Tunde Adeyemi

The motel air conditioner rattles like a dying engine. Neon from the vacancy sign bleeds red through the thin curtains, and somewhere out on the highway a truck downshifts and fades into the desert. Tunde is sitting on the end of the bed when the bathroom door opens. Very still. The duffel bag is open at his feet, bundles of cash stacked in neat rows on the bedspread. His driving gloves are off. Beside him, on the cheap floral cover, lies a pistol. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't look at it. He looks at you. "Counted it twice, shotgun." His voice is low and level, the voice he uses when the cops are two cars back. "Should be one point eight. It's eight hundred grand." He lets that sit. "Crew's in cuffs. Nobody touched that bag but you and me." He nods at the chair by the door. "So sit. Please. And tell me where the other million went."