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JG Faherty

The Special Guest Writer is

JG Faherty

Please feel free to visit JG at: http://www.jgfaherty.com/

JG Faherty

ROACH MOTEL
by JG Faherty

The moment the tall, blonde-haired man stepped into the Riverside Restaurante, all eyes turned in his direction. Among the day workers, cab drivers, and shop owners who made up the majority of the restaurant's usual morning clientele, his Burberry overcoat, diamond pinky rings, and oversized Rolex made him as out of place as Chinese food would have been on the menu.

Just the way he wanted it.

Bueñas dias, Armand,” he said to the stocky man behind the counter. “I’ll have the usual, por favor.”

Bueñas dias, Señor Matthias,” Armand said in a soft voice, his heavy Dominican accent thicker than normal.

Matthias immediately grew alert. The restaurant owner never called him by his last name, unless... “Trouble, mi amigo?”

Armand bent down, pretending to retrieve something from under the long counter. His voice floated up to Matthias, just loud enough to overcome the general early-morning chatter of the customers.

Dos personas. They sit at a table. My people say they are the ones who have been stealing from the apartments. And they are having their eyes on your gold.”

Armand’s head came back up, and his voice increased in volume. “I will get your food now, yes?”

Matthias nodded. “Gracias. And feel free to pass my name to your friends.”

Armand snorted laughter. “No amigos of mine. You wait un momento.”

Matthias took a seat at the counter. The greasy, sweet odors of fried foods and fresh-baked breads filled the air as the two cooks expertly grilled orders of platanos, cubanos, papas fritas, and queso de fryer fast as the bus drivers, nurses, and office workers could place them. Riverside Restaurante was the most popular breakfast establishment in a four-block stretch deep in the heart of Manhattan’s Spanish Harlem. Each morning, the local residents crammed the eatery to almost overflowing, desperate to fill their stomachs before heading off to work.

On most days, Matthias was the only white person in the restaurant, but he’d never worried about his minority status. He’d lived on 134th Street far longer than he cared to remember. Long before Matthias and his restaurant had arrived. The residents of his building, plus many of the local business owners, treated him with the same respect they gave their own.

Sometimes even more, depending on how well they knew him.

Matthias watched Armand approach the two men, and listened while the shop owner took their order.

Bueñas dias. What can I get you today? Cafe, perhaps?”

One of the men looked up from his menu. A fat, pink scar angled across his chin, marring his midnight-black face. A dark navy sweatshirt barely contained his broad shoulders.

“Coffee, that sounds good. Bring us two.”

“And papas fritas,” added the second man, in an accent similar to Armand’s. Even seated, he was several inches taller than his bulky companion, but built like a long-distance runner rather than a weightlifter. He also wore dark clothes, too heavy for the warm, overcast summer day. Unlike his associate’s short-cropped curls, dreadlocks hung from the thin man’s scalp in shaggy ropes. Both of them kept looking past Armand towards the counter, unlike the other patrons, who'd returned their attention to their meals or newspapers.

Oh, yeah, thought Matthias. They’re two hungry fish. Get the bait ready, Armand.

The restaurant owner turned to leave the table but the taller customer stopped him.

Un momento. Who’s that chulo at the counter? He don’t look like he belong here.”

“Eh?” Armand glanced at Matthias as if he didn’t know who the men were referring to. “Oh. That is only Loco Rico. He comes here for breakfast each morning, before work.”

“Loco Rico? Why you call him that?”

The portly owner made the universal sign for ‘crazy,’ circling his finger by his temple. “What else to call a white man with mucho dinero, who lives in this neighborhood when he does not need to? Señor Matthias must be loco.”

 

Armand bent closer as if imparting a great secret. Matthias wanted to clap. The old man should have gone into acting.

“He lives across the street, on the top floor. They say his apartment is filled with...things.”

“What kind of things?” The black man leaned forward, attentive.

“Things. Paintings, statues. Gigante televisions in every room. People around here, they are not liking Loco Rico. They say he flaunts his riches under their noses.”

“What does he do?”

With another lift of his shoulders, Armand said, “Some say he owns the company. Others say he is el jefe, the boss. I only know he has much money.”

“What company?”

Armand pointed out the front window. By the curb sat a white van with ‘Acme Exterminators’ painted across the side. Beneath the name a cartoon drawing of a cockroach lay on its back, legs sticking stiffly into the air.

“He make the bugs muerto.” Armand stood up and hurried back to the counter.

Excellent. Matthias held back his smile. Now to set the hook.

Knowing both men’s eyes were on him, Matthias slowly withdrew his wallet and removed three one hundred dollar bills. He fanned them out, then handed one to Armand, who forced a scowl. Matthias accepted his change, took his cubano, queso blanco, and bitter Dominican coffee, and nodded goodbye.

Five minutes later, he was keeping up with traffic on the West Side Highway, Riverside Restaurante far behind him.

But never far from his thoughts.

*****

Nelson Garcia washed the last of his French fries down with his coffee. “I know what you’re thinking, ese.

Dwayne Thomas smiled, showing off his new gold tooth. He’d lost the real one in the same fight that had earned him the scar on his chin. “He got a good life style, that one. Too much for one man, I think.”

Nelson laughed and tossed five dollars on the table. “Then maybe we should lighten his load, no?”

Armand watched the two men leave the restaurant and smiled. He pulled out his cell phone and tapped in a number. “Hola, es Armand. Si. Dos cabrons. Send them to the motel, eh?”

He chuckled as he hung up the phone. The motel. That one always made him laugh.

*****

Hola,” Nelson Garcia said to the bored-looking security guard in the lobby. Seeing a guard made him think that maybe the restaurant owner wasn’t exaggerating the wealth of this Loco Rico fellow. Most of the buildings they’d hit in the neighborhood didn’t even have security cameras. 134th and Riverside was definitely a step above its neighbors.

The guard looked up from his Daily News. “Si?

“We’re here to see Mr. Matthias,” Dwayne said. “Top floor?”

The man nodded, gave them a smile, and returned his gaze to the paper.

“Thanks, amigo.

The air in the lobby was hot and humid; years of pollution, cigarette smoke, and fingerprints had darkened the pale yellow walls until they were brown. The few people Dwayne and Nelson saw on their way to the elevator were mostly elderly men and women, some getting their mail, some pushing tiny shopping carts across the lobby as they headed to the local markets.

Once inside the elevator, Dwayne turned to his partner. “Don’t any of these fuckin’ buildings have air conditioning?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Nelson laughed. “In Dominica, nobody has air conditioning. This heat is nothing compared to that.”

“Maybe for you, but I ain’t from no island. I hope this Loco Rico’s got AC.”

The doors opened for the twenty-fifth floor and a smorgasbord of odors immediately wrapped around them. Frying chicken, earthy spices, and flower-scented candles entwined with old garbage, ganja, and stale perspiration. The same smell permeated every apartment building on the block, as homey and familiar to Nelson as his mother’s kitchen.

“You ready?” Dwayne asked.

Nelson nodded, his hand already gripping the pistol inside his jacket pocket.

They entered the hallway and glanced both ways. “Hey, how we gonna know which place is his?” asked Nelson.

“We—” Dwayne stopped speaking as a door opened nearby. An old woman, her brown skin so wrinkled and sagging she resembled an overripe prune, emerged from the apartment, her pushcart filled with dirty laundry.

“Pardon me,” Dwayne asked, doing his best imitation of a business professional. “Can you tell us where Señor Matthias lives? We have a delivery for him.”

The old woman raised her head and looked at them, a suspicious frown adding to the multitude of wrinkles on her face. Her eyes were two tiny black circles under eyebrows as white as her thinning hair.

Numero vente y nueve,” she said in a whispery voice that reminded Nelson of insects crawling in the darkness.

“Twenty-nine? Gracias.” Dwayne nodded to her and then started down the hall.

Adios. Sola vaya,” came the soft response.

Nelson looked back at the woman but she was already in the elevator, the doors closing on her wide smile.

“What the fuck?”

“What?” asked Dwayne.

“She said ‘goodbye and good riddance.’ I could swear it.”

Dwayne stopped in front of number twenty-nine. It had a small sign under the number plate.

Roach Motel.

“So what? Who gives a fuck what some old bitch says? Maybe everybody in the building’s as crazy as this motherfucker.” He tapped a finger on the sign. “Roach Motel? What the hell does that mean?” Dwayne laughed while he pulled out his pick gun and started in on the first of the two door locks.

A minute later, he stood back. “Got it. Time to party.”

He opened the door and stepped inside.

*****

In the Central Park petting zoo, Matthias paused in the act of feeding the lambs as a familiar tingle ran down his back.

He smiled.

*****

Coño! Look at this.” Nelson shut the door behind him and followed Dwayne into Loco Rico’s apartment.

“Damn straight, boo. This crib’s fulla cream. And no wires. We can take our time.”

The apartment spread out before them, much larger than expected, based on the distances between the doors in the hallway. Nelson wondered if maybe the man had opened two apartments into one. Two steps led down from the entryway into the wide living room, its floor comprised of marble tile so white it seemed like fresh-fallen snow.

The furniture was perfectly neat. Each fluffy pillow sat at an angle, as if a cleaning service had just finished its rounds. Tan leather couches and chairs formed a seating area in the center of the living room, and Nelson imagined sinking down into one of the overstuffed cushions would be like reclining on a cloud.

Intricately framed paintings, all sizes and styles, decorated two walls. A plasma television at least six feet long dominated a third. Beneath it sat an entertainment center with a satellite radio receiver, MP3 player, Play Station, and 200-disc player.

Curios, statues, and multi-colored glass table lamps occupied shelves and table tops throughout the grand room. Wide archways led to a dining room and kitchen to the right, and a hallway to the left.

Framing everything was a wall of glass at the far end, with double doors opening out onto an enormous balcony that provided a majestic view of the Hudson River.

“Motherfucking jackpot,” Dwayne said, the shine of his gold tooth lost in the brilliance of the room. “I’ll take the bedroom. You hit this room. Then we moo outy here and grab some forties.”

He stepped down into the living room and headed for the hallway. Nelson looked around, trying to decide what to grab first. His eyes lit on the stereo.

“Bingo.”

Forty minutes later, Nelson had the stereo disassembled and triple-wrapped in black plastic bags he’d found under the kitchen sink. Other bags contained piles of small artwork.

“Dwayne, you ready?” he yelled down the hall.

The wide-shouldered black man emerged from the bedroom. “Yo, dog, you gotta see the shit in there. I got more bling than we could wear in a year.” He patted his bulging pockets.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Nelson high-fived his companion, hefted two of the bags, and started towards the door.

“Hey, bro. What about those?” Dwayne pointed to a glass cabinet set against one wall. Inside were tiny statuettes, several to a shelf.

Nelson leaned forward to take a closer look. The statuettes vaguely resembled Hummels. You could usually get fifteen or twenty bucks for one on the street, which meant they were worth five times that in a store. They appeared to be ceramic, but the faces were radically different from others he'd seen. White, black, Hispanic, even Oriental. Many of the figures wore modern clothes. One even had on a Yankees baseball hat.

All of them wore twisted expressions, their eyes wide and mouths open.

“You want I should grab ‘em?” he asked.

“Why the fuck not? We here.”

Nelson shrugged and set down his loot. The statues creeped him out, with their crazy faces, but if they were valuable, who the hell cared what they looked like? He opened the cabinet door, checking first for hidden alarm wires, and started removing the statuettes. He handed each one to Dwayne, who placed them carefully in one of the bags.

“How many?” Dwayne asked, as he tied the bag closed.

“Thirty-seven. This Loco Rico some pacha, ey?”

Dwayne smiled. “Yeah, he got a good lifestyle, all right. But we gonna have a pretty good one tonight, too. We ain’t po no more!” He reached for the doorknob.

It wouldn’t turn.

“What the fuck? You lock the door?”

Nelson shrugged. “Maybe. Just unlock it.”

“They stuck, too, bro.” Dwayne jiggled the bolts.

“You think we tripped something?” Nelson felt the first twinge of fear. If they'd set off a silent alarm, the cops could already be on the way up.

“Ain't gonna stick around to find out. Gimme the piece.” Nelson handed a pistol to Dwayne, who stepped back and fired two shots at the locks.

The bullets hit the wood and fell to the floor without leaving a mark.

Nelson put his bags down again. “Me da grima. I don’t like this shit, man. Something fucked up here.”

“Bullshit. We—”

“Hello, boys.”

Both of them turned at the sudden voice echoing through the room. A smiling face appeared on the plasma TV, staring right at them.

“Loco Rico!”

The chiseled, fortyish face nodded. “Some people call me that. I hope you found everything you wanted. You might as well make yourselves at home. You won’t be leaving.”

The screen went blank.

“Motherfucker. He set us up. C’mon, we gotta fly.” Dwayne ran to the patio doors. Like the front door, they refused to budge. “I can’t even move the handle.”

“Shoot it,” Nelson said.

Dwayne stepped back two feet and fired the gun. Like before, the bullet struck and fell straight down, as if it had hit soft rubber rather than glass. He pulled the trigger twice more, with the same result.

“Bastard! Must be bullet-proof.”

“Look out.” Nelson motioned him away. “I'll break it.”

He picked up an antique-looking chair and smashed it into one of the panes. The wood splintered but the door remained intact.

Coño!" Nelson stared at the broken chair. "It's like steel."

“Yeah, well, the walls ain’t.” Dwayne went into the dining room and kicked at one of the walls separating it from the next apartment, then howled in pain when the plaster didn't even chip.

“What we gonna do?” Nelson returned to the front door, began kicking and pounding at it.

“Shut up! Let me think.” Dwayne limped over to a leather sofa and sat down.

And screamed.

“What?” Nelson ran into the living room and then stopped. Dwayne’s muscular body was being absorbed into the couch. His back and legs were already half-inside the thick cushions.

Dwayne tried to call for help again but the arm of the sofa moved sideways, covering his face. He aimed the gun down into the couch and pulled the trigger, over and over until it clicked empty.

A hole opened up behind him, a yawning blackness filled with wide-mouthed, terrified faces. Dwayne’s body fell backwards into the endless void, twirling around as if caught in a whirlwind.

“Nelsonnnn!”

Madre de Dios,” Nelson whispered, watching his friend disappear into the blackness.

Laughter sounded behind him. He turned around and found the television on again, the face of Loco Rico stretched wide in exaggerated merriment.

“Help me!” Dwayne’s voice called out again, this time from the left side of the room.

Nelson looked away from the TV, just in time to see the cushions of the love seat fade away to black nothingness. Dwayne’s body in the empty space, his eyes wide with fear. The darkness expanded, growing wider and taller until it encompassed the entire sofa.

Nelson backed away as the impossible hole spread across the room. Glancing behind him, he saw a similar black void approaching from the other direction, extending out to meet the darkness from the other side.

In seconds, he stood on a circle of tile in the middle of total emptiness. He opened his mouth to scream but a force sucked the words from his throat, leaving only mental echoes in their wake.

Faces appeared, all of them silently screaming. He recognized them as they orbited around him and each other like crazed satellites.

The faces of the statuettes.

Beneath his feet, the circle of tile grew smaller.

*****

“Good evening, Señor Matthias,” the security guard said from inside his booth.

Hola, Luis,” Matthias replied, waving his hand as he went by. He continued through the lobby to the elevators, pausing just long enough to grab his mail from the metal wall box marked 2529.

On the twenty-fifth floor, he exited the elevator and headed towards his apartment. As he inserted his key in the lock, the door two down from his opened.

Señor Matthias. I saw two cucarachas, si? You catch them good?” A tiny woman with wrinkled skin grinned at him.

“Just doing my part to keep the building clean, Señora Gomez.”

Rheumy eyes crinkled. “Keep the building clean, ey. They check in but they don’t check out!” Cackling laughter, the old lady went back inside her apartment.

Matthias smiled and opened his door. The living room was just as he’d left it, pillows placed perfectly, floor spotless. A crimson and orange sunset cast fiery, pastel light across the room through the wide panes of glass on the far wall.

He tossed his keys on the kitchen counter. Two glass figurines stood next to the sink. One was a black man with wide shoulders, wearing a hooded sweatshirt. The other was a Hispanic man in a dark jacket.

Both their mouths were open wide, as if screaming.

He picked them up and took them over to the glass case in the living room.

“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” Matthias murmured. He placed the two statuettes on one of the shelves and closed the door.

“Welcome to the Roach Motel, boys. Enjoy your stay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JG Faherty is the author of The Burning Time, Cemetery Club, Carnival of Fear, The Cold Spot, He Waits, and the Bram Stoker Award®-nominated Ghosts of Coronado Bay, along with more than fifty short stories. His next novel, Hellrider, comes out in 2014.

He writes adult and YA horror, science fiction, and urban fantasy. He enjoys urban exploring, photography, hiking, and playing the guitar. As a child, his favorite playground was a 17th-century cemetery, which many people feel explains a lot.

You can follow him HERE

The Cold Spot

"THE COLD SPOT is one of the best ghost stories I have read in a long time. If you love ghost stories you will love this one and I highly recommend it." - Peter Schwotzer, Famous Monsters of Filmland.

Carnival of Fear

"CARNIVAL OF FEAR is an outrageous journey into nightmare that's equal parts Bradbury and Barker. From the opening page, this one rips into high-gear and takes you on a funhouse ride you'll never forget." - Thomas Monteleone, award-winning author of more than 36 novels. 

Cemetery Club

“CEMETERY CLUB is like a plastic pumpkin bucket filled to the top with all of your favorite candies. Loads of gory fun!” --Jeff Strand, author of PRESSURE and DWELLER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cemetery Club Carnival of Fear The Cold Spot