Mark the Hunter one of the four motels. Mark turned north. He would check out the cheapest motel first. Few people were on the street; most of them at dinner, he supposed. Tall leafy trees towered over the wide sidewalk keeping Mark in the shadows.

He had learned that morning that a mexican bodaga had been firebombed last night. He suspected it was the punks responsible for it. Ten minutes later he stood across the street from the Janson Motel. The old hand painted sign read, Free color tv, and swimming pool. The pool was empty, and had been for years.

Mark glanced both ways then crossed the street and entered the motel office. An unintrusive buzz announced his arrival. He stood for 40 seconds before the backdoor opened, bringing in the aroma of fried onions.

“Hi Mark,” said the 17 year old son of the owner. “You lookin’ for a room?”
“No, David. I’m looking for two young men that I thought might be staying here. You have anyone like that?”
David said in a stage whisper, “We don’t have anyone here.”

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