The Mexico Run Read Online Free Page A

Roebuck. The towels were clean and freshly laundered, and there were two small, wrapped cakes of soap with the name of another motel on them. There were two glasses enclosed in sanitary wrappings on the cracked glass-shelf over the sink.
        I had put my bag on the rack and opened it and found the bottle of Jack Daniels. I took off my jacket and hung it on a hook, loosened my neck tie, and sat in the Naugahyde chair next to the bed. It faced a television set with a broken knob, but I couldn't have cared less whether the TV worked or not.
        I waited for the ice. Lights from a car flashed across the window, and I heard the sound of a dying engine, as heavy-rubber tires crushed the gravel, drive outside the door of my room. I stood up and reached in my pocket for some change, opened my door, and went out to find the Coke machine.
        The driver of the truck, which had pulled up next to my Jaguar, was entering the office.
        The Cokes were fifteen cents, and I didn't have the proper change, but there was a sign saying that change would be given for a quarter. I put a quarter in the machine, the Coke came out, but I didn't get the change. I went back to the room to wait for the ice.
        The Coke was cold, and I opened it, took one of the glasses, and had a straight shot, using the Coke as a chaser. I figured I had a few more minutes to wait, and I was right. I was considering a second straight shot without the ice, when there was a light knock on the door.
        I said, "Come in."
        She had combed back her hair, put on a little lipstick and eyeshadow, but it was wasted. With her face, she didn't need anything. She was carrying a cardboard bucket filled with ice cubes.
        This time she gave me the trace of a smile as she set the ice on the formica desk.
        "I'm sorry to be so long," she said. "We had another customer, and I had to put Johnny to bed."
        She hesitated a moment, and her eyes flickered to the bottle of Jack Daniels.
        "Will there be anything else?"
        I still don't quite understand why I said what I did next. I was dead tired, exhausted from the long drive. All I wanted was sleep. Another shot or two, then eight hours of solid rest.
        "Nothing else," I said, "unless you would like to have a drink with me. You look as tired as I feel, and if you are, maybe a drink would help."
        The smile left her face, and again she gave me that peculiar, half-questioning look. It wasn't so much that she was wondering what my motives might be in asking her to have the drink, as it was surprise that I had asked her. And then she shrugged, hunched her shoulders, went over to the straight-backed chair in front of the desk and sat down.
        "I'd love one," she said.
        I retrieved the other glass from the bathroom, filled both glasses with ice cubes, plus a couple of ounces of bourbon, and added Coke to one glass. I was about to do the same to the second when she shook her head.
        "I'll take it straight."
        I handed her the glass, and before I could go back to my chair, she downed it in two gulps. You would have thought it was mother's milk.
        I put my glass on the floor beside my chair, without touching it, walked over and took the glass out of her hand and poured another double shot in it.
        This time, when she smiled, she gave me the full treatment. She lifted her glass in a small salute, but didn't gulp it. Just took a sip and held on.
        "Are you the manager of this…"
        "This dump?" she finished for me.
        She wasn't being bitter, merely accurate.
        "Not the manager," she said. "He's, down the road getting drunk again. I'm Sharon."
        She said it as though it explained everything.
        "You work here, then?"
        "You might call it that. But, my God, would I do anything to get away."
        "If you want to get away, why don't you just leave?"
        She smiled, and it