Read Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash for Free Online

“What’s this world comin’ to?”
    I laughed. “Yeah, they’re a little different.” Then, trying to be real casual-like, I asked, “So, who was this Buck Ritter guy?”
    He shrugged. “You know how it is here. They come, they go.” He flipped the paper back open. “Seemed like a nice fella. Said he was a war vet, but a lot of them say that.” He turned the page and eyed me. “Some of them are obviously lyin’, but I don’t know that he was.”
    “Why would anyone lie about being a war vet?”
    He shrugged. “Sympathy for the state they’re in?”
    “That’s sad,” I said.
    He nodded and turned another page. “It’s sad, all right. All the way around. Real vets
should
get respect and sympathy.” He faced me straight on, the cigar stub clamped between his front teeth, looking like the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. “Which is why fakers are so disgusting.” He took a deep breath and put down the paper. “So, when you wanna start?”
    “Start?” I blinked at him. “Uh…how about tomorrow morning?”
    He nodded, then went back to his newspaper. “Sounds good.”
             
    Unbelievable as it was, it’s not like I needed the money. And it’s not like I
wanted
to clean the Heavenly. As my friend Hudson Graham would say, cleaning that hotel would be an exercise in futility. I mean, everything’s beyond old. It’s stained, falling apart, and just plain
stinky.
    But still. I felt good. I actually had a job! And I’d definitely covered my lie to Marissa, which was a giant relief.
    I was also feeling very clever because I was now in a position to find out more about Mr. Buck Ritter. My plan was to get to the Heavenly in the morning and work until his relatives showed up. Maybe I’d strike up a conversation with them while I was conveniently cleaning the hallway of the floor Buck Ritter’s room was on.
    Maybe I’d find out why he hadn’t asked me to give the money to them.
    Maybe I wouldn’t feel guilty anymore about spending some of that crisp green lining at the bottom of my backpack.
    But the next morning when I showed up, I discovered that Buck Ritter’s relatives had already come and gone.
    “His brother showed up last night and left with one measly grocery sack, only half full,” André grumbled. “Left a whole heap of junk for me to deal with.” He handed over a box of Hefty bags and said, “Your first job is to shove all his things in bags—I’ll take them to the Salvation Army. Then strip the sheets and toss ’em down the laundry chute. The towel, too.”
    “What room?” I asked. “And where’s the laundry chute?”
    “Room three-eleven.” He handed over the key, saying, “The chute’s about halfway down the hall, by the fire extinguisher. Just pull down the hatch and dump it in.”
    So I took the box of bags and the key, and as I was heading for the rickety, old-fashioned elevator, André called, “It all looked like junk to me, but if you find anything you’d like, go ahead and keep it.”
    It felt a little strange letting myself into the hotel room. The only other one I’d ever really been inside was rented to a chain-smoking fortune-teller known as Madame Nashira. And Buck Ritter’s room was a lot like Madame Nashira’s—peeling wallpaper, a stained sink with a cracked and clouded mirror over it, a small lumpy bed, and filthy carpeting. It didn’t reek of cigarettes, though; it smelled like mildew.
    The place was also a mess. The bedspread was balled up at the foot of the bed, the sheets were untucked, the mattress wasn’t lined up with the box spring…. It was like he’d tossed and turned for a month straight. The dresser drawers were hanging open a few inches—like he’d been too tired to close them all the way. There were clothes draped over the footboard, over the desk chair, and on the floor. Everything seemed…disheveled.
    Everything except a tidy stack of Styrofoam to-go boxes. There were about thirty of them nested together on the