Chapter 18
Sunday, June 7, 1999
Ethan and Deborah awoke to their ten AM wake up call.
"Uh huh, thanks," said Deborah into the phone.
"Glad we got a single room," said Ethan. "After all that wild sex, Mrs. Passed the Fuck Out."
"Hey, it was fun," she said.
They gathered their stuff quickly.
As Deborah drove back from the city, Ethan said, "I need you to pull over at this gas station."
"Why?"
"Please, baby. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies."
She did as requested.
The gas station was unappetizing as Ethan figured almost all gas stations were. He got some change from a fat woman in stone washed jeans and a Lynrd Skynrd T-shirt. After finding the business card of Detective Lamartina in his Bugatti Bill fold, Ethan typed the touch-tone keypad.
He left a message at the tone on Detective Lamartina's voice mail.
"Hey, Mane," Ethan spoke in his absolute worst Latin American accent. "Jim Phelps was the crazy killer, mane. He killed all ‘dem people and he set up little Steve, Mane. Do something about it, no, Mane."
He hung up and returned to his love.
"So," she said. "When are you meeting your other girlfriend?"
"When this one breaks my heart," he rubbed her leg affectionately.
"Fat chance, good looking," she kissed him on the cheek.
Atwood Nash awoke on the wet carpet of the poolside at the Marriott. For the sake of humor, a few friends had taken his clothes and shaved his left eyebrow. He rubbed the sore stubble where his left eyebrow should have been, and rose.
With his right hand on his penis and his left hand on what would be his eyebrow again in a few weeks, Atwood scoured the poolside for a towel, found one and went hunting for clothes.
After being kicked out of a few hotel rooms, eventually a pimply-faced geek gave him a pair of shorts and an undershirt.
"Always be prepared," the loser said to Atwood.
"You went to LSD high. I don't remember you."
"Jim Phelps," he said, extending a hand. "I was an honor student so we probably never had class."
"Did you say Jim Phelps."
"Yes. This is Alexandria," he said as his date came out of the bathroom in a towel.
"Jim," she said. "What the hell is going on?"
"Perhaps we should go outside," suggested Jim.
Outside, leaning up against the door of Jim's room, Atwood asked Jim if he had a cigarette.
"No, filthy habit."
"Yeah, uh, you were in honors then, so uh, you know Deborah Van Klein and Ethan Lee."
"Actually, I just met Deborah tonight, but I've known Ethan since my freshman year. Good man."
"Yeah, I mean, he's so fucking cool, that crazy ass bonfire party killer wouldn't even off him, just wounded him to keep him from giving away the killer's position, huh?"
"Who knows?" Jim Shrugged. "Maybe he just missed."
"Maybe," said Atwood.
The hotel room door opened.
"Jim, come on in. We still have a few hours until check out."
"Duty calls," said Jim.
"Thanks for the clothes," said Atwood, to a closed door.
Atwood Nash picked up the courtesy phone next to the elevators and called the St. Louis County Police Department. After much mouth work and run around, Atwood finally got the voice mail of Detective Lamartina.
Atwood Nash spoke in his best Darth Vader voice.
"Jim Phelps, he is the killer."
Atwood then hung up the phone and went scouring over the floor for a possible ride home. He made a mental checklist. I need my keys, wallet, rolling papers and pot. He went banging on doors again, asking anyone who'd answer their door if they knew where he could find his wallet, keys, rolling papers and pot.
After locating his wares in a teammate's room, Atwood shouted loud enough to draw complaints from the floor below and the floor above.
"I am a high school graduate and I have my fucking car keys!"