“We already have a room.” Roy said. “I was trying to call you.”

“Ah. Well, the phones have been in and out.”

“I’m wondering if there’s a fire in the motel somewhere.”

The man was younger than Roy, puffy around his chin and midriff and even his wrists, in a way that suggested a medical condition. For an instant his face looked distraught; then it leveled itself professionally, and he smoothed a palm across the thin band of hair that rode the top of his head like a bucket handle. Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, he said, “Not to my knowledge.”

Roy felt rainwater dripping from his nose. “There’s a smell in our room,” he said. “Like something’s burning. Like something metal is on fire.”

“Oh, that.” The buckethead smiled proudly. “Let me put your mind at ease.” He leaned forward and settled his elbows on the counter, folding his hands. “I’m the owner.”

“And?”

“I know the smells. I could tell you the smell of the old lady from Dothan who was here a year ago, just from what she left on the towels.” His laughter snagged at the back of his throat, and he coughed his way through it. “Seriously,” he said, “I know what you’re talking about: that chemical smell? It’s coming from the carpet—a brand-new pattern called Spellbound, which is actually becoming very popular with some of the finer motels. But it takes a while for the odor of the poly-seal to work its way out. Trust me, that poly-seal’s a good thing. Come back a year from now, the carpet will be stain-free and you’ll be glad for it.”

“We’re going to need roll-away beds,” Roy said.

The man cleared his throat. “Can do.”

“Two of them.”

“It’s happening as we speak.” The man was writing something on a notepad next to the telephone. “Anything else?”

“Not as long as there isn’t a fire.”

“No fire,” the man said, “of that much I’m sure.” His smile looked almost willfully grotesque. The fat hand holding the pen skated in the air over the paper, as if ready to take down Roy’s every wish.

“Then that’s it. Just the roll-aways.”

“Two beds,” the buckethead repeated, nodding. He dropped the pen and picked up the phone receiver. Without dialing, he said into it, “Me? It’s me calling. Two beds to room … twenty-eight, is it? … and make it snappy, or tell me I’m fired.” He hung up, laughed again, and said, “Small business,” but Roy was already turning toward the door.