BooksBarbecue
Back W Is for Wasted
Chapters (42)
  1. Also by Sue Grafton
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Acknowledgments
  6. Prologue
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. Epilogue
  42. Author’s Note

I fumbled in my shoulder bag and came up with my wallet and took out my American Express card.

“We don’t take AmEx. Visa or MasterCard.”

I pulled out a second card, this one Visa.

She studied it briefly. “You have a photo ID?”

I experienced the miracle of self-control as I opened my wallet and held it up so my driver’s license was clearly visible.

“No offense. Boss requires us to check. I’ll be right back.”

“You are too kind,” I said, but she was already heading for the bar, where I saw her pass the check and my credit card to the closest bartender. Moments later, she returned with a copy of the cash register receipt and the charge slip, complete with carbons, bearing the numbers she’d swiped. She held out the pen.

For a moment, I struggled, trying to determine the amount of a tip. It wasn’t like she’d served us food.

“The pay here is really crummy,” she reported conversationally. “We pool our tips and split with the bartenders, which doesn’t leave much. Most of us can barely make ends meet. And I’ve got two kids.”

I ran the tip up another five percent, making it an even ten. It wasn’t until I was going out the door that I chanced to look back. In the far room, the redhead Anna had been playing pool with was leaning up against the wall and Ethan was using his index finger to trace a line along the low square of her dress. By some uncanny intuition, he glanced in my direction and saw that I was watching him. I made my exit before he had a chance to react.

•   •   •

At 2:35 A.M., I sat straight up in bed. I pushed the covers back and padded across the room to the desk chair where I’d flung my shoulder bag. As is true in so many motel rooms, the glaring lights from the parking lot threw all the surfaces into high relief. I picked up my bag and dug into one of the outside pockets, feeling for my index cards. I removed the rubber band and sorted through as though preparing for a magic trick. Pick a card, any card. I flicked on the desk lamp, pulled out the chair, and settled uneasily into the leather upholstered seat, which was chilly from the air-conditioning. While I’m frugal in my use of California water, I keep a motel room at arctic temperatures. The Holiday Inn had graciously accorded me an extra blanket that I’d pulled down from the closet shelf in its clear plastic bag.