Текст книги "Prodigal Blues"

Автор книги: Gary A. Braunbeck

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4.  Coincidence, Be It Meaningful or Not

Before we'd even gotten in sight of the garage, Cletus—after pontificating on the glories of Pinochle, letterboxed movies, good books, and women who had "…a little meat on their bones…"—informed me of the following:  "I'm not saying I can't fix it, understand—it'd take a couple of days, probably—but whatever I did would be:  A) expensive, and, B) really, really temporary.  I'm talking a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, got it?  At best, I could slap that thing back together good enough to maybe, maybe get you another two-hundred-fifty, three hundred miles farther along, but it'd just crap out on you again, and the next time it goes, it's gonna be a helluva lot worse than it was this time, and it's gonna be permanent.  So I'm sorry to tell you, but unless you absolutely insist on it 'til you're blue in the face, I will not send you on your way in a car that I know isn't going to get you home."

I sighed and rubbed my eyes.  "There any motels near the truck stop?"

"There's a nice one that don't cost too much and they give discounts to my garage customers."

"What about the car?"

"They don't allow cars to stay in the rooms so the discount doesn't apply.  I see that once again my Mark Twain-like humor has flummoxed you.  Tell you what, give me your brother-in-law's number and I'll call him and make arrangements for the burial.  He can either sell it to me cheap for what parts are still working, or pay my appalling storage prices while it sits in the garage waiting for someone to come down here and haul it back to his lot.  Besides, I'd like to say a few words to him about the quality of automobiles he's pawning off.  As far as what you owe me goes, call it thirty dollars for the tow."

"There any place I can rent a decent car?"

"Not in the immediate vicinity, but we're not all that far from Jefferson City and you can rent one there easily enough.  I'd offer to take you on over right now but today's busy as hell.  Be more than glad to drive you there in the morning before I open the garage, though; otherwise you'll have to beg a ride off one of the truckers coming through and I wouldn't recommend that—not that they're bad fellows, most of them are top-drawer, but you don't strike me as the trucker-befriending type.  My guess is country music has never insulted your stereo's speakers."

I was hot, I was tired, I was nine-squared levels of aggravated, and—despite the sandwich and carrots—still hungry; I didn't feel like dealing with any more crises today.  I told Cletus I'd take him up on his offer.  I'd get something to eat at the truck stop, then check into the motel and call Tanya.

"A man with a plan," said Cletus as we pulled into the garage.

I was happy to see that the motel was also adjacent to the truck stop; at least there'd be no worries about crossing the highway.  If I got lost, I could always use their flagpole for a marker; it was about thirty feet tall and was currently flying the biggest American flag I'd ever seen.  Right now the flag was caught in a crosswind and was snapping back and twisting around like it was trying to bite itself on the ass.

"I'm not exactly the sharpest tack in the box first thing in the morning," said Cletus, pulling a business card from one of his pockets, "so in case I forget, or if something happens and I gotta have one of my boys drive you over instead, take this and make sure you call me once you get home."  He wrote something on the back.  "This here's my home number, call this one if you get in after nine in the evening.  I'm usually up until about midnight, midnight-thirty Ohio time.  Otherwise, call the garage number on the front."

"Mind if I ask why?"

"I'm a worrier, is what I am.  My girlfriend—Muriel, she's the gal who runs the restaurant—tells me I worry too much, but personally, between you and me, I think she finds it kind of erotic.  Plus it's good for business, being concerned that the folks whose cars you fix are happy with the service."  He smiled as I took the card from him.  "Besides, Mr. Mark, you strike me as a damn nice fellow and I've enjoyed our little adventures in Kerouac-land today."

"Me, too."

I tucked his card into my shirt pocket and we shook hands.  The last thing I'd expected today was to make a new friend.

I unloaded the four medium-sized boxes of toys, knickknacks, and family keepsakes that my sister (not trusting airline baggage-handlers) had asked me to take back to Ohio, grabbed my suitcase, made sure I had everything else I needed, then gave the car one last good solid kick before heading toward the garage's rest room to dispose of something.

After a moment's consideration, I turned back, popped the cap off the portable urinal, opened the passenger-side door, and emptied the contents into the back seat.  If Perry had someone come down to haul this back to Ohio (and he would, he was just that type), I wanted to make sure the smell when he opened the door would let him know just what I thought about his assessment of "top-notch condition."

As I was leaving the garage I could hear Cletus behind the closed door to his office shouting into the phone, "…kind of a brain-damaged, greasy little, no-balls-to-speak-of pickpocket are you, anyway, Mr. Perry of Perry's Used Cars on Fifth Street in Cedar Hill, Ohio?  Don't bother answering that—the smell of your breath'd probably come through the phone lines and knock every buzzard off of every shit-wagon in a fifty-mile radius.  You got any idea the outright, call-the-mortician danger you put your brother-in-law in by letting him drive off in that miserable excuse for transportation?  What's that?  I am calm, dunder-dunce!  If I was mad, I'd be getting unpleasant…."

Oh, yeah:  I really liked him.

The woman behind the motel desk was in her sixties and wore the type of horn-rimmed glasses that had been around for so long they were actually fashionable again.  She took one look at me, smiled around the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, and said, "Hello, you.  I'm Edna.  You must be that Mark fellah Cletus went after."

"Word gets around fast here."

"That it does, son, that it does.  'Course this has been one of them days where we got nothing new or interesting to talk about, so your little predicament's the big topic…that, and my new cookie recipe, which I finally got right after about a dozen tries.  Don't look at me like that; you work a stop like this, you get your kicks where you can.  Now, let me see…oh, yes.  I got just the room for you."  She slapped down a key.  "Number Twelve, near the end, first floor.  You got nobody above you, and nobody on either side right now, so you can get yourself some rest and have some peace and quiet… if you can get past the trucks rolling in and out of here."

"That sounds lovely."  I watched the dangling ash at the end of her cigarette grow longer; no matter how much she moved and spoke, the ash never fell off.

As I was signing in, she looked past me to the small stack of boxes I'd left outside the door.  "If you want, I can have my husband store them boxes in a room we got for that stuff.  We don't have many thefts from here, but you never can tell."

I checked with my back and found it didn't feel like hauling any more than necessary.  "I'd appreciate that.  How much more will that be?"

"It's free for Cletus's customers."

"Sounds like he's quite a popular guy."

"Cletus?  He's a stinker, is what he is, but you gotta love 'im.  Unless you're a Pinochle player."

"So I gathered."

She laughed and shook her head and still the ash remained in place.

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?" she asked.

I pointed.  "Not lose your cigarette ash?"

She grinned.  "It's a gift."

"You have no idea, do you?"

A wider grin:  "That'd be telling, and I got to leave folks with something to remember me for, don't I?"

I left just as Edna's husband—who looked as if he'd been an even more powerful specimen in his younger days than he did now, which was nothing to sneeze at—began moving the boxes to the back.  He gave me a wide and bright smile and I waved at him.  He, too, had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and just like his wife's, the ash on the end of his smoke did not fall off, in spite of all his movement.  I figured it was some kind of family secret, passed from one generation to the next.  Maybe they'd turn it into some kind of roadside attraction for a little extra cash.  I'd buy a ticket.

I was suddenly glad that I'd had car trouble, otherwise I'd never have met any of these wonderful, interesting people.

The room was clean and surprisingly spacious—it had a king-sized bed complete with "Magic Fingers" (twenty-five cents for "Fifteen Minutes of Bliss")—although it appeared to have been last remodeled by some groovy decorator around 1974, but I dug it, anyway.

I decided to grab a shower and a change of clothes before doing anything else.  Once out of the shower, I called Tanya (who'd taken the day off from work) and got our voicemail.

"Are you naked?  Touch it for me, baby, touch it slooooooowly.  Hey, hon, it's me—Jesus, I hope you knew that.  Do me a favor?  After you pick up Gayle and the kids at the airport, stop at a Radio Shack or someplace like that and buy me a frigging cell phone, please?  You were right, but more importantly, I was wrong.  Alert the media.  Listen, I'm in a motel just outside Jefferson City.  I've had serious car trouble and… it's a long story, complete with motifs and subplots and nebulous symbolism and would probably bore you into a coma, so….

"I'm going to head over to the restaurant here and get something to eat.  I'll try you back in about an hour or so.  I miss you.  Hope you still love me when you get this."  I ended by giving her the motel's name and phone number, as well as the number of my room, then breathed heavily for a few seconds before hanging up.  I am nothing if not a class act.

Tanya was probably talking to Perry at this moment; after the earful he got from Cletus, he'd feel compelled to call his sister and yell about how her doofus-janitor of a husband had ruined a perfectly top-notch car.  Tanya would let him go on for a few minutes, then tear him a new one.  Perry had never won an argument with her.  Come to think of it, neither had I.  My wife was a force of nature.  Lucky, lucky me.

God, I missed her.  Home seemed so very far way.  Maybe some steak and eggs would help with that, though I doubted Muriel's cooking (assuming she did the cooking herself) would be half as good as Tanya's.

The parking lot was crowded with SUVs, minivans, assorted cars and pickups, along with semis and their tractor-trailers—

–and, near the far end of the lot, almost-but-not-quite hidden between a pair of semi cabs, sat the twin butter dishes.

I stopped for a moment, staring, wondering why, if they'd twice missed their exit, they hadn't just stopped here the first time to check their map or trip-tick or simply ask someone how to get from here to there.  I'd've done it that way, had I been in their situation; but, then, I'm a lot less stubborn than most male drivers, and lack the prerequisite pride to be injured.

I chuckled at the thought of the little blonde girl or her mother finally screaming at Daddy to for goodness' sakes pull off and ask for directions because they had to go to the bathroom and it was getting hot in here; I imagined Daddy, shoulders slumped in defeat, pulling into the parking with all the majesty of a dog with its tail between its legs.  Lassie at her most heart-wrenching probably never looked so sad.

I entered the restaurant and was immediately overwhelmed with the smells of coffee, bacon and hamburgers, coffee, eggs and home fries, coffee, fresh doughnuts and toast, coffee, cigarettes and engine-oil-stained clothes, coffee, cheap perfumes and after-shaves, coffee, coffee, and something that might or might not have been coffee.

A tired-looking, but friendly and pleasant young waitress seated me at a booth near the middle of the restaurant, handed me a menu, and asked if I'd like anything to drink.

Oddly enough, I ordered coffee.

While I waited for her to come back, I took in the surroundings while looking for the little blonde girl among the customers.  I wondered if she'd recognize me.

One of the things I've noticed during my road trips over the years is the tendency one has to keep running into the same people at rest stops and restaurants along the way.  There's always a portion of the trip where you start recognizing certain cars and their drivers because, at least for a while, you're all traveling in the same direction, so it only makes sense that you're going to see each other during stops.  It's an at-best tenuous connection to another human being because, even if you recognize each other, you rarely speak.  But sometimes that silent fellow-traveler acknowledgment is all the road can offer, and as long as you can find a familiar face or car along the way, you feel like you're on the right track.  It's not quite as lonely.

So I was looking for the little blonde girl and her family.

The waitress returned with my coffee (each customer got a pot all to themselves), took my order, then said, "Muriel said to tell you that she's gonna fix your meal herself because Cletus asked her to.  You must be special to rate Muriel getting behind that grille."

I looked over to the counter where a large and quite attractive woman in her early fifties gave me a big wave and an even bigger smile; she looked enough like Edna from the motel to be her younger sister—which, when I thought about it, made sense; a lot of truck stops/restaurant/motels like this were family businesses in Ohio, why should it be any different here?

I returned Muriel's wave and poured my first cup of coffee.

It was exquisite, with a hint of hickory that curled up inside me like a favorite pet by the hearth in winter.  Restaurants and trendoid coffee houses in Ohio would charge you four bucks a cup (no free refills) for stuff this good.  Once more I found myself being glad that car trouble had landed me here.  Sometimes it's easy to forget that there are still genuinely friendly places in this world.

I looked around a little more, soaking up some local flavor by reading the notices and fliers pinned to the bulletin boards that hung on the walls seemingly every six feet:  the one nearest me had ads for babysitters, 15%-off coupons for dinner at "Bubba's Catfish Shack," used car and motorcycles for sale, a sewing machine repair service, AA contact information, stop-smoking clinics… and a couple of missing children posters.  One of them was old and faded, torn at the corners, but the other looked more recent.

I stared.

Something about the newer flier seemed strange to me but I couldn't figure out what.  I finally got up and walked over to the board, excusing myself as I accidentally bumped into a young man in a tan shirt, then folded aside the dry-cleaner's advertisement that half-obscured the face on the poster.

A few years ago, the news department of a television station in Columbus (in their ongoing quest to always give viewers something to worry over or feel bad about) came up with the bright idea of doing an experiment to see just how many people actually pay attention to posters of missing children.  They took a photograph of the Programming Director's seven-year-old daughter and made up over one hundred Have You Seen Me? posters, then taped, stapled, and thumbtacked them at high-traffic locations in various shopping malls throughout the city.  They left the posters there for three days and then, over the course of the weekend, had the PD's little girl sit on a bench somewhere inside the mall they were targeting that day (they hit five malls before the story aired on Monday's six p.m. broadcast).  There were two hidden cameras; one was directed on the little girl at all times, while the other—a small spy-cam disguised as a snap-clasp on the outside of a female reporter's purse—wandered the mall getting video of people looking at the poster as they entered (at least two posters were taped on the doors at each entrance); these happy shoppers would then proceed to walk right past the same little girl whose photograph they had just seen (she was even wearing the same clothes and hair style as in the picture).  Five malls in three days, over a hundred posters, thousands of people looking at her face and then passing her, and only one person recognized her.  Sometimes we're such a dandy species you don't know whether to boogie your socks off or climb a clock-tower with a rifle strapped across your back.

The poster I was now staring at had a clear and very recent photograph of the little blonde girl I had seen three times today.

My first thought was not, My God, I've found her!—not even close; it was this:  A silver Airstream trailer with tape covering its windows would be an ideal place to conceal video and sound recording equipment if you were a news crew repeating the Columbus stunt.  If I for one second had any doubt that this was some kind of staged news exploit, it was quickly put to rest by the information under her picture:  her name was Denise Harker, she was six years old, and came from Fort Wayne, Indiana; she'd been missing for five months, and had last been seen guess where?

The very truck stop restaurant in which I now stood.

Understand something:  I am not by nature a man who believes in meaningful coincidence; self-respect does not allow me the luxury of embracing the concept of a clockwork universe or a grand unification theory or even something as banal, insulting, and simple-minded as fate; for me, claiming something as "coincidence," be it meaningful or not, is the last desperate gasp of the rationalist before surrendering to the weight and knowledge of chaos; I can't even take shelter in the leaky cave of determinism because I suspect that disorder is already hiding there in the shadows.  In short, peddle coincidence somewhere else, I'm not buying.

I dropped the dry-cleaner's ad back in place, shook my head, and returned to my booth.  I finished my coffee, poured a fresh cup, and was just raising it to my mouth when a small but insistent gothic bell started sounding in my head.

What if it isn't a stunt?

But what if it is?

But what if it isn't?

What if—

Shit, shit, shit.

I wandered over to another bulletin board, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while riffling through the ads and fliers, looking for another poster with her face on it.

This is stupid, it's a stunt.  It has to be.

Uh-huh.

But what if it isn't?

Shut up, why don't you?

I'm just saying…

I found her poster soon enough.

See there, Holmes?  A stunt.

Be quiet, Watson, and do consider:  What if it isn't?

What if it is?  This grows quickly wearisome...

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Personally, Holmes, I always thought that particular platitude was a big, steamy load.

I rubbed my forehead, sighed, and did my best to examine the room without being too obvious about it.  The first time around, something didn't seem right; on the second scan, I realized what it was:  nowhere in this restaurant did I see a State Trooper, Highway Patrol officer, cop, or even security guard.  Still, I kept looking.

On the third pass I accidentally made eye contact with a mean-looking, tattooed biker-type, then decided to have one more cup of coffee and think things over before I either made a fool out of myself or had the biker ask me for a date.  I was halfway back to my booth when

(seriously, how can you be sure?)

I turned around and walked to the far end of the counter where another bulletin board hung.  This time the poster was tacked over the ads, in plain view.

I pretended to read a flier for a fish fry sponsored by a local church while debating what to do.  If it was a stunt, I'd be calling them on it (and what are the odds this is for real? I asked myself, then told me to put a cork in it); if it wasn't a stunt, then some anguished family was going to be very relieved and happy come dinnertime tonight.

The entrance, I thought.  Go to the entrance and see if another one's hanging there.

Then what?

One thing at a time.

At no point did it cross my mind that even if I did find another poster with her picture on it, it would prove nothing because I still hadn't seen her.

Still… which the gothic bell in my head wasn't.

I meandered out of the restaurant and toward the main entrance.  Like a lot of truck stops these days, this had more than just a restaurant; it also boasted a video-game room, private showers ($5.00 for fifteen minutes), a mini-mart for all your road-food needs, a small clothing store, an equally small traveling-supplies shop, a combination tobacco/newsstand, and a video/DVD store where you can!  Own!  The!  Latest!  Hit!  Releases!  By the time I reached the main entrance, I was easily forty feet from the restaurant.  I hoped my waitress didn't come back and think I'd skipped out on her; Muriel would never forgive Cletus for making her go through all that trouble for a lout.

I was almost rammed in the nose by one of the doors as a loud and frazzled-looking family of five pushed inside; I stood back just in time to save myself a trip to the emergency room and got a good, clear look at the poster taped to the glass.

Enough already.

I caught the door before it closed and pulled off the poster.  I doubted I was committing any societal disservice; there was another copy on the second door.

Stunt or no, I was going to say something.

But you still haven't seen her, have you?

Shit, shit, shit.

Okay, then; if I went up to an employee or could find a cop or security guard and told them that I thought I'd seen this girl around here today, that would be enough, wouldn't it?  But then if I couldn't prove I wasn't just yanking their chain I could be in trouble.

Shit, shit sh—

(hold on, rewind, get a grip)

–the butter dishes.

I all but bolted out the doors.  If the Microbus and trailer were still in the parking lot, then I had something solid to show… whomever I could find.  (This was a truck stop, for chrissakes!  I refused to believe there wasn't at least one overweight and underpaid balding security guard somewhere on the premises.)

Once outside I lost all bearings for a few moments—there were too many trucks coming and going, too much noise from the gas pumps, too much exhaust in the air—but then one of the semi-cabs I'd spotted earlier pulled away and I was blinking from the glare of the sun off silver finish.

They were still here.

I considered going up to the Airstream and banging on the door until one of the news-crew personnel opened up and I could call their bluff, then decided that was a job best left to a security guard… providing I could find one.

Back inside the truck stop, I asked the girl working the tobacco stand if there was a security guard she could call.  Something in my face and voice must have told her that this was serious, because she nodded her head and picked up the phone.  I gave her my name and told her I'd be in the restaurant.

I got back just as the waitress was walking away from delivering my food.  We almost collided with each other.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "Guess I'm a little tuckered.  I need to stop working double-shifts.  Your food's on the table, and I'm getting your little girl's order now."

"What?"

She walked away, giving me a straight-on view of my booth and my meal and the little blonde girl with big eyes who sat there staring at me.

After a moment, she raised her hand and gave me a little wave.

I gave her the same in return.

The poster still in my hand, I approached her, then sat down, glancing around for something that might be hiding a spy-cam.  I looked at her for a moment, saying nothing, then slid the poster toward her.  "Is Denise really your name?"

She gave a slow nod of her head.  Her hair was flattened and greasy in places, as if it hadn't been washed for several days.  There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small scrape on her right.  The shirt she wore looked to be about two sizes too big.

I leaned forward.  "Are you okay?"

She looked down at her feet and gave a small shrug.

"Denise?"

She looked up as if she'd just been caught stealing something.

I tapped the poster lying between us.  "Listen, I don't want this to sound mean or anything like that, okay, but… is this some kind of a joke?"

She shook her head as her eyes began tearing, then reached up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and it was this last thing, this simple, reflex, child-like action, even more than her tears, dirty hair, and smudged face, that told me in no uncertain terms she was scared half to death, because the way her too-thin arm shuddered as she lifted her bruised hand to her runny nose, the way she didn't even care about the streak of snot she left behind, the way her bony shoulders began hitching as sobs spluttered out before she could stop them, all of it made a fist that slammed into my gut and finally sent the message to my brain that this little girl with the big eyes and killer smile was terrified and hungry and hurt and sick and you-bet-your-ass for real.

Shit, shit, shit.

The waitress came back a few moments later and set a tall, frosty glass of orange juice in front of Denise, noticed she was crying, and said, "Aw, honey, what's wrong?"

I looked at Denise, then at the waitress who was looking right at her.  I took one second to note that, although the poster with Denise's face on it was laying face-up in plain view, the waitress took no notice.

"Miss?"

The waitress turned toward me.  "Is she feeling all right?  We got some children's aspirin back there that I could—"

"—would you ask Muriel to come over here, please?"

"Is there something wrong with your order, sir?"

"Not at all, it looks great, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ask her to come over here right now.  It's kind of urgent."

The waitress nodded her head and left.

I reached across the table and took hold of Denise's hand; she jumped at my touch, frightened—no, scratch that—terrified, but did not try to pull away.

"Denise, the person who's driving that bus I saw you in… are they the person who took you from here?"

She shook her head, dribbling snot and tears onto her shirt.

"The person who took you, are they here anywhere?"

She looked up at me, then squeezed my hand and said:  "…I'm real sorry, mister.  Honest I am."  Her voice broke hard on those last three words.

"Sorry?  For what, hon?"

Before she could answer, Muriel came up to the booth.  "Jenny said you wanted to see—"

The words died in her throat when she saw Denise.  "Oh, Lord…"

I held up the poster.  Muriel waved it away.  "I don't need to look at that, Mark.  I know who she is, all right.  I been seeing her face in my dreams for a long time now."  She looked at me with tears in her eyes.  "It was my restaurant that she disappeared from.  Why wouldn't I remember what she looked like?"  She knelt down and took hold of Denise's hand.  "Oh, hon, a lot of folks been looking everywhere for you, you know that?"

"Will you call my mommy and daddy?"

She brushed some hair from Denise's eyes.  "Oh, you bet I will, hon, I'll go start making calls right now."  She turned to me and took hold of my hand.  "You done a real wonderful thing, finding her like this."

"Actually, she found me."

"What's that?"

I shook my head.  "Nothing.  What do we do—"

"Everything okay here, Muriel?"  He was neither overweight nor balding; this security guard looked to be in his early thirties with maybe five-percent body fat:  he could've probably broken my spine with two fingers.

"Trevor," said Muriel, shoving the poster at him.  "Mr. Sieber here has found Denise Harker."

"Hold on a second," I said.  "I didn't—"

"Well, I'll be damned," said Trevor.  Then:  "'Scuse the language, ladies."—this said with a nod toward Denise.  "Is she what you needed to see me about, sir?"  This said while clamping a congratulatory hand (so big I could have sat in it) on my shoulder.

"Yes," I managed to get out, offering the poster to him.  They were caught up in the excitement, and my trying to explain what had brought us all to this point suddenly seemed ridiculous; I'd have plenty of opportunity to explain everything to the police.

Trevor folded up the poster and tucked it into his pocket, then knelt down next to Denise.  "Denise, we've got to call an awful lot of people about you—"

"I wanna go home."

"Of course you, do," said Muriel, stroking Denise's hair.  "And that's just where you're gonna be by bedtime tonight."

Denise sucked in a sob and wiped her eyes.  "Promise?"

"I swear it, hon.  I swear it."

Denise gave a little shudder, then pulled her glass of orange juice closer and took a few sips.  The way she craned her neck to reach the straw broke my heart.

"Do you want to come with me?" asked Trevor.

Denise shrugged, glancing around with wide, panicked eyes.  A small crowd was gathering around the booth, people nearby having either overheard or figured out for themselves what was going on, and everyone wanted to see if it was true.

"Okay," said Trevor, turning around and raising his arms to hold people back.  "Go back to your seats, please, give 'em some room.  There's nothing to see here."  He looked over his should at me:  "Did I just actually say—?"

"Yes."

He shook his head.  "My wife's right, I watch too many cop shows."  He spent the next minute or so assuring people that everything was all right, that Denise was fine but they were making her nervous, cha-cha-cha.  When things calmed down, he bent over and whispered, "I think maybe we ought to move to someplace a bit more private."

"Denise can come in back," said Muriel.  "My apartments just behind the restaurant and she won't be bothered there.  I'll wait with her."  Then, to me:  "I'd offer to hide you there, too, but it's kinda small."

"That's okay.  I'll just go on back to my room."

"Well, hell," said Trevor, nodding toward the entrance.  "That didn't take long."