THE MOTEL ON THE 604: A NAMELESS PSYCHOPATH MYSTERY, PART 1 - PHIL BELOIN JR.
I was leaving the shanty on this hell bound dirt road when I saw this beautiful creature hitching along the shoulder. I pulled up next to her. The dust cloud trailing after the Bel-Air like a lawman swooped past us, but not an iota of grit stuck to her. A miracle that—much like the birth of the Baby Jesus. Hey, what you think happened to Mary’s hymen after the birth? Oh, forget it, that’s for later. Let me tell you about this vestal standing outside my window—a fresh Mexy chick with a swarthy outer layer, black hair stretching to Oz, and there was smoke in them dark eyes. A smoldering heat that prickled me.
“Need a lift, honey?”
“Yes. Much thank you.”
Not a harsh accent, probably born right here in the U.S. of A of Texas.
As she shuffled into the front seat, I noticed she wasn’t wearing much—her sandals were probably covering the most skin. Her skirt skirted decency and her brassiere from the Sears and Roebuck catalog musta’ got lost in the mail. Maybe her postman was one of them perverts you read about in them Gold Medal books.
“Where you headed, baby?”
“Into town, señor.”
“Hey, what a coincidence.”
The dirt road petered out at the 604 and I went left.
“This is a nice car,” she said. “Almost new.”
“I took it from this guy.”
“I no understand.”
“You must have much money.”
Miles later, I rolled into the burg. It had been peppered with the usual Americana debris—a general store, apothecary, motel...and, oh yeah, a savings and loan without much security.
“How much would ten bucks get me?” I said to my sunshine.
“Anything,” she said.
A whore...how did I ever guess?
“There is this place, señor, with beds just through town road.”
“I know where it is, honey.”
“I already got me a room there.”
“You will never forget me.”
I had that feeling, too.
I pulled in next to this aging Packard and we strolled inside my musty room. I shouda’ left a window cracked.
“You a big, strong man, yes?”
“Thanks for noticing.”
She took my hands in hers. “Your hand is red. Bruised.”
“Had a fight with this guy.”
“About the car?”
“I can tell.”
“Though I do feel a little achy.”
“You dirty, too,” she said. “I want you to be clean and you feel better.”
“Take everything off, first,” I said, “but the espadrilles.”
“You want a little lookie now?”
She wiggled the skirt off, thin hips, thin legs, a huge dark muff going for her belly button. No baby had lunched on her titties, neither.
I didn’t really want to shower, but I hadn’t paid her. Where would she go?
I sang the ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ as I soaped myself in the shower. My excitement never wavered—not even during that tricky third verse.
The whore was right. Post-shower, my muscles were looser. Roy had put up a good tussle, but I’d never pick a partner I couldn’t whip.
So we had left the Bel-Air at the shanty for the getaway car. Money in the trunk. Wait for things to settle. Then hit the road and divvy up.
But hanging with Roy in a one room shack for a week wasn’t particularly enjoyable. He was always whining how he needed a woman, a real toilet instead of a privy, a shower instead of a cold lake...you get the idea.
I came out of the can to an empty bed. The Bel-Air was missing, too.
BIO: Phil Beloin Jr. is not a psycho, but his mental health provider might disagree. Writing, the quack says, is good therapy. Bull. Booze, broads, smokes—that’s the only kinda therapy a man needs. Read all about self-destructive behavior in Phil’s first novel, The Big Bad, available over there on Amazon.
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