The Last Motel by Brett McBean Page A

shame, the humiliation. They know it’s wrong to be cheating on their wives, but they’re even more ashamed that they prefer men. I’ve seen a lot of respectful businessmen, doctors, lawyers, police officers. I’ve even seen TV stars.”
    “Having homosexual affairs?”
    “Yep. Some very well known celebrities.”
    “Wow, you have seen it all,” Morrie said. “I suppose you won’t tell me any names?”
    “Sorry. Confidential.”
    An image suddenly flashed in Madge’s mind of one important member of Parliament. This had been during summer, so she always kept the office door open for the fresh air. He had waited in the car while the other man had booked in. But she had gotten a good look at him while the door was open. She could picture it now; head down, ashamed, not wanting to be seen, wearing a badly fitted wig and glasses. She had smiled politely when the other man had come in, but continued to stare at the important member...
    Oh my God! she thought, sitting up fast.
    Morrie was drinking contentedly, watching the fire. He didn’t seem to notice her sudden movements, or her expression. She relaxed back into the chair, a smile on her face.
    That’s where she had seen Wayne before. Booking into her motel while the other man sat hiding in the car.
    “Yeah,” Madge sighed. “A lot of them are husbands, fathers. It’s sad, really.”
    Morrie finished off his second glass. He checked his watch in the dim light of the lounge. “I’d better be going soon. Don’t want to keep you up. Besides, I’m getting a wee bit tired.”
    “Don’t worry about me,” Madge said, putting up her free hand. “I’ll be staying up very late tonight.”
    “Ah, if you don’t mind me asking, is that your husband?”
    Madge followed his gaze to the photo that sat on top of the TV. The picture was a bit hard to see, but there was enough light from the fire and the screen to make out a middle-aged man, proudly wearing a police uniform, an open smile on his thin, angular face.
    “Yes, that’s my husband, Jack.”
    “Nice looking man,” Morrie said. “How long was he a policeman?”
    “Thirty years. Detective Inspector by the time he was killed.”
    “Oh,” Morrie said.
    “He was killed while in the bathroom of the police station. Stabbed to death by the brother of a guy my husband arrested. The killer was a nutcase, much like his brother.” Madge took a sip of whisky.
    “I’m sorry,” Morrie said. “Your husband sounded like a good man.”
    “A great man, Morrie.”
    Too good for somebody like me , she thought. He deserved better. What I did to him...
    No, she wasn’t going to think about the past. It was too painful.
    “He was only fifty-four years old,” she continued. “Too young. After he was killed, that’s when I decided to build this motel. That was twenty years ago.”
    She glanced over at the big man and smiled. “I’m being quite morbid and depressing, aren’t I?”
    “Not at all. I, ah, thank you for sharing your personal life. That takes a lot of trust.”
    “Well, you seem like a trust-worthy person. It feels good to have somebody like you to talk to.”
    “Thank you,” Morrie said. He sounded rather embarrassed. He finished his drink quickly and stood up. “I’d really better get going. Thank you for your hospitality.”
    “You mean the whisky.”
    Morrie smiled. “And the company. That was good too. Need help with the dishes?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Madge said. She got up out of the chair slowly. Morrie passed her the empty glass. She shuffled into the kitchen and placed the two glasses on the bench.
    When she ventured back into the lounge, Morrie was in the midst of a large yawn.
    “My, my, you really do need to get some rest.”
    “It’s been a long day,” Morrie sighed.
    “Come, I’ll walk you to the front door.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    Judy sat on the edge of the bed, her quaking hand gripping a half-smoked cigarette. She placed it to her lips, took a long drag, then