The Marion Mangler

The hotel teamed with guests. Carrying in luggage, milling around the lobby, joking and drinking and enjoying the ambience this particular Halloween brought. The autumn air was crisp and rich with the smell of woodsmoke.

The desk clerk leaned against the wall, running water sliding beneath cheap glass, warm its red lights. A lot of people were about to be checking in. Dave took one last drag off his cigarette and went to clock in.

His assistant manager was getting ready for the rush, finishing off his third large pizza for the shift. He seemed nervous, mopping sweat from his brow, which he often did, being morbidly obease, only moreso today. His expression, perhaps. Dave sauntered up to his bloated boss, cocking his head to the side, “What’s up, Jeremiah?”

The assistant manager ran a hand over his bald head and sighed, “Men in black suits are here, upstairs interviewing Rada. Some government type was lodging here and was murdered not far from our hotel.”

Dave scoffed. “So? What’s that got to do with her? She barely speaks English.”

Jeremiah shrugged.

“Did you kill him, Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah opened his mouth, shocked, then scowled. “Don’t say that, man, don’t even. They interviewed me. Creepy fucking guys.”