Night Work

CHAPTER 14

A little over an hour later, Frank found himself in Boston. He followed Arlington Street to Boylston, and continued on into Chinatown. The neighborhoods grew progressively worse as he ventured beyond the theater district and into what was left of the Combat Zone.

Several years had passed since the Zone's heyday. Bright lights and gaudy signage had once unabashedly showcased sleaze with a level of glitz capable of turning even the most seasoned urbanite's head, but nearly all the legitimate clubs had been systematically shut down, leaving this small corner of the city in shambles. What had once been the Times Square of Boston had been reduced to something that more closely resembled the set of some post-apocalyptic horror movie. Any adult fun associated with the area was gone, replaced instead by mostly abandoned, boarded-up buildings; an ever-increasing homeless population; occasional porn shops or strip joints, and dark, garbage-strewn streets.

At the very fringe of the Combat Zone, Frank pulled over and parked. Across the street was a dilapidated old building known as the Wellington Hotel. If there was ever a place he wouldn't be, this was it.

Frank locked the car, hoping it would still be there in the morning. He stopped at the curb just long enough to light a cigarette and take a quick look around.

A neon sign buzzed over the entrance to the hotel, casting a pair of men huddled near the base of the steps in an eerie blue haze. They shared a bottle wrapped in brown paper, and appeared disinterested in Frank's presence.

To the right of the hotel was an X-rated book and video store with a faded sign promising: Hot Peep Shows – Inside!

A scurvy-looking individual in a soiled tank top and polyester slacks stood out front, urging the occasional passerby to go inside. Separated from the hotel by a dark, litter-strewn alley was a strip club that seemed to be the neighborhood's main draw. Beyond that was a liquor store with steel bars covering the windows. The remainder of the block consisted of condemned buildings in various stages of disrepair.

Before Frank had reached the hotel entrance, a young woman in a tight pink dress stepped from the shadows of the adjacent alley. She looked like she was freezing. "You want a date, Daddy?" she asked in a tiny voice. "Hey, need a date?"

Frank moved on without slowing his pace.

"Fucking queer," she growled.

As he crossed the street, a black man with a shiny gold tooth and a handful of flyers intercepted him. "That's all right, that's all right. Don't even worry about that. I'm with you, blood, I don't go for none of that skunk pussy neither. Got shit going around now make your dick look like a garden rake, am I right? What you need to do is check this out. Only three dollars a minute, all major credit cards accepted. Totally safe, blood, totally discreet. Satisfaction guaranteed."

He stuffed a flyer advertising a 1-900 sex line into Frank's hand and was gone as quickly as he'd appeared. Frank crumpled it, tossed it into a large trashcan on the corner, then climbed the steps of the Wellington Hotel.

The lobby somehow managed to look worse than Frank had imagined. A battered reception desk filled the back wall, a wide and winding staircase that looked as if it had at one time been rather ornate was to his immediate left, and a matching set of threadbare couch and chairs sat clustered to his right. With the exception of a plump hooker using a pay phone near the door and a pale bald man behind the desk, the lobby was empty.

The clerk wore jeans and a T-shirt that featured a picture of two pigs copulating on it with the caption: Makin' Bacon in bold letters beneath it. The man studied Frank the way a criminal watches a cop. "Help ya?"

"I need a room."

"Fifteen an hour. Cash, in advance."

"How much for a night?"

"How many nights we talkin' about?"

"One."

"Thirty. Cash, in advance. No refunds. Any problems, I don't wanna hear about them. Don't own the place and I got no idea who does. There's no phone in the room, no TV. The hot water usually works but I ain't promising nothin'."

While still concealing his wallet behind his coat, Frank peeled off thirty dollars and handed it to the clerk.

He slid an old register across the counter. "Sign in."

"You can't be serious."

"House rules. Sign in." Frank signed a phony name, watched the clerk pull a key from a pegboard behind him then slap it on the counter. "Go up the stairs and bang a right. It's all the way down on the right. Number 110."

Most of the overhead lights in the second floor hallway were either broken or missing entirely. The wallpaper was peeled and cracked, and the stench of vomit and urine hung stubbornly in the air.

Frank stepped over the prone figure of a man who was drunk, unconscious or dead, and continued on until he'd found his room. The lock stuck but he eventually forced it open. Smells worse than those permeating the hallway immediately assaulted him, and he hesitated before entering in the hope that the odor might dissipate.

A switch just inside the door turned on a grimy overhead fixture that bathed the room in a dull yellow light. The furnishings consisted of a bed, a nightstand, and a cheap veneer table and chair. The adjoining bathroom had no door, a small sink and toilet, and a nauseating stink all its own. The lone window overlooked an alley where a small group of people had gathered to consummate a drug deal. He pulled shut the tattered shade and cautiously sat on the edge of the bed, unsure if it could hold his full weight.

A fornicating couple began moaning and groaning in the room next door.

Frank lay back on the bed, still fully dressed, and his thoughts focused on Sandy. For the first time in years he realized he'd begun to pray, only asking that she might be spared whatever punishment fate had in store for him.

A siren wailed somewhere down the block, an argument broke out in the alley, and a boom box blared rap music a few doors down.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep refused to come.