Neon Nights Chapter 19

Trailer flipped the small television on in his motel room and cycled aimlessly through the stations as the front of the bed where he was sitting sagged closer to the floor.

Infomercial … infomercial … preacher … preacher … off-air … off- air.

He chose off-air for the evening's soundtrack, anything being better than the steady thump of bass that lived inside his head during an event. He grabbed a cool PBR from the mini fridge that desperately needed a shot of freon.

"Piece of shit can't keep nothing cold," he said, kicking the fridge hard and denting the soft plastic exterior. He cracked the beer and made it disappear in seconds.

The fuzzy red numbers on the archaic brown alarm clock looked like even they had given up for the day.

3:45.

This was the worst part of the night. He was usually so jacked up after all the energy drinks and bumps of powder that he wanted to stay up and rage 'til the sun came up. However, his body often told

him—his heart specifically—that he needed to lay down and catch a little sleep before doing it all again the next day.

The other problem was that he had no friends to rage with, so it always ended up being little more than himself sitting in whatever shithole room he was in that night, trying to kill whatever synapses brought on the demons of his past, with whatever substance was available to him at the time. All that before he dropped like a ton of bricks. The hot sun beating down all day had scorched his forearms and created a wicked farmer's tan on his body that made him look like a candy cane when he took off his XXXL t-shirt.

Trailer ambled into the bathroom, which could scarcely accommodate his frame, and turned on the shower. He stood under the lackluster water pressure and haphazardly applied the motel's complimentary Caribbean breeze shower gel wherever he could reach.

A garden hose would be ideal right now.

When he finished, he took three towels and went to work drying off his body before grabbing the bottle of mouthwash off the vanity. He swirled it around for a few seconds before firing it out of his mouth with so much force that the blue liquid leapt from the walls of the sink bowl, escaping onto the floor, wall, and sink handles.

Satisfied that he was clean enough, he walked to the bed and checked his phone on the nightstand.

One missed call from Alec. Trailer rolled his eyes.

He'd had enough of his nonsense for the day.

As he went to place the phone back down, it dinged with a text message.

He didn't recognize the number. 555-917-5309: You up?

Why, who's asking?

555-917-5309: You up?

He thought about it for a second, and a rush of excitement ran through him. Maybe it was one of his regular girls that followed the festival, and she had just gotten a new phone.

This Candy?

555-917-5309: :)

Shit yeah, he thought.

C'mon over, girl! I didn't know you were in town for the show.

Candy: K, be there in 10! What room?

211

Candy: K

Is Lex with you?

Candy: No. Solo tonight. $300. K? How about a Prism and a $200?

Candy: :):):)

He didn't think the night would have a happy ending, but BAM, here it was!

He walked to the fridge, pounded another beer, lit a cigarette, and stood naked, waiting for the fun to start. Bits of ash flecked onto the floor and his skin, and he didn't bat an eye.

The anticipation was killing him, and he paced back and forth in the room, opting to grab one more beer to try to keep himself from getting over-excited.

The last time with Candy had been fast … really fast. He needed to try to get his monies worth this time.

Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and his eyes lit up.

He moved as fast as his tree trunks would carry him across the room and looked through the peephole, which had a cloudy haze to it and scratches that looked like a cat had tried to claw its way out. He could make out a woman’s long blond hair with tints of bright orange and yellow running through it, like a California sunset. She wore a crimson-colored halter top, a dark miniskirt, and heels, and had maraschino red lips.

He undid the latch to the door and turned the lock over to open it.

"Girl, why did you change your hair color?! You know I love that fire engine red."

Trailer only had time for a split second of surprise as a strapping man in black coveralls and a ski mask stood in place of the girl with a pistol lined at his eye level.

"What the fu …"

Oddly, the last image that Trailer saw on Earth was the carnival's bearded woman who had been like a surrogate mother to him reading him a bedtime story one night while his father was passed out on the floor next to the bed.

Marc rolled onto his stomach and covered both his ears with the pillow.

Clark followed suit and wedged his face into Marc's neck.

After hitting snooze on the clock four times and trying to silence the barrage of calls and text messages, he figured it was time to face reality.

6:19.

Four missed calls from Chief Rome.

Four voicemails from Chief Rome, under three seconds each. Seven unread messages from Chief Rome.

"Guess it's something work-related."

The message all seven times was, "CALL ME ASAP."

He felt like he got the gist of what the voicemails would be about without needing to listen to them and hit the chief's number on the screen.

"Are you planning on waking up today?!" the chief yelled when he picked up.

"I'm awake, Chief. What's up?" Marc asked, exasperated at the assault.

"I've got City Manager Lawrence Miller here as well."

Marc rolled his eyes. Miller was the newly appointed head of the city council, acting city manager, and was as sniveling and slimy as any politician Marc had ever seen. The man also insisted on being called by his entire name.

“Explain to me what we pay you for, Detective?"

Marc could hear the man's bloated jowls spray the mouthpiece with the remnants of whatever high-fat, high-carb breakfast he'd mowed down that morning.

"How do you mean, Larry?" "Lawrence to you, Detective." "Sorry, Larry."

"You won't find shit so funny when I put your ass out of a job, Detective."

Maybe old Larry didn't know that he had put in his notice, and the threat didn't particularly move him, but he let it go for the moment.

Rome stepped in.

"Earlier this morning, Officer Thompson chased two suspects who failed to stop on Highway 13, then took him on a high-speed chase down through Nine Mile Forest. After they crashed their delivery van and were incapacitated, he discovered a fully operational mobile drug lab inside."

"Wow." Miller cut in.

"Wow is right, Detective. Want another 'wow' moment?" "Sure, why not."

"Jason Trailer, the festival's operations director, was found dead this morning in his motel room from a bullet to the brain."

“You’re kidding,” Marc said, now taken aback by the news.

"We are all over the news. Not just the Nowheresville Gazette, but the national news!"

Marc heard the man light up a cigarette before continuing. He could envision his stubby fingers clutching the tobacco and his bulbous lips enveloping the filter, mauling it more than smoking it.

"Do you know how this city stays alive?" Miller asked rhetorically. "TOURISTS! How many families are going to sign away a paycheck to come to stay at the most beautiful pill-addled beach in America, where seemingly every other day someone gets murdered!"

"Marc, we’re all on edge," Rome said. "Everyone is getting pressure from someone else that maybe we all don't get to see. Councilman Miller gets it from the mayor, the governor, and the media. We need to all be on each other's side here."

"Chief, I agree, but we are working every angle we can. I think White Wave is involved as well."

"Shit," Rome said.

"Don't care, move faster," Miller said, then hung up.

"Well, that was one way to start the morning," Marc said looking down at the dog, who cocked his head in acknowledgment and then beelined for the back door.

"Thanks for listening, buddy."

He opened the door and let the dog outside, then moved to the kitchen to make coffee.

The house felt cold and empty this morning for some reason he couldn't put his finger on.

Some days felt like this.

Last night was an emotional rollercoaster, no doubt about it. It must have just been an extension of that.

He poured the coffee beans into the grinder and pulsed them into rich walnut grounds. His $7.50 coffee pot brewed the coffee and spat out a raucous medley of sounds, like the steam, boiling water, and grounds were having a bar fight. A little girl of about nine, who would no doubt go on to have a successful loan sharking career, had sold it to him at a yard sale and beat the hell out of him for the extra

$0.50. She had seen another one up the street that morning that was seven dollars and informed him it was not as well taken care of as hers.

She had made him go back to his truck to get the two quarters. Marc smiled at the memory.

Sobriety had a funny way of helping addicts replace drinking and drugging with new addictions. Coffee, cigarettes, and exercise seemed to be the kings though not in the same order for everyone.

Marc had kicked the cigarettes out the door with the booze, so that left him with two out of the three.

He poured a cup and went to join Clark in the backyard. Marc sipped his coffee and picked at the flecking paint on the railing without interest. He replayed every moment of the experience with the girl last night in his head.

He had saved her, but from what?

Would she just be right back at the festival tonight, her fear of missing a moment with the so-called friends she went with too great for her to bear?

Would the pills find their way back to her? Would they even have to look hard?

"C'mon, boy," he yelled out to Clark, who came bounding across the grass and up the three steps.

He took one last look at the tree line and the leaves rustling with the breeze and wished that being a detective was a work-from-home gig.

Carly hadn't slept well, and her body could feel it. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and laughed. Her hair had taken on a life of its own this morning, with strands trying to break away from the pack like a teenager seeking emancipation. She had never been a coffee person, instead opting to get up and run five miles as her wake-up routine. This morning had not afforded her the time to do

that, and she had rolled out of bed as the clock struck eight, far past her usual 5 a.m. alarm bell.

So, coffee it would be then, with as much hazelnut creamer as the cup could handle.

The fitful sleep was not uncommon, a product of the random hours that police work required and a restlessness that she couldn't shake when she laid her head down. Invariably, she would be up three times a night to pop her head in April's room, read a book, or pace the downstairs floor in a semi-comatose marathon to nowhere.

Last night was more than that, though. She had thought about Marc.

A lot.

No amount of walking, reading, or overprotective parenting could shake it. There was a moment at the door last night when she was sure they would kiss. There would have been no resistance on her part. She saw his pain, and she wanted to fix it.

She wanted to be in love again but knew it wasn't the right time. It might never be the right time.