When Jamison reached the door to room 3A it was slightly ajar. He looked about suspecting one or both occupants of the room had perhaps gone either to the ice or vending machines. The area where the contraptions were located was void of any human presence. Not knowing whether or not the pretty female of the room was dressed or sporting her birthday suit, Jamison decided it best he just speak into the door's opening. It would not be the first time he'd entered a room and come across a naked prostitute. Most of the women who enter that profession tend to leave modesty to those more inhibited and being a respectful man toward women of any persuasion, Jamison got no pleasure from their audaciousness, though he had no problem recognizing the beauty of some of their bodies.
"Hello?" Jamison called.
"Come in." The man's voice said in a thick Russian accent.
Slowly Jamison opened the door, tentatively entering the room.
Boris, dressed in a black knit turtleneck, black pants and spit-shined, black Italian-made leather shoes with socks to match and wearing his black leather jacket, was sitting demurely with his hands folded atop the small two-seater table. The room, oddly, looked as though a maid had come in and performed her rounds. Though the bed had not been made up the blanket and sheet were neatly folded and stacked in the center of the mattress and Jamison detected the light though distinct scent of Lysol spray hanging in the air. He looked about the room, mainly for the woman, but she was no where in sight. He glanced toward the bathroom, thinking that perhaps she was in there, but the door was wide open and no one present. Jamison had no intention of asking of her whereabouts either – it was not his business.
"You called?" Jamison asked.
"Yes," Boris replied. "Come. Sit. Oh." Jamison halted. "Please, close the door first, if you don't mind." Jamison hesitated suspiciously, then closed the door and sat in the chair at the table across from Boris.
"How can I help you?" Jamison asked.
"Yes," said Boris. "Very much, I hope. You remember the woman I came here with night before last?"
"That woman? Sure thing. Who could forget her? Excuse me… but she's not your wife or girlfriend is she?" Jamison knew the answer but wanted to be respectful nonetheless.
"No," Boris' reply was blunt and, Jamison detected, tinged with a streak of bitterness which he pretended of course not to notice.
"I don't forget a face," Jamison said matter-of-factly. "Specially one pretty as hers. Names I might have a problem with but faces never."
"That so," Boris said. His reply was suspiciously more on the order of revelation than question. "Then you should be of greatest help to me."
"If possible, mister, I'll try. What exactly seems to be the problem?"
"I wake up," Boris said," and she was gone. Did you see her leave?" Boris said, "With whom and what time?"
"No, to your first question," Jamison said. "Which automatically answers your other two. Don't feel bad happens all the time. Did she rip you off?"
Boris seemed offended by the suggestion, but maintained his poise and said, "Were you not on shift that night?"
"Yeah, I was but I didn't see her leave. I don't know maybe I dozed off and she left then. Tell me something mister. You said when you woke up, she wasn't here, which implies you were asleep the time she left. Maybe she left after I was off-duty. Think about that?"
"Yes," Boris agreed, "That is a possibility. But…" He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the driver's license he found, pushed it across the table toward Jamison.
Jamison glanced at the drivers license then with puzzlement written on his face he looked at Boris. Boris nodded, indicating to Jamison to pick up the driver's license. Jamison lifted it off the table, looked at it. He did not recognize the woman's photo, but yet, strangely she somehow seemed vaguely familiar.
"Did you happen to see her in your motel that night or early morning?" Boris asked.
Jamison studied the photograph a few seconds and handing it back to Boris, said, "Sorry," Never seen her before."
Boris considered him a moment, as he placed the driver's license back into his pocket. "You are sure of this?" he asked.
"Again, like I said, mister, a face I don't forget. Now…" Jamison stood up… "We finished?"
"Wait," Boris said, his tone a mixture of pleading and demand, though a shade more demand. "Please – sit."
Hesitating, Jamison reluctantly sank back onto the chair acutely aware now of the gun's weight pressing firmly against him.
"I find this woman's driver's license on the floor here when I wake up. That was around… six thirty next morning of the night we came. Are you not still on duty till then?"
Jamison passed getting annoyed; that threshold had been crossed exactly two interrogative questions ago. "Look, mister, I'm really sorry for your misfortune, and I don't mean to be disrespectful, but are you a cop or something?"
"I… find it very strange," Boris said, thoroughly ignoring Jamison's audit, "That someone comes to your little establishment here… gets access to the room in which I sleep… kidnap a beautiful woman and leave… and you fail to notice this."
"Kidnap?" Jamison was adamant. "Hold up - you didn't say nothing about no kidnapping, mister". Now… if… that's the case, then you should be talking to the cops instead 'a me. I am not into violating no laws… and…
"Please – be quiet a moment." Boris' voice rode on such a wave of calmness, yet with a forceful undercurrent that Jamison paused. "No cops. We… you… me… we can handle this ourselves, right?"
Jamison felt that question to be more than a request. "But, man, you're talking about a kidnapping…"
"No cops," Boris repeated. "This is nothing I can't handle."
Boris stared directly into Jamison's eyes with an iciness that was unnerving. Something wasn't right and all Jamison could think of was getting out of the room as far away as possible from this stranger. Jamison knew from experience that when confronted with a potentially volatile and unpredictable situation or individual the best move was for one to remain calm, cool, collected, go with the flow… control your standing thereby hopefully controlling the outcome…
"Mister, I'm being completely honest with you," Jamison said, calmly though with conviction. "I don't know you from Adam. Why should I bullshit you? I didn't see the woman you came here with leave and I didn't see that woman come in here. Though I make it my business to mind my business, still, if there's anything foul going down on my property I'll be the first to deal with it and see that my customers keep not only their privacy in tact, but are protected as well. This is your thing? You don't want cops involved, no cops will be involved. We cool with that?"
Boris looked at Jamison intently for a long time before he said, "Yes. We are cool."
"Good, then…" Jamison again got to his feet.
Boris remained patiently seated, fingers tapping lightly, rhythmically against the table, his gaze still contemplative in the direction where Jamison had been sitting just seconds ago… "How much did they pay you to keep silent?" he said, and then he slowly raised his vision to look in Jamison's eyes. "Whatever you were paid I will double… triple it. It is my final and only offer."
And Boris proposed it in all earnestness as Jamison read further into the meaning of his words and realized that no matter how much he stressed his honest denial of seeing Michele' (aka Dorothea) leave the motel this man would remain unconvinced, which created a potential recipe for trouble. Jamison felt grateful he had followed his inclination to arm himself but was desperately hoping the situation would not warrant having to use the weapon as either threat or worse, because apparently this guy was either zoned out on drugs, off his rocker or a combination thereof.
For a brief moment the silence and stares between them resembled a classic impending showdown between two gunslingers. Jamison broke the tension when he said, "Alright, mister. Alright." He took a deep breath and placed both hands on the table as he leaned forward toward Boris. "I… I had dozed off sometime that morning'." He straightened up. "Could 'a been for an hour or more. I didn't keep track. Only reason I didn't mention it was because… I didn't want to appear to be no slacker on the job. I never been a slacker, mister. I was just tired. You understand. We all have those days. It… it's embarrassing for me to admit but I deeply apologize. But… if someone had left or entered the motel lobby, I have a chime on the door. I would 'a heard something'. I'm a light sleeper, like a cat. I definitely would 'a heard something".
"Is there a back door?" Boris asked.
"Yeah. But it's a fire or emergency exit. Has an alarm that would 'a woke the whole neighborhood had it gone off."
For the first time Boris stood up, slowly. He began pacing the room, thoughtfully, not in small circles nor straight lines, but as if the entire small room had become a cell in which he was a condemned man. Jamison detected agitation beneath the calm exterior. With a wary eye he watched Boris silently pace the room. Jamison's heart quickened much like it used to do when he was in the jungles of Vietnam on patrol with his squad and they anticipated a firefight to break out any moment with their unseen enemy. His head swam from the sudden on-rush of adrenalin. Jamison intuitively took control of himself, forced himself to remain calm but no less diligent. He had no choice. It could mean a matter of life or death. He felt perspiration on the palms of his hands, as Boris stepped over to the window. The curtain was closed. He stood there a moment, contemplating… what? Jamison had no idea and that being so, he instinctively reached around to the small of his back and removed the gun from its resting place. He then slowly brought his free hand around pretending to fold them behind his back. For the short but intense duration that he had spent in the unwelcome presence of this stranger he had quickly deduced two conclusions: the man was not only disturbed but potentially dangerous – a dire combination and a situation Jamison wished not to be in. Yet, here he remained. Boris adjusted the curtain and in an instant had spun around, armed with a silencer-tipped handgun to face Jamison… who had also drawn his weapon but not before Boris fired into his chest. Jamison fell backward with the chair mortally wounded but able to miraculously fire off a few desperate shots of his own.