right?”
“Of course not.”
“Show us.”
“Excuse me.”
Jessica leans forward, lowers the napkin so the clerk can see the fishhook still embedded in her bottom lip.
“Show us.”
“I don’t have to show you any—”
“Bitch, I am an attorney, and I will make you a solemn promise right now. When I get back to LA, the very first thing on my agenda will be to call the top law firm in Denver, hire the meanest motherfucker on the letterhead, and sue your ass and this honkytonk piece of shit hotel for every last fucking cent.”
Ron feels so sure the desk clerk is on the brink of tears, it surprises him all the more when she leans forward and smiles at Jessica, her lips parting to speak.
The lobby doors squeak open, drawing everyone’s attention.
He wears a voluminous black parka dusted with snow, a sheriff’s star embroidered onto the lapel, smiling as he shelves his hat, clumps of snow dropping on the hardwood floor.
“Evening folks,” he says, striding toward them.
“Oh, Arthur.” The desk clerk bursts into tears. “They’ve been so mean to me.”
The sheriff arrives at the front desk. “What are you talking about, Carol?”
“This woman has been verbally abusive. Called me a cunt. Threatened to sue—”
Jessica says, “Wait just a—”
“You’ll get your turn.” To Carol: “Tell me what happened.”
“I tried to explain to these folks that we don’t have any room avail—”
“She’s lying!” Ron yells.
“Ya’ll need to take a walk,” the sheriff says, motioning toward the front doors. “Right over that way.”
Ron holds up his hands in deference, and he and Jessica backpedal toward the entrance.
The desk clerk points at Ron. “And that gentleman went up to the second floor and started banging on the guests’ rooms, screaming so loud I could hear him from down here. I’ve had numerous complaints.”
“And then his wife started swearing at you?”
“Him, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“I don’t remember exactly but he used the F-word a lot. They both did.”
Ron sees the sheriff reach across the desk and squeeze Carol’s hand. “I’m sorry, Carol. I’ll handle this.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
The sheriff puts on his Stetson, turns, and advances toward the Stahls , a hybrid of a sneer and a scowl overspreading his face.
He stops, the steel tips of his boots two feet from the tips of Ron’s sodden sneakers.
“Sir, did you go upstairs and disturb the guests? Swear at—”
“I can explain—”
“No, don’t explain. Just answer the question I asked you. You and your wife do these things?”
“There isn’t a soul in this hotel but the four of us in the lobby, and that woman won’t sell us a room. Please. Just go up and look.”
Sheriff Hanson tilts his neck, vertebrae cracking, says, “Sir, you’re beginning to make me angry.”
“I’m not trying to make you angry, officer, I just—”
“Sheriff.”
“What?”
“Sheriff, not officer.”
“Look, we’ve had a terrible few hours here, Sheriff, and we’re just—”
The sheriff moves forward, a good four inches on Ron, backing him up against the wall, his breath spiced with cinnamon Altoids .
“You will answer my question. Did you do the things Carol said you did?”
“You don’t understand, she’s—”
The sheriff pinches Ron’s nose between the nostrils, fingernails digging into the cartilage, tugging him along toward the doors, kicking them open with his right boot, Ron losing his footing, the sheriff shoving him completely across the sidewalk into the foot of snow that has piled up in the empty parking space.
He hears Jessica say, “Don’t you fucking touch me.”
“Then walk.”
She runs over and helps Ron sit up in the snow, his nose burning, both of them glaring at the sheriff who stands under the canopy of the Lone Cone Inn, smoothing the wrinkles out of his parka.
“Take a guess
“Of course not.”
“Show us.”
“Excuse me.”
Jessica leans forward, lowers the napkin so the clerk can see the fishhook still embedded in her bottom lip.
“Show us.”
“I don’t have to show you any—”
“Bitch, I am an attorney, and I will make you a solemn promise right now. When I get back to LA, the very first thing on my agenda will be to call the top law firm in Denver, hire the meanest motherfucker on the letterhead, and sue your ass and this honkytonk piece of shit hotel for every last fucking cent.”
Ron feels so sure the desk clerk is on the brink of tears, it surprises him all the more when she leans forward and smiles at Jessica, her lips parting to speak.
The lobby doors squeak open, drawing everyone’s attention.
He wears a voluminous black parka dusted with snow, a sheriff’s star embroidered onto the lapel, smiling as he shelves his hat, clumps of snow dropping on the hardwood floor.
“Evening folks,” he says, striding toward them.
“Oh, Arthur.” The desk clerk bursts into tears. “They’ve been so mean to me.”
The sheriff arrives at the front desk. “What are you talking about, Carol?”
“This woman has been verbally abusive. Called me a cunt. Threatened to sue—”
Jessica says, “Wait just a—”
“You’ll get your turn.” To Carol: “Tell me what happened.”
“I tried to explain to these folks that we don’t have any room avail—”
“She’s lying!” Ron yells.
“Ya’ll need to take a walk,” the sheriff says, motioning toward the front doors. “Right over that way.”
Ron holds up his hands in deference, and he and Jessica backpedal toward the entrance.
The desk clerk points at Ron. “And that gentleman went up to the second floor and started banging on the guests’ rooms, screaming so loud I could hear him from down here. I’ve had numerous complaints.”
“And then his wife started swearing at you?”
“Him, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“I don’t remember exactly but he used the F-word a lot. They both did.”
Ron sees the sheriff reach across the desk and squeeze Carol’s hand. “I’m sorry, Carol. I’ll handle this.”
“Thank you, Arthur.”
The sheriff puts on his Stetson, turns, and advances toward the Stahls , a hybrid of a sneer and a scowl overspreading his face.
He stops, the steel tips of his boots two feet from the tips of Ron’s sodden sneakers.
“Sir, did you go upstairs and disturb the guests? Swear at—”
“I can explain—”
“No, don’t explain. Just answer the question I asked you. You and your wife do these things?”
“There isn’t a soul in this hotel but the four of us in the lobby, and that woman won’t sell us a room. Please. Just go up and look.”
Sheriff Hanson tilts his neck, vertebrae cracking, says, “Sir, you’re beginning to make me angry.”
“I’m not trying to make you angry, officer, I just—”
“Sheriff.”
“What?”
“Sheriff, not officer.”
“Look, we’ve had a terrible few hours here, Sheriff, and we’re just—”
The sheriff moves forward, a good four inches on Ron, backing him up against the wall, his breath spiced with cinnamon Altoids .
“You will answer my question. Did you do the things Carol said you did?”
“You don’t understand, she’s—”
The sheriff pinches Ron’s nose between the nostrils, fingernails digging into the cartilage, tugging him along toward the doors, kicking them open with his right boot, Ron losing his footing, the sheriff shoving him completely across the sidewalk into the foot of snow that has piled up in the empty parking space.
He hears Jessica say, “Don’t you fucking touch me.”
“Then walk.”
She runs over and helps Ron sit up in the snow, his nose burning, both of them glaring at the sheriff who stands under the canopy of the Lone Cone Inn, smoothing the wrinkles out of his parka.
“Take a guess
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