Hank drove the '73 Caprice by the Comfort Inn in Las Cruces and slammed on the brakes. He absolutely had to stop. It was 5 in the afternoon and he had exactly 30 minutes to get in front of the TV. No ifs, ands, or buts -- and damn the police on his tail, maybe stopping at a Comfort Inn would throw them off the trail. Yes, he knew -- he knew they knew, and they knew he knew. Las Cruces was only 40 miles from safety - he could head there after 10, and it'd be dark. That margarita in Acapulco, maybe it could be strawberry ... he didn't know. All he knew, he had to know who'd win.
He backed up and pulled into the parking lot, headed into the lobby. A chicken-necked lady with a black bouffant sat at the desk sucking on her lips. "Room? For an hour or the night?"
"For the night, please ma'am," Hank said, putting weight on his vowels. The Midwest always made people comfortable, he'd discovered ever since crossing the state line into Utah last time. This time he was heading east -- but not for long. Ah, that Acapulco margarita ...
He'd made the chicken-necked lady smile and twist her head, so she gave him the key without so much as a by-the-way. He headed to the room and went straight for the TV, turned it on to ABC. There stood Billy Crystal, making jokes about Maggie Smith and Will Smith, Gosford Park and Ali -- ha ha. Hank wanted to know who'd win. This year he was betting on Sissy Spacek and Tom Wilkinson. They were fabulous in "In the Bedroom."
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