Oasis
Hugh Lessig

The Midnight Oasis didn't open until five o'clock, and I got there at four. I pulled my car into the gravel parking lot, pointed myself toward the highway and cut the engine.
Across the highway stood the Greystone Motel. It looked the same except for the yellow tape. The cops had cordoned off the main entrance and half the parking lot, plus the dumpster where the garbage man found the body. I opened my notebook and checked my interview with the detective.
G-man finds body in dumpster approx. 530am. Body ID'd as Malcolm Faustnach, motel mgr. Stabbed six times. G-man not talking to press. Cops got to him.
Off record: Victim Malcolm dressed as woman. Leather skirt. Red suede mules. Bare-chested. Possible foreign object shoved up anus, pending med ex.
The Greystone Motel was a long, low building. Each room had a door and a little picture window. As I watched, a woman emerged from one of those rooms. She looked to be in her 30s, with painfully red hair.
On record: Out-of-town strippers from Mid. O. always stay at hotel. No stripper considered suspect at this time.
Red stopped at the edge of the highway and waited for traffic to clear. She wore baggy jeans and a sweater to hide whatever was still good about her body. She carried a big purse and a diaper bag and she wore a backpack, which held a baby.
She hitched up the backpack and crossed the road. We made eye contact as she walked into the parking lot.
Off record: Dancers not suspects? Any suspects? Live-in guest Vincent Halderman. Halderman record: assault, agg. assault, assault with deadly w-pon. All from 1955 to 1962. Enforcer for old loan shark operation. Now 70 something.
Red kept looking at me, so I got out of the car and put on my best smile. She promptly made a beeline for the door of The Midnight Oasis.
"Hey look, I'm not a cop, OK? I'm just a reporter for The River City Blade. I'm wondering if you can help shed light on the murder."
Her walk slowed by a fraction. I played my hole card. "I promise not to use your name in the paper, miss. I jut want information."
She stopped. The baby gurgled and made a cranky noise. As I approached her, she turned around and sought out my eyes.
"You're a reporter? Fine. That Malcolm would never hurt a fly. You can put my name to it. God damn whoever did that to him. Dying in garbage like that."
Up close, her face had very little makeup and plenty of strength, a pioneer woman's face, not particularly pretty, pale blue eyes that held a good stare, a sprinkle of freckles, thin lips, a face that could have used a little sun. She would look good in bad light after eleven p.m., and that was all that mattered.
"You knew Malcolm," I said.
"Of course we knew him. Where do you think we girls stay when we come through town? The Colonial Bed and Breakfast?"
The baby gurgled again. She shifted the load.
"Your first?"
"Yep." A smile creased her face in spite of itself.
"I think he wants to dance, too."
"The hell he will. He's going to college."
The tension seeped out of her shoulders and she seemed to lose about three inches in height. I carefully pulled out my notebook and cocked my pen. She didn't scare. She shifted the backpack.
"The cops said there was some partying last night at the hotel, sometime before the murder . . . "
"There was no all-night party, not like the TV said. It was just the girls in their rooms — or in each other's rooms — with some guys from the bar. I didn't stay up and I didn't see Malcolm. By the time I got up this morning, the cops were already crawling around. When I told them I went to bed early, they didn't seem interested in me."
She watched as I scribbled. "But you saw guys? Guys who followed the dancers across the road after last call? Describe them."
She looked away. She wasn't going to tell me.
"OK, so you went straight to your room Fine. But you knew Malcolm? Tell me about him."
She looked at the sky and shrugged. "Malcolm was sweet. He'd do anything for us girls. Sometimes the guys who follow us are OK, sometimes not. Malcolm took no shit. They acted up, he'd call the cops on their ass."
"Was he . . . unusual in any way?"
"In what way?"
"Nothing in particular. I'm just asking."
Her face lost a little color. "Please don't tell me he was a child molester. Christ Jesus, I let him babysit Cory."
"No, He wasn't a child molester. I just asked a bad question. Let's try another topic. Any idea who killed him?"
"Mr. Halderman."
I kept my voice even. "Who is Mr. Halderman?"
She leaned closer. I smelled the shampoo on her hair, the baby powder behind it, the milky bedroom smell of the baby. Her and that pioneer face. Go figure her for a stripper.
"He was some kind of bouncer in his heyday from what I hear. He lives at motel, one of the rooms on the end. There's no front door to it. Just a window."
"What makes you think he killed Malcolm?"
She pulled back, suddenly conscious that we were closer. "Malcolm was talkative. I mean, sometimes he'd give you too much information — like with doctor's appointments, you know what I mean? But one time I was over in the lobby shooting the breeze and I saw this creepy-crawly guy and I asked Malcolm about him. And Malcolm said, 'Oh, that's just Old Mr. Halderman.' So I said, 'What's his story?' or something like that. And Malcolm just gives me a look."
"What kind of look?"
"The kind that says, 'You've touched an unpleasant subject, Jasmine, my dear, and don't ask me again.' "
"That's your name?"
The color rose in her cheeks. "You said you wouldn't put me in the paper."
"I just want to know your name. You don't look like a Jasmine."
"Robin. My real name is Robin."
"OK. Robin. One more thing. Was Mr. Halderman doing any partying last night?"
She thought for a moment. "No. But that doesn't mean much. Like I said, I was asleep."
I thanked her and began to walk away. I listened for the sound of her footsteps, the shifting of the baby. But she stayed put. She watched me cross the highway. She watched me enter the motel parking lot and skirt the yellow tape. I listened some more, but she wasn't moving.

I had Mr. Halderman's room number in my notes. As Robin said, it wasn't among those in the front. You reached it by going around the back of the hotel, opening a door and walking down a long hallway that smelled vaguely of cats. His room number was sixteen.
I knocked on the door and heard nothing. I pushed it, and it opened slowly. I smelled beer and Ben Gay and something like French fries. I saw shadows and the gray outlines of furniture. I fumbled for a light switch and hit it.
The room had an unmade bed, something that passed for a dresser, a bedstand and a door to the bathroom. Hardee's bags filled the wastebasket; cigar butts filled three ashtrays. The headboard hung loose from the bed and leaned lazily against the wall. The walls were cement block and painted hospital gray. Underwear on the bed matched the color of the walls. A single window faced the highway. It had a broken mini-blind.
In that room, an expensive-looking briefcase looked very much out of place.
The briefcase sat on the floor near the bed. It had a combination lock, but whoever fiddled with it last had left it open. I inspected it: a black leather datebook with names and phone numbers, two pens, a fat envelope from Aetna that looked like a life insurance policy, another envelope from the local PhotoMat, and extra checks from Old Dominion Farmer's Bank.
The checks had a circus background, balloons and such.
I looked at the photos.
The photographer had stood outside a window. He had aimed between a crack in the curtains at a tall, handsome woman. The woman had tightly-pulled brown hair and a satin blouse that was carefully open at the throat. She had a strong chin and thin lips, a not-too-prominent nose. I couldn't see anything from the waist down. She seemed to be admiring her shoes.
But he hands were wrong. The shoulders way too broad.
The envelope contained twenty photos of Malcolm with his face on — all taken from the same angle outside the window. It didn't seem as if he knew someone was taking his picture.
Footsteps creaked down the hallway toward me. I got up, forcing myself to breath evenly, forcing myself to look tired, my brain fast-forwarding through a story. Geez, I'm sorry, sir. I was waiting for someone and I thought this was her room. See, we spent the night and she's got my . . .
Robin came in the room, still with the baby, still with the cigarettes. She gave the room a once over and her eyes settled on me.
She had an expectant look. "Well, what did he say?"
"What did who say?"
"Mr. Halderman."
I looked around. "I haven't seen Mr. Halderman."
"He followed you around the back of the hotel. He didn't come in behind you?"
Mr. Halderman walked out of the bathroom. He was tall and barrel-chested. His once-broken nose had the burst capillaries of a career drinker, but he held himself like a man who once was in shape. The gun in his hand was a large, black revolver. It looked old. It looked big enough.
Robin stepped away from the door and toward me. Mr. Halderman walked slowly, almost tenderly, to the door, then turned toward us and positioned himself there.
"I took a shortcut through the maintenance room," he said.
His voice came from somewhere deep inside smoke-scarred lungs. His weak eyes glittered with anger. He looked carefully at Robin.
"You work at the titty bar. I seen you. That's your kid?"
Robin backed toward me. Our shoulders touched. I wondered how people felt in an airplane crash, when they looked around and thought, This is the last thing I'll see. I looked at the wobbly headboard of the bed and saw a small indentation about the size of someone's head. It might have been a woman's head, a woman getting banged by some guy as her head whacked against the headboard.
Robin leaned against me and noticed the photos in my hand. She was strangely without fear. Her baby was sleeping.
"Mr. Halderman," she said matter-of-factly. "Is this your girlfriend?"
Mr. Halderman didn't seem to want to say anything.
"That's Malcolm," I said.
Mr. Halderman raised the gun slightly and pointed it at my knee. Robin grabbed the photos from my hand. She put them an inch from her nose and scrutinized the face. She looked at several in succession.
"Oh my God."
"He wasn't a child molester, Robin. Just your average, garden-variety cross-dresser."
"Oh my God."
"And this guy was blackmailing him. Is that it, Mr. Halderman? You had pics of Malcolm all gussied up, maybe you took them yourself through the window when he wasn't looking?"
"I did," he said.
"So .... what? He gives you money? He lets you stay here for free? Malcolm belongs to the Chamber of Commerce. He wouldn't want anyone to see those pictures. What happened, Mr. Halderman? Did it turn bad? Do you think you can just drive out of River City and no one will follow you? This isn't 1958 and you're not working for the loan shark any more. We've got computers now."
Mr. Halderman looked at me with something like pity, and I realized I had been talking too much. A small smile creased his weathered face.
I forced myself not to look at the wobbly headboard, not to think of what used to happen in this room so it wouldn't be my last thought. Robin tugged at my shoulder. I shook her off.
Mr. Halderman tightened his grip around the gun. I saw the cords stand out on the back of his hand. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a strange smile that turned into a sob and he began to cry. He cried like a man who wasn't used to crying. His breath came in short, wracking hiccups. The gun moved a little higher with each hiccup.
Robin tugged at my shoulder. This time I turned to her.
"I don't think he killed Malcolm," she whispered.
"Keep your voice up, dear. Tell everyone."
She swallowed and pointed at the pictures. "If that's Malcolm, he — or she — was drinking last night just off the lobby with these two guys. They work at some transmission place down the road. They still had their uniforms on — you know, blue shirts with their first names? And Mr. Halderman wasn't with him."
"Describe the guys," I said.
Mr. Halderman broke in between sobs. "Those two punks from down the highway from Murray's Muffler? The troublemakers? That's them, then. Goddammit to hell."
Robin nodded in agreement. "Malcolm always called the cops when some guys refused to leave, like I said. And those two were the worst. He's called the cops on them before."
"And Malcolm was with them last night? Robin, if this is true . . ."
Mr. Halderman shook his gun at me. "With Georgette. Those punks were with Georgette. Sometimes she would wear a gown and sometimes not. Last night she wore the leather. I never liked the leather." The old man ran a callused hand over his face, wiping his tears. "I thought she looked sinful. It wasn't right, that red leather."
Robin whistled softly.
"He didn't mind when I called him Georgette." Mr. Halderman's voice turned a shade higher, a shade more childlike. "He would smile and shush me, but he didn't mind me calling him Georgette. He didn't."
An awkward silence fell between us and seemed to fill the room. Mr. Halderman scratched his head
"If Georgette went drinking with them two guys, like you said, miss, she probably wanted to keep them away from the other girls. He didn't mind when I called him Georgette. I mean it."
"Of course he didn't," I said.
Mr. Halderman stepped aside and motioned toward Robin. "If you seen those two guys, you need to tell the cops. You think the other girls seen them?"
Robin gave me a sorry-I-didn't-tell-you-this look. "No. The other girls didn't see them. Malcolm and them two were in a room behind the counter. I saw them when I went to get a soda from the machine."
Mr. Halderman shook his head. "In my day, I'd brain them two with a crescent wrench or something. But I got the arthur-itis. I can't fucking move."
Robin started toward the door, then she reached back and took my hand. We began to walk out together. Mr. Halderman gave me the once over.
You're not a cop, I take it."
"No. I'm a newspaper reporter. My name is Picasso Smith Jr. and I work for The River City Blade."
He nodded as if this somehow made sense. He took the photos from Robin and put them in the bathroom. He came out with a letter.
"Maybe you can put this in the paper. It's to Georgette." He put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was surprisingly soft. "I had it pretty good here for an old man. I had it pretty damn good."
Robin and I left the room and walked around to the front of the motel. A few cars had pulled into The Midnight Oasis. It was getting toward five p.m.
"So I guess my name's going in the paper," she said.
I said nothing. We walked past Mr. Halderman's window, the one with the broken blind. I waited for the sound. I wondered if I would hear it from the bathroom. I could almost feel the cold metal of a gun barrel sliding in against the roof of my mouth.

Hugh Lessig is a newspaper reporter who lives in Richmond, Va., and covers politics and state government. "Oasis" marks his third appearance in Plots with Guns.