Micky made his way to the center of the city, taking alleys, crossing the streets only after he'd checked to be certain no one seemed interested in him. Not that the guy would come marching down the street toward me, gun out and firing. I hope.
He had a destination in mind. A place he hadn't been at since he first arrived in the city, broke and friendless. Then, the motel had been his salvation. Now it could be again, he figured.
Or not. I'll need to pay for a room. He took Gary's wallet from his pocket, hoping against hope the man had money. When he checked, he whistled softly. Five hundred? Holy shit. And a gold card. Not that I can use it. I sure don't look like him. Still…
Putting the wallet back in his pocket, he continued walking, although he changed direction, heading to a bus stop where he knew he could catch one that would take him to the cheap motel where they didn't ask questions if you were willing to pay in cash. That had been his first…home, he supposed, after coming to the city.
It was close to two in the morning, but the bus he needed was still running. Fifteen minutes later he got off a block from the motel. When he neared it, he was glad to see the sign still said "Cheap weekly rates", although he had a feeling they would be higher than the first time he'd been a guest. He was right. A week would cost him just over half the five hundred. Still, it was a bed and a bathroom. What else could a guy in his position want? And it was on the other side of the city from where Gary had been shot. The check-in clerk was old, tired and at that late hour, happy to take Micky's money instead of having to go through the formalities of running a credit card. Micky figured that would be the case. It had happened the first time he'd stayed there.
Micky's room, such as it was, was at the back of the motel, on the second floor. He trudged up the outside staircase and along the balcony, found 201 and went inside. Stripping down to his briefs, Micky collapsed into bed and fell asleep immediately.
* * * *
He awoke—he didn't know how much later—drenched in sweat. He'd dreamed of blood and a masked man with a gun chasing after him. In the nightmare, it seemed as if he was running in slow-motion with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Getting up, he went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and drenched his head in cold water. After drying off, he went back to bed. This time he slept without dreaming, awakening to sunlight streaming through the window.
After a long, hot shower, he dressed and went to the motel lobby to get a toothbrush and toothpaste from the vending machine along one wall. Going back to his room, he brushed his teeth, which made him feel almost human. Then he sat on the bed, his back against the wall, and tried to decide what to do next.
"Who the hell are you, that someone wanted you dead?" Micky muttered, picking up Gary's wallet from the nightstand between the twin beds. He flipped it open, looking at the driver's license again. Gary Freeman was definitely the same man Micky has been with last night. Although for all I know, that's not his real name any more than John was. He went through the wallet, looking for anything that would confirm the man's identity. The credit cards all belonged to Gary Freeman, as did, surprisingly, a library card. Both it and the license had the same address. Micky figured it had to belong to the house Gary took him to, though he didn't actually know for certain. At least it's on the right side of town to be.
He hadn't been paying attention when they'd driven over from the bar. He'd been much more interested in the man than the ride And when he'd run, after the shooting, all he'd been thinking was getting as far away as fast as possible, in case the shooter came back to finish the job.
"No fucking way was I about to become another victim. How the hell Gary managed to get out of there is…well, a miracle of some sort, I guess."
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