Breathless

backpack made him a hobo variant, but certainly because he had no credit card, no ID, and wanted to pay cash up front. Suppose that in a drunken fit he trashed the room—how would they track him down to make him pay? He had been turned away from places worse than this one.
    But these were harder times than people had known in a while. Cash ruled, and even more so in a downturn when few people were spending either greenbacks or plastic. He figured they would take his money, because if they were too picky about their clientele these days, they might as well burn the business down and collect the insurance.
    At the door to the motel office, he hesitated. He turned away, retreated a few steps, but halted and then faced the entrance again.
    For as long as he could remember, Tom disliked going inside places where he had never been before. Whether it was this place or any other, crossing a threshold for the first time made him nervous.
    In fact, at all times he preferred the outdoors, because if he crossed the path of the wrong person, he could simply walk away in any direction. Without walls and with sky above instead of ceiling, he had choices. Inside, obstacles to flight and limited exits were always a concern.
    The wrong person would not be one who merely giggled at him or made a rude remark about his looks or his condition. He feared a more profound encounter with someone who strongly affected him in ways for which he was not prepared.
    He didn’t want to be affected. What had an affect caused an effect.
Affect
was another word for
change
, and Tom Bigger didn’t want to change.
    He was what he was, and he didn’t know how to be anything else. At forty-eight, he’d been this way twice as long as he had not.
    In the motel office, behind the registration counter, a white-haired guy, maybe seventy-something, was sitting at a desk, engrossed in a book. Wearing a gray cardigan over a white shirt, sporting a red bow tie, with a pair of half-lens reading glasses halfway down his nose, he looked as if he had been born an old man.
    “Good morning, sir,” he said, setting his book aside and rising. “What may I do for you this glorious morning?”
    “Need a room,” Tom said.
    “Used to be bustling this time of the day, folks checking out, all in a hurry to settle up and hit the road. As you see, I’m not at risk of breaking a sweat this morning.”
    “Walked all night,” Tom explained.
    “That’s the smart way. When it’s cool. And when traffic’s light, so you aren’t breathing exhaust fumes every step of the way.”
    The old man put a pen and a registration form on the counter.
    “Don’t have a credit card, don’t have ID,” Tom said. “Cash in advance is how I do it.”
    “Saves us both some bother. I’ve been hearing for forty years how cash money will soon be obsolete. There’s not much of it floating around these days, but it’s sure not obsolete. Just go ahead and print your name on the top line, sign at the bottom.”
    Tom did as instructed. Then he counted out the cash.
    Presenting a key, the old man said, “Number twenty-four. Out the door here, turn left, and go to the end. Twenty-four is the last room in the north wing, so your sleep won’t be interrupted thisafternoon when all the big movie stars are checking in with their entourages.”
    “You have soda and ice machines?” Tom asked.
    “End of the south wing. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Bigger.”
    In his room, Tom took off his backpack, dropped it on the bed.
    He stared out the window at the empty parking lot.
    He watched the fast traffic on the coastal highway.
    He shut the draperies.
    He looked at the TV but didn’t switch it on.
    On the bed lay a complimentary copy of
USA Today
.
    He didn’t pick it up.
    He stared at his big bony hands.
    He went into the bathroom.
    He looked at his face in the mirror.
    The old man in the cardigan had been reading a book, so he couldn’t be blind.

Forty-nine

F or a preliminary interview with his potential client, Liddon Wallace wore a dark-blue Ralph Lauren Purple Label suit, a shirt and tie from Costume National, shoes from Gucci, a Rolex watch—and just a touch of Black by Kenneth Cole, a fragrance for men.
    Although his primary offices were in San Francisco and he lived in Marin County, across the Golden Gate Bridge from the city, Liddon was also a member of the bar in three other states, including the state of Washington. The amount of wealth in Seattle and environs, crossed with the tendency