black blazer I wouldn't be found dead in.
Everything is folded neatly and she's included a small toiletries bag, my shampoo, and a handwritten note that says "Be strong, Sloane," with a smiley face.
It made me cry when I read it last night and I've propped the note up next to the Bible, needing all the spiritual support I can get.
Going for practical, I put on the least offensive outfit I can assemble — denim shorts and a white T-shirt — and step outside.
The motel is L-shaped, single-story, with doors opening directly onto a concrete walkway that runs along the front of the rooms. My room is number six.
The door is painted a color that was once turquoise.
The walkway has a metal railing and beyond it is the parking lot, which has four vehicles in it — two trucks, one of them with a cracked windshield, a creepy van with tinted windows, and what appears to be a permanent resident in the form of a rusted Toyota with flat tires.
It's six in the morning and the heat is already building.
There's a vending machine outside room three.
I stop and look at it. The selection is limited to sodas, a sports drink I've never heard of, and something called a "Honey Bun," a pastry sealed in plastic.
There's no coffee option. The machine takes quarters only and I don't have quarters.
Who the fuck carries quarters these days?
The reception area consists of a small counter, a rack of tourist brochures for places that are nowhere near here, a plastic plant, and a desk fan.
The air conditioning is doing its best but it's already losing.
The carpet is the same olive green as my room, which suggests they bought a lot of it on sale in 1987 and have been working through the bulk ever since.
Behind the counter is a different woman to the one who checked me in yesterday.
She's maybe sixty, with bleached hair pulled into a bun, and she's doing a crossword.
"Hi," I say. "I tried calling from my room earlier but nobody answered."
"I don't pick up before seven," she says, without looking up.
I'm not sure how to respond to this. In my normal life I'm not awake before ten, so it's not a problem I've ever had to navigate. "You don't pick up before seven?"
"Nope. Is there an emergency?"
"No. Well, I was wondering if I could get a coffee delivered to my room."
She finally looks up over her reading glasses. "Delivered," she repeats. "You want me to bring you a coffee." She stares at me for a long moment. "Sure, hun. You want a mint on your pillow too?"
"Or I can come pick it up. Either —" I stop when her sarcasm registers. "Okay. You don't do room service."
"Honey, we barely do rooms." She points to the corner. "Coffee machine's over there."
"Oh," I say. "Great. Thank you."
"Mm-hmm." She goes back to her crossword.
I walk over to the coffee machine. It's an old drip machine, the kind with a glass pot on a warmer that's never met a sponge, a brown ring stained into the base.
The pot has about two inches of dark liquid in it.
I pick it up and sniff it. It smells like it was brewed sometime yesterday and has been slowly reducing on the hot plate ever since.
"Is this… fresh?" I ask.
"It's coffee," she says flatly, and I have a feeling it's best not to argue with her.
I pour it into a Styrofoam cup, then add three creamers because I'm hoping they'll mask whatever this is. I take a sip and wince.
"Is there anywhere in town I can get a proper coffee?" I hear the words come out of my mouth and I know how they sound but I'm desperate.
She looks up again. This time the amusement is winning. "Ruthie's Diner. Two blocks up on Main. I'm sure the coffee's not what you're used to but it won't kill you."
"Thank you."
"You're the Archer girl, aren't you?"
I freeze with the Styrofoam cup halfway to my mouth.
"The one who hit Maggie Dawson's place."
"Word travels fast," I manage.
"Word doesn't need to travel fast in Duster. It doesn't have far to go." She goes back to her crossword. "Welcome to town."