Chapter 1

‘There ain’t nothin’ so evil as money,’ my old grandmother used to say, before she died. In fairness, she used to say a lot of things that turned out to be a bunch of crap, like when she told my old man that she was leaving the Buckaroo Motel to him when she checked into her celestial double room in the sky. In truth, she left it to me, for my sins, for fear of him drinking the place into the ground instead of running it respectfully the same way she had for most of her adult life. So it wasn’t like you could always believe her. But if there were any truth in her financial theory, then I’d surely checked the devil himself into one of our thirteen rooms that morning. Because I had more guests than ever before in my six years as manager.

And that in itself put me on edge.

Sandy skidded her bike in the dust outside the office and beckoned for me to come outside. Her mothers groceries sat in the basket on the front, bagged in brown paper. I got up from behind the counter and pushed the door against the wind outside.
Sandy was an ordinary girl with a round face and round glasses. I always thought her name was unfortunate because everything out in the desert was sandy. It used to blow off the dunes and get into your car and into the rooms, even under the paint on the wood paneling. And she blended right in with it all. You’d be forgiven for never noticing her.
‘Look,’ she said, pulling open the bag and pawing through the contents, ‘Peroxide.’ She held up the bottle against the breeze and grinned. ‘We can have a lot of fun with peroxide.’
‘I don’t think so, Sandy.’
‘Come on, it’d be fun. We could sneak into one of the rooms and pour it into some old fools shampoo bottle.’ Her eyes willed me to do it.
‘They won’t pay if I mess with their stuff. Why don’t you get all that back to your mother?’
Her face dropped. ‘God, Buck. You’re such a square-boy.’ She said, dropping her bike in the middle of the driveway and carrying her bag inside.
She rang the bell on the counter as she strolled past and flopped down on my dirty-brown couch. I fetched a couple of cans from the back and threw one over to her.
‘You look busy,’ she said, flicking through the guest book on the table in front of her. ‘Who’s the Lexus?’ she asked referring to the pristine and somewhat higher grade of car than we were used to that was parked outside room 12.
‘Mr. Roman,’ I said.
‘The dude with the dead wife? Jesus, has it been a year since he was last here?’
I nodded.

I’d booked Mr. Roman in the morning before. He was an oldish guy who stayed the same week of every year. His wife had died in Room 12 during the summer of ‘97. Heart failure they said. Not that anyone paid much attention to that sort of thing. Forensic science hadn’t managed to reach this far into the backwoods. I’ve seen enough cop shows to know what you’re supposed to do. Our local law enforcement ignored all that red tape. They’ve got better things to do.
 Roman was our only regular customer. And truth be told, I used to dread his visit each July.
His face was long as a horses. His hair reluctantly windswept from the dust devils outside. ‘I’m booked into room 12 for the week. I’m Mr. Roman,’ he’d say, as if we were so busy that I might have forgotten. He filled out the guest book and I got his key from the hook in the back. ‘So what’s happened since last year, Buck?’ he asked as I returned. And that was what scared me most. Because I’d have to tell him that nothing had happened. Nothing had changed. Mr. Roman’s visits, more than any other event in my year made me realize that my life amounted to nothing. And this from a man who still mourned the loss of his wife constantly. The poor woman couldn’t have picked a worse place to spend eternity.
‘Great place you’ve got here,’ he said looking through the smeared glass to where the wooden huts stretched in a straight line out to the deserted highway. He was a pleasant man and I appreciated that. His sincerity left me wondering exactly what he could see that was so great about it.
Mr. Roman and I had a business agreement which kept me afloat each year. He paid three grand every time he stayed, and for that I kept Room 12 vacant. Untouched. I never usually had more than four or five rooms full at a time so it made no difference to me. I suppose it gave him comfort knowing that some two bit whore wasn’t renting it per hour and banging away on the bed where she died.
I watched him pull his Lexus round the back and walk to the room. He turned the key in the lock, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. I wouldn’t see him again until he checked out.
Then I spent a few hours worrying about how static my life was. Then I worried about Mr. Roman meeting someone else and forgetting about his long dead wife, choosing to whisk his new love away on a cruise each summer with my three grand. And if he didn’t visit, maybe I’d never realize that my life never progressed. He’d leave me here to rot, with only Mrs. Roman’s ghost for company.
At around 7pm I realized what it was that Mr. Roman found to appreciate at The Buckaroo Motel. And the reason I despised it.
Time stood still.

That was all that happened on Saturday.

‘Who’s in with him?’ Sandy asked, rolling the cold soda between her hands.
‘None of your business.’
She scowled. ‘None of yours either but I bet you know, right?’
I sighed. ‘It’s glove girl.’
I tried to look away but I knew Sandy’s face had already lit up. ‘Oh, your giiiirlfriend,’ she said in mocking sing-song.
My sarcastic laugh fell short of belittling her remark.

I’d always vowed to keep the Buckaroo Motel a respectable place. Although I liked to think that it had reflected well on myself as a person, in truth, it was my Granmother’s memory that bought any level of morality to the place. But as time went on, I was introduced to the realization that I would have to start renting rooms by the hour to keep the old place afloat. It didn’t please me, but the money rolled in, and I just kept my head down.
So, yes, there are whores.
A lot of them.
I don’t ask questions. I don’t know who they are. I watch them enter rooms across the car park through the dusty glass of my office. And because I make sure our paths never cross, I’m forced to refer to them all as I see them.
Take Panda for instance. A dirty blonde with a dirty mouth. Loud. More than one fellas took a swing at her. I’ve seen swollen knuckles when they sign out. Her continual black eyes force a comparison with the endangered bear.
Although recently I’ve come to know Panda by another name.
Now I refer to her as ‘Sandy’s mom.’
But ‘The Girl Who Wears Gloves, Even in Summer’ is an entirely different creature.
Straight black hair, often cushioned beneath a cowboy hat, she’s taller than me, I think. And always wears gloves. Always.
She’s the only one who ever smiles.
And her visitors are always happy the next morning. Not in a seedy, sweaty way like the middle aged, fat fingered customers that go with the other girls, but with a contented and calmed sense of peace. Men reborn.
I’d love to feel like they do.
But I’ll never get the chance.

‘God, this place is boring, Buck.’
‘So go home.’ I was making notes of the mornings events. In truth, very little had happened. I noted the temperature and time of sunrise but no cars had moved and all the room doors had stayed shut.
‘I can’t go home. Mom will set me a whole bunch of chores.’
I looked at Sandy, spread across the couch, a shoe hanging from one foot. ‘Isn’t it time you moved out of that hole anyway?’
‘Move where? Here?’
‘If you like.’
Her eyes checked me for signs of sincerity. ‘You’re serious.’
Sandy was only eighteen. But then I reminded myself that at twenty two, our age difference wasn’t as canyon-like as my mentality might make it seem.
‘Where would I stay?’
I rattled the keys hooked to my belt. ‘Take your pick.’
Sandy’s eyes were narrow behind her glasses. ‘And what happens when the place fills up? I spose I’ll be bunking in with you, huh? I know your game.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Fine. Just trying to help you out.’ I fell on the open book and I continued to compile my notes.
But Sandy wasn’t done. ‘I guess it’d be nice to do what I like. And I could still see mom when she’s working.’
‘You’d have duties, Sandy. This is a two way street.’ I didn’t look up.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning you’d earn your keep. We’d have fun but I’d expect a little help around here.’
Sandy got to her feet. ‘God, you people are all the same. Goddamn slave drivers. Why can’t I just get some peace?’ She stamped her feet out the door and into the dust outside. I watched as she walked to her bike and lifted it. Then dropped it. And stormed back in.
Her face was the same frown as when she left. ‘I’m going to pack,’ she said, ‘but don’t get any ideas.’
And with that she left, muttering to herself as she went, ‘Who am I kidding? If it weren’t for your obsession with that whore I’d swear you were queer.’