Bottom of the Ninth
The neon sign buzzed - MOTEL, VACANCY, POOL - its flicker reflected in the water where Martin sat, beer in hand, watching the cable TV on the patio. Baseball. Always baseball. Some things never changed, even when everything else had.
"You came," Rene said, sliding into the plastic chair beside him. His old friend - the word still felt wrong, like a stone in his shoe. "I figured you wouldn't."
Martin didn't look away from the screen. "Figured I'd see what you wanted. Then I'm gone."
"Fair enough." Rene's voice was thinner than Martin remembered, worn down by something - prison, or the three years since the pool party where everything went wrong. Since Rene's girlfriend had climbed into the water with Martin's wife, since the vodka had been poured too freely, since someone had called the police about the noise.
The baseball game flickered through static. Bottom of the ninth. Two outs.
"They offered me a deal," Rene said. "If I give them the supplier. But I don't know who it is. I was just the courier, Martin. You believe that?"
Martin finally turned. His friend's face was gaunt, the eyes too bright. The same eyes that had watched Martin's wife walk away from the pool that night, saying nothing.
"Doesn't matter what I believe," Martin said. "Does it?"
"I need money, Martin. For a lawyer. A real one. Five thousand and I'm gone, you never hear from me again."
The cable TV signal died. The screen went gray. Behind them, the pool's filter hummed, cycling water that had witnessed everything.
"What's to stop me from walking out right now?" Martin asked.
Rene's smile was hollow. "Nothing. Same as last time."
Martin stood up, finished his beer, and dropped the bottle in the recycling bin beside the gate. Some things did change. He was done cleaning up other people's messes.
"Goodbye, Rene."
He walked to his car without looking back. Behind him, the neon kept flickering, the pool kept circulating, and somewhere, a baseball game was ending. He drove away and didn't once check the rearview mirror.