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The Cadillac Motel — Josh Covington
Two undercover cops return to the scene of a horrific crime to dig up the bones of the past. But standing in their way is Arnold Buckley, owner and operator of the Cadillac Motel. To what lengths will Arnold go to protect his livelihood?
PREVIEW
The wind wailed and the rain pounded the Cadillac Motel in curtains. A flash of lightening brought a schism of daylight across the sky, held the darkness hostage for one brief, unsettling moment, and then vanished. A ripple of thunder followed, crushing the silence of the night.
Inside, Arnold Buckley, owner and operator, sat behind the front desk, dry, warm, and satisfied. He wore navy blue dress pants pulled high above his waist and a plain v-neck t-shirt that barely covered his bulging belly. The smell of hair-grease and sweat radiated from him, melding with the general stench of the motel's lobby. That morning's paper sat unfolded before him, crumpled and well read.
Suddenly the front door opened, bringing with it a strong gust of wind that ruffled the newspaper pages, sending them into disarray. A man and a woman walked through the door and up to the counter.
“One room. Two hours,” the man said, shaking the rain from his hair. He wore a plain business suit and tie under a soaked overcoat. His eyes darted around the office.
“Twenty-five,” replied Buckley, as he eyed the man's companion. His beady eyes ran over her body, taking in the platform heels and short, tight skirt. She seemed irritated and her eyes shone with impatience, accentuated by dark lines of mascara that had begun to run down her face from the rain. From his angle, he could clearly see a nipple poking through her wet shirt. Tight little number, he thought. Wonder how much she cost him? He laughed out loud.
“Wh- What's funny?” the man asked. “You, you got a problem, um, here?”
“No, chief. No problem here. Trust me, you'll get no flack from me. I just want you kids to have a good time. What was the name?”
“Anderson.”
“Well alright Mr. Anderson, here's yer key. Room 14.”
“Could you make it room 17? See, it's my lucky number, and I could use all the luck I can get tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the woman as she shifted her weight and crossed her arms.
“Yeah, sure.” Buckley pushed the key for room 17 toward him. “I'm in a generous mood.”
Anderson paid, snatched the key, and hurried out the door into the rain, towing the hooker by the hand.
PREVIEW
The wind wailed and the rain pounded the Cadillac Motel in curtains. A flash of lightening brought a schism of daylight across the sky, held the darkness hostage for one brief, unsettling moment, and then vanished. A ripple of thunder followed, crushing the silence of the night.
Inside, Arnold Buckley, owner and operator, sat behind the front desk, dry, warm, and satisfied. He wore navy blue dress pants pulled high above his waist and a plain v-neck t-shirt that barely covered his bulging belly. The smell of hair-grease and sweat radiated from him, melding with the general stench of the motel's lobby. That morning's paper sat unfolded before him, crumpled and well read.
Suddenly the front door opened, bringing with it a strong gust of wind that ruffled the newspaper pages, sending them into disarray. A man and a woman walked through the door and up to the counter.
“One room. Two hours,” the man said, shaking the rain from his hair. He wore a plain business suit and tie under a soaked overcoat. His eyes darted around the office.
“Twenty-five,” replied Buckley, as he eyed the man's companion. His beady eyes ran over her body, taking in the platform heels and short, tight skirt. She seemed irritated and her eyes shone with impatience, accentuated by dark lines of mascara that had begun to run down her face from the rain. From his angle, he could clearly see a nipple poking through her wet shirt. Tight little number, he thought. Wonder how much she cost him? He laughed out loud.
“Wh- What's funny?” the man asked. “You, you got a problem, um, here?”
“No, chief. No problem here. Trust me, you'll get no flack from me. I just want you kids to have a good time. What was the name?”
“Anderson.”
“Well alright Mr. Anderson, here's yer key. Room 14.”
“Could you make it room 17? See, it's my lucky number, and I could use all the luck I can get tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the woman as she shifted her weight and crossed her arms.
“Yeah, sure.” Buckley pushed the key for room 17 toward him. “I'm in a generous mood.”
Anderson paid, snatched the key, and hurried out the door into the rain, towing the hooker by the hand.
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