Chapter 1

Dave Thompson turned the radio up a little as "You're Addicted To Love" came on the station they were listening to. He heard Robert Palmer, but, in his mind's eye, he saw the dead pan, white faces of the women on the video, as they held guitars and swayed enticingly, in that unbelievably sexy understated way. Dick Williams, his next door neighbor, and best friend, started rocking in the seat next to him as he got into the beat too.

The girls were in the back seat, dead to the world, after a soccer game that had been a real thriller. Dave looked into the rear view mirror to make sure he hadn't made the music too loud. He didn't want to wake them. They'd played hard, and they were bushed.

"Man, the memories this song brings back," said Dick, his face twisting as he mouthed the words "addicted to love", hamming it up.

Dave was so into the music that he didn't see the warning light on the dashboard light up. It wasn't until he felt the car falter, that he looked down and saw the "oil" light brightly lit. He heard the rapid, staccato sound of valves, trying to work without oil, and knew it was bad already, if he could hear it over the music.

"Fuck!" he snarled, letting off of the gas. His hand flashed to the volume knob and he twisted it viciously.

"Hey!" said Dick, and then he heard the noise too. "Uh Oh," he said, unnecessarily.

Dave pulled to the shoulder and shut it down. Even inside the cab they could both hear the crackle and pop of overheated metal, flexing under the hood. He looked in the rearview mirror, to see if there was any traffic behind him, and when he didn't see anything, he opened his door. He leaned down and pulled the hood release, groaning when smoke flowed out of the gap created by the hood popping up a few inches.

Both men stared at the engine. They could feel the heat, standing three feet away. The dip stick burned Dave's fingers when he tried to pull it. There was a rag in the trunk, but he didn't want to go get it. He knew what he'd see when he pulled the stick. Nothing. He'd see nothing, where a black coating of oil should be, where the cross hatched lines lay next to the words "operating range" on the dip stick.

"Did you check the oil when we left?" asked Dick.

Dave shot him a dark look. "Of course I checked the oil. I'm not an idiot."

"Just asking," said Dick.

"What's going on?" came a female voice.

Both men looked to see Denise Williams, Dick's daughter, come from where the open hood had blocked their view of her getting out of the back seat. Both men noted her short, lush body, still in her soccer uniform. That uniform did nothing to hide her big breasts. Her dark brown hair had been let out of its pony tail, and fell to her shoulders in long gentle waves. She looked at the two men with startling hazel eyes, that seemed to flicker from green to blue, depending on the light. At first glance, she was stocky looking, short and wide. But a closer examination, and the right clothing, revealed that, below broad shoulders, and breasts that looked too big to be on such a short girl, there was a narrow waist, and then hips that, combined with the shoulders and breasts, were why she looked so stocky.

"Did you break the car, Uncle Dave?" she said, putting her hands on her hips. Both men stared at her. They had stared at her all through the game. Dave stared at her every time she came over to the house, to see his daughter, Cindy, who was apparently still asleep in the car. Dick, her father, had stared at her for years, unbelieving, as she turned from a little girl into a young woman any man would gawk at.

She saw the disgusted look on her "uncle's" face, and realized he was really upset.

"How bad is it?" she asked, serious now.

"Oil," said Dave, shortly.

"Or lack, thereof," said Dick.

"Well, put some more in," said Denise. "I'm hungry."

Dave finished unloading the trunk. He'd found two quarts of oil, amid all the sports gear, old newspapers he'd forgotten to take to the recycling point, the picnic blanket they hadn't used in years, and one very flat spare tire. Thank goodness they didn't need the spare.

He poured the oil in and felt arms go around his waist. His daughter had awakened as they tore the trunk apart, and had been brought up to date by her best friend. She didn't say anything, and he knew she was just trying to make him feel better.

He put the cap back on and then got on one knee, to look under the car. He saw oil start dripping out slowly, and knew what had happened. In the parking lot, after the game, he'd tried to pull forward, through the empty slot in front of the car. He'd forgotten there was a concrete tire barrier, and his forward momentum had carried the car over it. Everyone in the car had heard the crunch and groan of metal impacting concrete, but he'd though it was just the frame.

Turned out it must have been the oil pan.

"We have to go!" he yelled. "It's leaking out! COME ON!"

They all piled into the car and he started it. The knocking was there immediately, but he put it in gear and started forward. He wanted to go fast, to get somewhere quickly, but knew that running the motor at slower speeds would do less damage. They were in the middle of nowhere, taking what looked like a short cut on county roads ... at least it looked like it on the map. He couldn't remember if they'd seen any traffic, but he knew he hadn't passed anybody, or been passed, for quite a while.

Dick yelled, with pent up anxiety, as he saw the sign up ahead.

"Flannery - 1 Mi" it said.

Dick grabbed the map and stuck his nose two inches from it.

"We're on 79, right?" he asked.

Dave nodded, but kept his eyes on the road.

"I don't see anyplace called Flannery on the map," said Dick.

The knocking intensified, and took on a deeper tone.

"It had better fucking be there," snarled Dave.

"Now Daddy!" came Cindy's voice, chiding him for cursing. He ignored her.

There was a silo ahead, and a small cluster of buildings. A faded sign said "Flannery - unincorporated", and then there was a railroad crossing sign, and then there was Flannery, which was composed of the grain elevator and seven other buildings. One was a gas station. Dave more or less aimed the car there and winced as he heard things begin to rattle under the hood. As if the motor knew it had done its job ... had gotten them to civilization ... it gasped its last and died with a series of jerks and shimmies that shook the whole car.

A man in overalls came lumbering toward the group. He had on a ball cap that, at one time, had been red, but was now an indeterminate maroon color, due mostly to grease that had almost covered up the red. He had a rag in one hand, which was also greasy. He used that rag to wipe his hands, frequently. An observer might have noticed that, sometimes, the rag got grease on his hands, instead of cleaning them.

"You folks having some trouble?" he asked. He waved his hand in front of his face to blow away the smoke and fumes that were billowing from under the hood of the car.

"I think I hit something and put a hole in the oil pan," said Dave.

"Hmmmmm" said the man. "You shouldn't have done that."

Dave looked at Dick, who shrugged, as if to say "Well ... he's right."

"Is there a mechanic around here?" asked Dave.

"That would be me," said the man. "I'm Jimmy Joe. Howdy." He stuck out his hand, which was covered in grease.

Dave took it anyway. In a place this small, there couldn't possibly be more than one mechanic, and he didn't want to get off to a bad start with this one.

"Dave Thompson," he said, and then found himself introducing the whole group to the man. He felt stupid, but finished. Jimmy Joe spent extra time examining the girls, and grinned happily as they each gave him two fingers to shake.

"Will she start?" asked Jimmy Joe.

"I sort of doubt it," said Dave. "Key's in it."

Jimmy Joe got in, turned the key and listened as the motor turned over slowly, but didn't catch. He got out again, shaking his head.

"Ain't looking good," he said. "Help me push her over there and I'll do some checking to see how bad it is."

The three men pushed, while Cindy steered, and they ended up in front of the open garage door that was part of the station. Jimmy Joe got a jack and lay on the ground to position it. Then he stood, pumped the handle, and rolled under the car on a creeper. He rolled back out, went to a tool box, made some selections, and rolled back under the car. Ten minutes later he rolled back out, pulling the oil pan with him. It had a white colored scrape on it, with wet oil streaking away from a tear that looked like a crack. He stood up, lifted the pan, and peered inside. Then he stuck a finger inside and wiped along the bottom. He held the finger out for Dave to look at.

"See all that pretty sparkly silver stuff?" he asked. "That's shavings of metal from your motor. They ain't supposed to be in the oil pan."

Dave wanted to scream. Of course metal shavings weren't supposed to be in an oil pan. Any idiot knew that!

Jimmy Joe went blithely on. "The bad news is that your oil pan needs to be replaced. The good news is that there will be a new oil pan on the new motor you're going to have to have."

"Where the hell am I supposed to get a new motor around HERE!?" yelled Dave, his frustration boiling over.

"I'll call Lester," said Jimmy Joe. "He's sort of our parts man in this neck of the wood. He might have something that will fit in your car." Jimmy Joe smiled helpfully. "Course, it will be used and all, but, to be honest, I don't even know where to call to get a brand new motor."

"How long?" asked Dave, preparing himself for more bad news.

"To fix it?" asked Jimmy Joe.

"Uh ... yes," said Dave, his voice tight.

"Well," said Jimmy Joe, looking up into the sky, for some reason, "If Lester's got something, maybe a couple of days."

Dave blinked. That wasn't so bad. He looked at Dick. Dick looked at Jimmy Joe, and then said "Why don't you call Lester, while we talk."

you call Lester, while we talk."

There wasn't much to talk about. It was obvious they weren't going anywhere real soon, unless they could rent a car. A quick question to Jimmy Joe, while he was on the phone with Lester, determined that wasn't going to happen. The girls had had a little sleep in the car, but were still tired from the rigors of the game, and home was still three hours away. It was getting late, too. Cindy, who had been listening quietly, tugged at her father's shirt sleeve.

"Daddy, there's a motel over there," she said, pointing.

Dave and Dick turned to look. Behind a row of trees was an old style motel, in the shape of an "L", with a row of rooms making the two legs of the L, with the office at the corner. A faded sign stood beside the dirt driveway. The letters could barely be made out, but they said "The Queen's Motor Court" A smaller wooden sign hung under the big one. Dangling from one of two eye hooks, and moving slightly in the breeze, it said "Vacancy". There was one car, parked near the office, but it was rusty and beat up. It could have been there for years, based on the look of things.

"I don't think that's actually open for business," said Dave.

Jimmy Joe waddled back to the group, ogling the girls again, and told them that Lester was pretty sure he could come up with a motor that would fit in the car. He'd know for sure sometime in the morning. They asked him about a rental car again, but he said the only cars in town belonged to people who needed them. He floored them all by suggesting they stay the night at the Queen's Motel, which obviously meant the dilapidated place Cindy had pointed to.

"But I'm hungry now!" moaned Denise

"I've got some candy bars in the station," offered Jimmy Joe. "They ain't too old ... mebbe a couple of months."

"Where are you going to eat?" asked Cindy, turning on the charm.

Jimmy Joe looked at her frankly. "I take my meals with my lady friend, Maggie. I 'spect she'd be a might off her feed if I brang home a bunch of strangers ... specially two girls like you. She might not let me ... I mean she might be mad." He frowned. "Maybe Pops, over at the Queens has something. I know them rooms of his have cookin' stuff in them ... pots and pans and the like. I live there my own self, in one of his rooms. He might have some vittles he can sell you."

"Isn't there a store?" whined Denise.

"Yeah, we got one, but I don't know if Mable will be there or not. She lives upstairs, and there's a bell. You can try that too."

In the end, there wasn't anything they could do. They had no luggage. Their trip had been intended to be a run up to the game, which was a challenge match between their town soccer team and that of a town in a neighboring state. They were "sister cities", in a program that had started decades ago, when one twin sister got married and was taken away by her new groom to live there. The sisters wanted to see each other, so they put on a campaign to have the two towns establish an official, if rarely attended to, relationship.

It was supposed to have been four hours over, play the game, and four hours back. The rest of the team was on a school bus, but Dave and Dick wanted to go see their daughters play, and the girls had ridden with them, instead of on the bus.

The door of the office opened under his hand, and Dave walked in to find an old time desk bell sitting on a dusty desk. He hit it with his palm and it rang loudly.

Nothing happened.

They could hear the sound of a television from back, behind the wall in back of the desk. He rang the bell again, and then again, until he got so frustrated that he started hitting it over and over again. Dick eventually stopped him by grabbing his wrist.

"The TV's too loud. They can't hear you," he said.

Cindy took matters into her own hands by simply walking around the end of the desk and walking through a curtained door in the wall. Dave felt a stab of concern, and started after her. He was almost to the curtain when it moved, and Cindy came back through, followed by a man who looked as decrepit as the motel.

He had to be in his late seventies, or early eighties, and walked with a shuffle. Oversized hearing aids stuck from both his ears, and Dave heard a high pitched squealing sound as the man fumbled with controls on each one.

"Dint know I had visitors," he wheezed. He smiled, showing startlingly white and even teeth, that had to be dentures. They belonged in the mouth of someone fifty years younger. He shuffled to the desk and stood, looking at them, obviously waiting.

"We need a room," said Dick.

"Room?" asked the man, leaning forward. "Course we got a room. This is a motel!"

"We NEED a room," said Dick, much louder.

"All right," said the man, as if something important had been decided. He pulled a big cloth covered book in front of him and flipped it open. Dust flew everywhere as the cover slammed down on the desktop. He flipped a couple of pages, until he found one that was only half filled in. With practiced hands, he spun the book in a half circle and pushed it towards Dick.

"Sign in right there," he said.

"Do you have a pool?" asked Cindy.

"Rules?" said the old man, leaning forward again. "Don't disturb the other guests. That's my only rule."

"No," said Cindy. "I asked if you had a swimming pool!"

"Oh, POOL!" The man grinned. "They's one out there, but it ain't been filled for quite some time. I'd have to clean it out and all that. How long you folks staying?"

"Two nights," said Dave.

"Tonight?" asked the man, looking disappointed. "If you're only staying tonight, it ain't' really worth all that work."

"NO, NO," said Dave, shouting. "TWO NIGHTS ... MAYBE!"

"Oh," said the man, fiddling with his hearing aids again. "Damn batteries don't last for shit." He looked up. "I'll try to take a look at it tomorrow. I won't make no promises, though. Even though we're on a well, it would take most of a day to fill her up, so it still might not be worth the trouble."

Dick finished writing in the ledger, and spun it back around. The old man peered at it.

"Just one room?" he asked, looking back at them. "You all's properly married ... right? I don't allow no funny business in my place."

Both men looked shocked, and both girls giggled. Cindy draped herself over her father's right side, hugging him.

"HE'S MY DADDY!" she yelled.

The old man peered at her and licked his lips. "Yeah ... right," he said. "Whatever you say. But all of you in the same room?" His eyes gleamed for a few seconds, and there was a half smile on his lips.

Then he shrugged. "Prolly better that way anyhow. I only got one that's nice enough for folks like you. Got a Tee Vee and everything." He smiled proudly. "Cable's hooked up too, from Jimmy Joe's satellite dish."

The room matched the exterior of the motel.

There were four walls, with peeling wallpaper, and two beds, of the size that used to be called a double deluxe, which meant they were six inches wider than a double, and about a foot narrower than a queen. You couldn't tell what color the carpet actually was, but that was from age, rather than dust - it had actually been vacuumed in the recent past. Table lamps provided most of the light, through dingy, yellowed shades that, in years past, had been white. The television was a 13" color Sylvania set, that had quite possibly come off the assembly line as the girls who stared at it were pushed out of their mother's birth canals. Only the microwave, on the counter by the sink, still had any shininess to it, but the light inside didn't come on when Cindy pushed the button that opened the door.

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