The Will

The lobby smelled like a gym bag. A pine air freshener hung from the ceiling fan. On the counter, propped up beside the bell, stood a handwritten sign, misspelled, and printed on the back of a folded postcard of Niagra Falls. It read: “Ring for Servise.”

“—I know you’re there. You don’t have to ring the bell.” The top of the lobby attendant’s head shone through the comb-over. He spoke bluntly without looking up from his newspaper.
Finishing the article, he rotated in his creaky chair and peered over his glasses. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Gatry?” Dropping the paper, he clumsily pushed himself to his feet. No other person had ever paid him a week in advance for one of his shabby rooms and then actually stayed in the room for more than a few hours.
“How ’bout a coffee, Mr. Gatry? Just made it…” he glanced over at the pot that sat in the corner and looked like a display showing the age of a tree, each dark ring marking a different day of the week before ending in a thicker section near the bottom.
“Just my key.” His voice was soft and calm.
The attendant behind the desk continued as if he didn’t much care what the response to his offer was. He reached into a plywood slot with one hand and snugged up his pants with the other. “By the way, some First Nation indig stopped by looking for you. Big guy.” He bit his lip and spoke through his teeth. “Probably Cree.” The hand holding the key moved over to his cheek as the tarnished tip twittered up and down. “Scar on the side of his face. Never seen him before.”
The man called Gatry watched as the lobby attendant scratched his neck with the cut end before he spoke. “How long ago?”
“Two hours, maybe three.” He dropped the key next to the bell.
Gatry considered the description. “Did he leave a name?”
“Nope. Just asked for you.” The attendant turned back toward the desk and dropped into his chair. “I told him nobody in town with that I. D.”
Gatry lifted the chipped plastic tag that read 108 and tapped it on the counter before glancing around the room, pausing on the old coffee pot.
The attendant smiled crookedly from his sagging cushion as he waved his guest off with a flick of his wrist. “Everyone’s coffee up here is thin.” The chair creaked. “Drop your stuff in your room and com’on back. I’ll make a fresher pot just for you, thick and strong.”
Gatry stepped away from the desk without responding and walked under the broken door jamb that held three hinges but no door.
The office attendant waited until Gatry was out of sight and then mumbled. “What a prick.”

—^—

Gatry considered the description of the man that had been asking about him as his key slid into the loose knob. The door opened with a soft pop and the weight of cold stale air.

—^—

Pushing himself up from his chair, the motel attendant lifted a dusty mug, blew into it, and mumbled, “…dump that green scum off the top and heat it. That old bastard won’t know the diff—” Blamm. —Blamm.
The mug hit the tile floor and shattered around his boots.
—Blamm.
Another shot pounded his eardrums as he stumbled back, knocked the chair out of the way, and dropped to his knees. Scrambling into the dark space beneath his desk, he spun around and fumbled to open the center drawer, now above him. His hand twisted awkwardly up and over the edge until a chrome revolver tingled below his fingers. He pulled it to his chest, cradled it, checked the cylinder, and cocked the hammer. “Mary Jesus, stay with me on this one. You owe me.”
He listened.
Only the tick of the clock hanging on the far wall echoed through the room.
He considered his options.
Studying his surroundings, shards of ceramic from the broken mug lay all around him. By his left foot was a red smear on the floor.
Checking himself over, he realized that he had cut the side of his hand in his mad dash for cover.
He let it bleed.
Slowly, he poked his head out from under his desk. Seeing nothing but the piles of old discarded playboy magazines in a bag by the side of his desk, he slid out while remaining close to the floor.
Taking a deep breath, he lifted the master key from the hook and lunged forward with the gun out in front. Swinging it back and forth, he shuffled across the room and up against the wall with a thud. The faded wood paneling bent against his weight.
Breathing in and out, as if he had carried a horse across a pasture, he shimmied to the corner where the wall ended. Eyes clenched, led by another ill-conceived prayer, he moved from the sunlight in the lobby to a section of the building that smelled like mold.
“Mr. Gatry?” His finger tickled the trigger before he yelled out again. “You okay in there?”
The unknown and illegal oozed in horizontal slivers from below each door. Sweat drooled from his hairline and down into his eye sockets.
He swallowed hard and took another step forward.
Gatry’s door was slightly ajar.
“Mr. Gatry?” His foot tapped, but he couldn’t stop it. Each hair rising from his body quivered. With a set of quick steps, he jabbed the door with his bleeding hand.
It swung open.
Counting to three, he stepped in.
Gatry lay on the floor as the wind from the open window swept past him.