Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant

Kristy’s waiting car.

Twelve
    I make Kristy pull over at the first pay phone we see, and I hop out to make a quick call.
    Pinch doesn’t answer, but I leave a brief message on his machine just to let him know where I’m heading in case he’s in the neighborhood and feels like joining me for a drink in the unfriendliest hotel bar in town.
    Admittedly, it won’t be the most appealing offer he’s ever received, but I knew every patron’s comprehension of English would be instantly forgotten if I invited Frank along instead. Frank is so much a cop that even a blind drunk can tell when he walks in a room.
    As we near the hotel, Kristy studies both sides of the street and says, “Lock your door.”
    â€œWe’re in a convertible,” I say. “A locked door isn’t going to help. If someone—”
    â€œStop talking, Dix!” Kristy yells.
    â€œSorry,” I say sheepishly.
    Curious eyes follow us as we travel the last two blocks; shadowy faces appearing from doorways and behind the windows of last-stop bachelor apartments with a bird’s-eye view of the liquor stores, porno vendors, pawnshops, and moneylenders. Kristy’s electric-yellow VW Bug is a spaceship here—an alien visitor from a different world.
    Every other vehicle is some shade of gray, as if this part of the city can only be seen in black and white. Even the people on the street are dressed in monochrome: black hoodies, black jeans, black boots. It reminds me of a Frank Miller comic book where the only color comes as the result of violence—an angry slash of red.
    â€œYou should head home after you drop me off,” I say.
    Kristy glances over, her eyes wide with panic.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” I add. “I can blend in; you can’t.”
    â€œIf you’re sure,” Kristy says bravely.
    I nod. “The Bug belongs in a happier place.”
    Kristy smiles and pats the dashboard as if stroking a pet. “She does prefer the sunny side of the street.”
    Kristy pulls over outside the Sandford Hotel. “Let me know when you’re safely back home,” she says.
    I put on a brave smile and open the door.

    Even though I know it’s likely a waste of time, I start at the reception desk. The lobby smells of cigarettes, beer, and something fouler that was mopped up using a lot of industrial bleach; but whoever did the job missed a few spots, rubbed it into the carpet with the toe of their shoe, and hoped nobody noticed.
    The disturbing part is that the hotel’s usual clientele likely wouldn’t.
    The clerk behind the reception desk could be anywhere from thirty to sixty; his eyes say the latter, but the lack of wrinkles on his sallow face beg to differ. He’s tall and scarecrow lean with an unflattering haircut that reminds me of a monk, as though someone stuck a bowl on his head and simply cut off whatever dangled below the rim.
    He also holds his head at a 45-degree angle with his left ear practically stitched to his shoulder, which makes meeting his gaze unnervingly difficult.
    â€œI’m looking for a girl,” I say. “Twenty years old, possibly blond, called Roxanne.”
    â€œShe black, chink, or vanilla?” the man asks. A nametag on his shirt reads Hello, my name is Warrick just in case some customer gives a damn, which I’m guessing most don’t.
    â€œCaucasian,” I say.
    â€œCock Asian, that’s a new one. You mean chink she-male?”
    He grins. I don’t.
    â€œShe’s white,” I say.
    â€œAnd who’s asking?”
    â€œI am.”
    Warrick grins again, the upper half of his mouth opening wider than the lower half to form a toothy comma.
    â€œAnd who are you?”
    â€œA friend of her sister.”
    â€œI like sisters,” he says.
    â€œYeah, who doesn’t?” I snap impatiently. “Do you know her or not?”
    Warrick moves his head from side to side, but because of