Jump Cut by Ted Staunton Page B

skateboard and a guy checking his tire pressure. “We should have had the car washed.”
    â€œIt rained while you were asleep,” Al reminds her. “We’re good.”
    â€œOh. All right then.” She gives a queenly smile to a golden retriever in the back of a pickup truck. Mister Bones yaps.
    We pick the Superior Motel because it’s the first one we see and it looks okay. “You can always tell about motels,” Al advises. “You wanna lie low, pick one’s gotta car with a flat parked at a unit.”
    â€œWhy?” I ask.
    â€œCar with a flat says cash, cheap and close.”
    â€œClose?”
    â€œTo your basics. You know, like a liquor store.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œIf you hadda drive, you’d fix the flat.”
    Al and I go into the motel office. There’s a big, fleshy-faced old guy in saggy jeans and a black golf shirt behind the desk. The only thing even close to being as big as his gut is his huge upsweep of silver hair. It curves out over his forehead, then rolls and swoops straight to the back of his head, kind of like young Elvis, except old.
    Over in the corner an even older guy is parked on a couch, dozing in front of a TV blaring CNN. He’s all wrinkles and stray whiskers under his ball cap, and he’s got the belt-and-suspenders combo happening over green work pants and a plaid shirt.
    Al pulls out a credit card and books two rooms while I look around. I’m tired and this place isn’t making me feel any livelier. There are fake flowers here too, and potted palm trees, a rack of postcards and some tour brochures.
    On the wall behind the desk, on a wooden plaque, is a big stuffed fish with its mouth wide open and some framed photos—pictures of kids’ soccer teams wearing Superior Motel jerseys, grad shots, a wedding, old people with a cake and party hats. That kind of stuff. Underneath hang plaques and certificates from the Chamber of Commerce and the Rotary Club. Jer once had to give a speech about “Front Porch Farmer” to a Rotary Club. I look closer at the inscription. The name on the plaque reads Mike Karpuski . Why does that sound familiar?
    To one side are three black-and-white pictures. One is of a bunch of guys on a dock, in old-fashioned clothes, squinting into the sun and holding up a big fish; another is a line of people standing in front of a plain wooden building with a sign above their heads: Superior Hotel. Then I jolt out of my tiredness, because the third picture is different. First of all, it’s been torn into pieces and carefully taped back together. Second, I’ve seen it before. It’s a soft focus, head-and-shoulders glamour shot of a platinum blond, one dark eyebrow arched knowingly at the camera. At the bottom, on the right, perfect handwriting flows: Best wishes always, Gloria Lorraine.
    â€œHey,” I say.
    Al doesn’t notice. He’s busy stuffing whatever hot credit card he used back into a wallet. The guy behind the desk is handing over two keys on plastic tags. “One-twelve and one-fourteen there, Mr. Scrimger,” he rumbles over the din from the TV . “Halfway down the west side. You can park right in front. Enjoy your stay.”
    Al scoops up the keys. “Sure we will. C’mon, Ed. Let’s get Gramma settled.”
    I follow him out. “Did you see that?” I ask him. “It was so weird.”
    â€œSee what? Was somethin’ on the news?”
    â€œNo, on the wall!” We’re at the car. “Guess what?” I say to GL as we get in. “You have fans here with the same name as your alias.”
    â€œNot now, Spicer.” She’s tilted onto the door’s armrest. It looks as if her grand entrance has used up whatever energy she had left. Her left hand moves to turn off her hearing aid. I stop her. “No, listen, you’ll like this. Remember how you had the cottage sign marked Karpuski for