Left on St. Truth-Be-Well by Amy Lane Page A

break into their room and toss the place and bail. And while you’re gone, that guy goes into the room and gets knocked on the head—”
    “Naw, he was dragged,” Jarred said with 100 percent confidence.
    “You think?”
    “I know. I mopped up the drag marks myself!”
    “Oh for fuck’s sake—” and at that point, his pocket buzzed. He jerked back, caught in the classic conundrum of either keeping the scumbag plastered to the wall or checking his pocket while said scumbag took his opportunity and ducked away.
    “Man, I’ll catch you never. I didn’t kill nobody, I don’t know who did—”
    “But you mopped up the drag marks, you fucking psycho! Jesus! And you did a damned fine job not talking to the cops. That was really fucking stand-up of you!”
    “But I don’t know nothing!” Jarred whined, and then he ran down the hall as fast as he could, leaving his maid’s cart in the dust. Carson thought about going after him but picked up his phone instead.

Skittering Critters
     
    “Y EAH , what’d you find?” he asked, knowing it was Dale without even checking. Nobody from Chicago would be calling him right now, and he didn’t even want to think about what that meant for his social life.
    “I found a bunch of fucking parrots almost starving to death. I ran across to the Chevron store and got them a shit-ton of sunflower seeds, man. They were driving me fucking crazy.”
    “But no Beatrice?”
    “No. It’s weird. I didn’t see her.”
    “Yeah, me neither, but I did find a weaselly little man-maid who broke the lock on the door and mopped up the drag marks of the body on the concrete, though.”
    “Well done. Did he say where the drag marks led?”
    “No, you called and he bolted.” Carson realized he was still standing in the room with the recently rented bed and wrinkled his nose. The smell of rancid sex and his own rumbling stomach were making him more than a little queasy. He walked out, carefully not closing the door or putting his hands anywhere he’d leave prints. At the moment, the only evidence he could have left was on Jarred’s rumpled tan shirt.
    “I am starving!” he complained unrepentantly. “Is there any way we can get me some food?”
    “I thought you were supposed to eat before I picked you up!”
    “I was sleeping, Toppy McTopperson, so sue me, but buy me McDonald’s first, or I refuse to put out.”
    “That’s rude,” Dale said with a grunt. “But I’ll do it. McDonald’s it is. Shakes are on me.”
    “Don’t be a cheap bastard. I want pie too.” Carson started to look around the corridor, trying to figure out the way to cut through the hotel to get to the lobby. There had to be a way, right? All hotels had one.
    “Any food with that food?” Dale sounded like he was moving too, and Carson hoped they weren’t going to walk right by each other in parallel corridors.
    “Yeah, a salad wrap, because that’s just the way I fly.” Okay, good. Left. There, that hallway looked promising: it had a men’s room on the right, which you didn’t usually see unless you were close to the lobby.
    “Now that’s going too far. A hamburger, by God, that’s as far as I’ll go!”
    For a second, Carson was disoriented because it sounded like Dale’s real voice, and then he looked up, and, hey, there was the man himself, faded jeans, zippered blue hoodie and all. Carson hit End Call and rolled his eyes.
    “That’s my limit, burger boy. I want a fucking salad wrap or no deal.”
    Dale’s full lips curled up into that slow, inviting smile. “Well, if you’re gonna lay down the law….”
    Carson felt a thrill in his stomach that had nothing to do with food. “Yeah, all kidding aside, can we get the fuck out of here? This place is about to give me a willie-killing attack of the heebie-jeebies.”
    And now Dale’s low, surf-rolling laugh was the only thing that got Carson through the lobby of the hotel—with all of those squawking, pissed-off birds sitting over their