It was one of the weird things he thought about when he used to stay in high end hotels…had there ever been clothes in the dresser? …or chest of drawers as some called it.

Like so many other things, it had to be quantified before he guessed.

Was he staying in a standard room?

If so, his guess was No.

A suite?

Yes.

Wealthy guests commonly stay in luxury suites for an extended time.

Take his gambling associate, Bobby Olivier for instance…he stayed two months in the Caesars Palace Executive Suite. Lived like a prince. Cost him a fortune.

Bobby lost a lot at the tables that trip too.

He’s in the joint now… feds wiped him out… or so they thought. Rumor was Bobby had buried 2 million in a safe in the desert.

He carefully situated the folded laundry in the dresser drawer. He didn’t even want to think how many boxers had been in those drawers.

And the bed?…he’d scoured the mattress with a scrub brush and bleach solution when he moved in.

When he was younger he’d stayed in a flop or two. Made an impression on him. So much so he’d sworn he’d never end up in one.

Of course, this place was rungs above that…but not as many as he’d like. And the rent was sky high, eating into his cigarette money…his gas money. Not to mention groceries.

A tortoiseshell kitten hooked its claws into the bedspread and climbed up to the mattress. He took the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes–he was down to his last three– rolled it into a ball and flicked it onto the bed. The kitten pounced on the ball, flipped onto its back, rabbit kicking furiously.

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The air was rife with heat, so dry, so oppressive that his shirt stuck to his undershirt–and his undershirt stuck to his back. All his life he’d lived in this place and he still hated it when the thermometer reached 102 or above. Even now, with the sun going down, it was in the mid 90s.

He wrenched upward with his knees and his back raising the heavy, rusted bay door. Sure enough, a tell tell burn streaked across his lower back.

Damn it!

But how else was he supposed to do it? He was an old man now without the strength to do it properly.

The garage was almost entirely sheet metal which meant it was almost entirely perfect. He drove the LTD inside and popped the trunk.

He was about a quarter mile down the road before he caught a whiff of smoke.

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The bus let him off at Linkletter and 8th. He limped the rest of the way to The Linkletter Inn, carrying a gym bag.

It had always bothered him that even though the motel was on 8th, it was still called The Linkletter.

He stopped at the Montego and peered inside the drivers window before letting himself in room 11. Everything was kosher, just as he left it. He switched on the lights and dropped the gym bag on the bed. The Tortoiseshell kitten wiggled out between the pillows as he unzipped the bag and removed three bananas, a jar of peanut butter, a carton of Parliament, a quart of half and half and a ten pound bag of Alley Cat.

The kitten jumped on the cat food bag and rubbed its face on it.

He turned the gym bag upside down on the bed. A 32 S&W, three stacks and some loose bills tumbled out.

It was a decent little haul. Probably about twelve thousand. Just what he needed.