Replaceable: An Alan Lamb Thriller by J.W. Bouchard Page A

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,”