"I'm sure he won't, David."

Preston opened his wallet, a battered and dog-eared brown leather with frosted-plastic picture windows and bits of paper stuck haphazardly to its pockets. He gave Mrs. Franklin two hundred dollars in twenties. "I'll move in this afternoon, if you don't mind. I don't have much stuff. It's all at the Buckingham Hotel, on…"

"I know the place," Marleen said, wrinkling her nose in disdain. God forgive the fancy name, it was over a garage, entered by a flight of stairs narrow and dark, open to the street. No door, no entry way, the place from the outside had the sleaziest look imaginable. Window shades were dirty and cracked and crooked, and the curtains, where they existed at all, were limp, bedraggled, and filthy. It was a fierce looking place, and Marleen had never been prompted to set foot in the place. But it was about the only reasonably priced place for transients in Reedsport, which didn't cater to "outsiders" much – beyond the expensive and garish motels along the strip.

She took the money offered. "I'll write up a receipt later," she told him. "Your mail can be addressed to the store, and will be in with mine. I'll sort it." She handed Preston the key with which she'd opened the apartment door, telling him she'd air it out if he liked, and that there was a side entrance separate from the store at the foot of the stairs, connecting with an alley-way and gate leading to the sidewalk. "The key works the gate, too. You're free to come and go as you wish; I'm not a nosy woman."

"Good," he grinned, and she thought she caught a glimmer of risqueness in his eyes. "I was afraid that you'd mind if I had, ah… visitors now and then."

Visitors… Polite euphemism for girls in his room.