The Baby Breeze Motel (WEEKLY/MONTHLY AC SAT TV VACA CY) sits crumbling in its parking lot like half a sandwich left at the back of a fridge. I think skuzzy is the technical word for this style. The app says Bun’s phone is around here. Somewhere.
I was kind of hoping I’d see Bun skating on a frozen puddle or something, but that’s not on and he’s still not answering either. All I can do is hit the locator tab on the app, walk past the rooms and hope I hear his phone beep.
I turn off the van reluctantly and climb out. It took another three tries to start it for this drive. I hope it starts when I need to get out of here. It’s colder by the lake, and up close, the Baby Breeze isn’t exactly homey. Curtains are drawn across every window. The plastic chairs out front are magnets for cigarette butts and empties. Two sorry cars are parked about five doors apart. Both look older than me. One has a flat tire. The O’Toolemobile fits right in.
I hit the button on my phone and start walking, trying to seem like just another wholesome teenager looking for harmless fun at a fleabag motel. A faint beeping kicks in as I pass the second car. It gets stronger every step I take. So does a certain dense, skunky smell I’ve, uh, smelled before. Both are definitely coming from the end unit. I stop at the door and knock. Nothing; just stink and beeping. “Bun?” I call. “Bunny?” A few rooms back, I think I see a curtain twitch. I ignore it and try the door. It’s unlocked. I push it open.
Instantly, the beeping gets louder. Weed stink gushes out on a wave of warm air. Lights are glowing over a small jungle of pot plants on one side of the room. Some kind of foil blanket hangs behind the curtains, duct-taped to the wall, and the carpet is stained. Apart from the plants, the room is empty except for a ratty couch and a shiny pole that runs from floor to ceiling in the middle of the room. One end of a set of handcuffs is clamped around the bottom of the pole. I’m not even going to think about that.
The phone beeps are coming from a kitchenette space behind the couch. “Bunny?” I try again, but I know nobody’s home. Get the phone and get out, I think.
I tiptoe fast to the kitchenette. Partway there I wonder why I’m tiptoeing, but I do it anyway. And there’s Bun’s phone, beeping away on the floor by the counter. I’m just bending for it when I hear a rustling in the leaves behind me and a sound that’s a cross between a creaking door and like a bullfrog on steroids. I look over my shoulder. Looking back at me is an alligator.
I don’t hear myself scream, but I probably do. I do know that somehow I jump straight up onto the stamp-sized countertop and teeter there, clutching the mini-cabinet fixed to the wall, my head scraping the ceiling.
The gator or crocodile or whatever it is snorts, its black eyes gleaming at me. Its front claws clack and scrabble at the cupboard doors under the counter while its tail thumps the back of the couch. I’m trapped. I could yell for help, but I’m thinking guests at the Baby Breeze Motel are used to yelling from their neighbors. Cops aren’t an option. Hi, I’m trapped by an alligator in a grow op, and looking for my brother who’s skipped his jail pass. Meanwhile, Bun’s phone is still beeping, and I’m starting to feel how hot it is in here.
Clutching the cabinet with one hand, I thumb my cell phone with the other. Then I call the only person who might understand. AmberLea answers on the second ring. “Um, I need some help.” My voice only squeaks a little. I tell her what’s going on.
“An alligator?” she says. I can imagine her chin tucking way in.
“Or a crocodile,” I say. “I don’t know. But it’s one of them and it’s big.” Below me, there’s more snorting and clacking and scrabbling, and then the beeping noise suddenly gets quieter. “And I think it just ate Bun’s phone.”
“Okay, sit tight,” AmberLea says. “We’ll think of something. Is there, like, a dogcatcher in Toronto or anything?”
“This isn’t a dog!”
“Okay, Animal Control?”
“I dunno. For raccoons, maybe. This thing probably eats raccoons.”
I don’t think about the “we” part. I’ve got enough on my mind with a hungry crocogator that now beeps, not to mention worries that whoever owns the plants and the pet might show up and find me where I’m not supposed to be.
By the time I finally hear a car pull up out front, I’m drenched in sweat. The place is overheated, and I’m still trapped in my jacket. Plus there’s the little matter of being scared: the crocogator is still down below me, waiting. Then car doors slam, and I hear AmberLea’s voice. “In there.” Footsteps. AmberLea and Toby peer in the doorway.
“Over here,” I call as they take it all in.
“Amazing,” Toby says. “Plus a stripper pole and handcuffs.”
“Where’s the gator?” says AmberLea.
“Down there.” I point. The crocogator does some huffing and shuffling at the sound of their voices.
“Okay, just stay where you are,” AmberLea orders. It’s one of those reminders you really don’t need. “Give me the bag,” she says to Toby.
“No, I’ll do it.”
“Just give me the bag. We’ll argue later.”
He hands her a plastic grocery bag. AmberLea steps into the room. Toby comes in behind her, raises a video camera and sweeps the place. AmberLea pulls a family-size package of chicken parts out of it and rips the plastic wrap off. “Here, gatie gatie!” she calls. “Stomp your feet,” she orders Toby. She does it too.
The crocogator scuttles around. AmberLea throws a piece of raw chicken just past the couch. The gator oozes forward and the chicken is gone, just like that. The gator gives a prehistoric hiss. “Good girl,” AmberLea says. “Have another.” She tosses another piece, this time at the open doorway to the bathroom. The gator slides for it, around where a bit of wall sticks out to make a little alcove by the bathroom door. There’s a nasty snapping sound. AmberLea heaves more chicken. From the sound of it, it lands in the bathtub. The gator’s tail disappears around the corner, and there’s a lot of echoey banging and thudding and snorting. “Good for you,” AmberLea says. “While you’re in there, why not just finish the rest?” She heaves the rest of the chicken parts. I hear various smacks and splats; then Toby dashes past her, and I hear the bathroom door slam shut, trapping the gator.
“Oh, man. Thanks.” I more or less melt off the counter.
AmberLea is wiping her hands on the couch.
“Why was that alligator beeping?” she asks.
“It’s a long story,” I say.
“This isn’t the time for Peter Pan,” Toby says. “Let’s get out of here.”