Michael Lister - Soldier 03 - The Big Hello by Michael Lister Page A

getting in the way of me finding Lauren.
    “No Powell or Patrick here, Chief,” Wilson said when he came back outside.
    “You sure?”
    “Positive.”
    “Wouldn’t be if it was just a straight setup,” Clip said.
    Everyone turned to look at him with the awe of superstitious people believing they’ve just witnessed a miracle.
    “Speaking’s not the only trick he does,” I said.
    “Wouldn’t need her here for an ambush,” Clip continued. “Not even a fake her.”
    “The nigger’s right,” someone in the group mumbled.
    Collins looked down at Shelby and shook his head. “Just can’t believe he’s dead.”

Chapter 18

    The Cactus was a roadside motel out on US 90 that looked to have about fourteen rooms. About as basic as a block-building motel could get, there was nothing nice or fancy about it. So why had both Shelby and Perkins said Powell/Patrick seemed too well-to-do a lady for a place like the Panther Room?
    Perhaps she was only staying here because there were no other rooms available in town right now.
    Florida had 328,934 hotel rooms not being used by the service for the war, and the Florida Chamber of Commerce encouraged tourists to come take advantage of them. And come they did. It was counterintuitive but we had more visitors to our state just now than we did before the war started.
    Florida was booming––and not just from all the federal contracts for war production, but from the money it put in people’s pockets and from the tourists we were attracting. Today alone, the Hialeah Racetrack took in $600,000 in bets, while the state’s dog tracks took in $100,000. And today was no special day. It was like all the others this season in the Sunshine State.
    Hotels owners could charge full price for rooms not being used by the service. Many of them received even more in under-the-table sweeteners for vacancies––something the Office of Price Administration and Office of Rent Control seemed to be able to do little about.
    I was sure Vanessa Patrick couldn’t afford to do something like that.
    According to the night clerk she could no longer even afford a room at the Cactus.
    “Spent her last dollar on a bus ticket back to Birmingham,” he said.
    He was a tall, odd-looking fellow––youngish, but didn’t look it because he was balding and his heavily lined skin seemed to lack nearly all elasticity.
    “Spent most of the ones before that one on a fella,” he said. “No, it’s not what you’re thinking. She actually hired this guy to look after her––you know, like a bodyguard. I don’t know how she could afford it as long as she did. But it always catches up with you. All good things, you know?”
    “Why’d she have a bodyguard and for how long?”
    “Gee mister, I can’t rightly recall how long, but not too. It was a recent thing.”
    “Do you know why she hired one in the first place?”
    “No idea,” he said. “Like I said, she didn’t do it for long. Maybe she didn’t even need one at all. I never saw that anyone bothered her. Probably just being dramatic. Delusions of grandeur. You know what they say––they’re as mad as a box of snakes.”
    “Who is?” I asked.
    “Actresses.”
    “When’d she leave?” I asked.
    He seemed to think about it. “I’d say little over an hour ago. Where’re y’all going? Didn’t you want to see her room?”

    ***

    We found Vanessa Patrick in the Blue Line Cafe in Union Bus Station, at a booth in the back waiting for a bus that wouldn’t come until early the next morning.
    I sat across from her in the booth. Clip turned a chair around from a nearby table and sat at the end, blocking her in.
    If she recognized me she gave no indication. If our sudden presence in her booth alarmed she didn’t let it show.
    We were the only people in the place besides two waitresses in white uniforms––one behind the counter, the other sitting wearily at a table in the front sipping coffee and nibbling toast.
    The waitress behind the counter