Georgie stepped up to the counter of the limelit Motel 6 lobby and spoke crisply and without a single whim of angst. I’d like a room, please. A single, preferably one on the ground floor; I have a bad leg, and it’s a damned struggle to get up stairs.Just a single? Maynard, the teller, responded. You’re traveling all alone? That’s a shame, she clicked with disappointment, looking him up and down. Pointy crocodileboots, Levis, moderately sized silver belt buckle, fake flannel shirt and a mesh-foam NASCAR hat emitting wavy ash-brown hair. Guy like you’d get scooped right up round here. Well, usually I’d be with my wife Carol but she went on a fit and kicked me out. I’m giving her a little Georgie vacation and let her calm down, he said in his bittersweet South Carolina twang, driving the thoughts of foreplay out Maynard’s head. Well, good night then, here’s your key, Maynard said as she handed Georgie the key, holding on a little too long. As he walked out Maynard looked at the TV: George Truit wanted for murder

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