The Akerman Motel/Apartments per week

By Pablo D'Stair

Laying low in a cold water flat, petty crook Trevor English inadvertently discovers the truth behind a violent crime. Taking no action against the perpetrator, he is nevertheless accused of holding the information over their head.

And despite his claims of non-involvement, Trevor soon finds he must either play fall-guy to the crime or else pay out someone else’s blackmail to keep his own past from being raked up.

Praise for the Books by Pablo D’Stair

“D’Stair is clearly a master. Likely Jean Patrick Manchette reincarnated...” —Matt Phillips, author of Countdown and The Bad Kind of Lucky

“Somehow again and again you’re drawn in...you get used to the book’s rhythm and follow it because the work is obsessive. We find ourselves in a languid kind of suspense, bracing ourselves...” —Bret Easton Ellis, author of American Psycho

“Pablo D’Stair doesn’t just write like a house afire, he writes like the whole city’s burning, and these words he’s putting on the page are the thing that can save us all.” —Stephen Graham Jones, Bram Stoker Award-winner

“Pablo D’Stair is defining the new writer [and the new film maker]. D’Stair’s late realism needs to be included in any examination of the condition of the novel.” —Tony Burgess, award-winning author/screenwriter

“Like Kerouac before him, I felt there was one roll of paper on which the story was typed. And there’s a rhythm behind it. Not the speedy bop of jazz this time, more an urban dubstep. Shadows and edges becoming audible.” —Nigel Bird, author of Smoke

• Language: English
• Publisher: All Due Respect Books
• Release date: Jul 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005314576

Pablo D'Stair

Pablo D'Stair is a novelist, filmmaker, essayist, interviewer, comic book artist, and independent publisher. His work has appeared in various mediums for the past 15 years, often pseudonymously.

Book preview

THE AKERMAN MOTEL/APARTMENTS

PER WEEK

A Trevor English Novella

Pablo D’Stair

PRAISE FOR PABLO D’STAIR

D’Stair is clearly a master. Likely Jean Patrick Manchette reincarnated… —Matt Phillips, author of Countdown and The Bad Kind of Lucky

Somehow again and again you’re drawn in…you get used to the book’s rhythm and follow it because the work is obsessive. We find ourselves in a languid kind of suspense, bracing ourselves… —Bret Easton Ellis, author of American Psycho

Pablo D’Stair doesn’t just write like a house afire, he writes like the whole city’s burning, and these words he’s putting on the page are the thing that can save us all. —Stephen Graham Jones, Bram Stoker Award-winner

Pablo D’Stair is defining the new writer [and the new film maker]. D’Stair’s late realism needs to be included in any examination of the condition of the novel. —Tony Burgess, award-winning author/screenwriter

Like Kerouac before him, I felt there was one roll of paper on which the story was typed. And there’s a rhythm behind it. Not the speedy bop of jazz this time, more an urban dubstep. Shadows and edges becoming audible. —Nigel Bird, author of Smoke

Copyright © 2012 by Pablo D’Stair

First All Due Respect Edition July 2020

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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an imprint of Down & Out Books

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by JT Lindroos

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Akerman Motel/Apartments per week

About the Author

Books by the Author

Preview from Helen Topaz, Henry Dollar by Pablo D’Stair

Preview from Occam’s Razor by Joe Clifford

Preview from Cutthroat by Paul Heatley

I paid one thousand two hundred twenty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents

See my bulldog bite a rabbit and my hound dog’s sittin’ on a barbed-wire fence

—Bob Dylan, Sitting on a Barbed Wire Fence

Hundredth day, hundred-and-somethingth day in the apartment building of the Akerman Motel/Apartments still couldn’t get over it must be a joke, if what I had was an apartment then couldn’t imagine what’d it be like down in the motel area.

Closed the storage locker I kept out of town, thing ran me as much a month as the apartment, though I’d paid it all out in advance for six months first day I’d moved in. Skimmed the forty dollars pocket money off from the hundred forty I’d taken, rent due the morning and I liked to pay out for two weeks, made me feel less antsy—should really’ve just paid out on the room all in advance same as the storage, but there was no discount for doing that and had a feeling it’d be trouble wrangling out a refund things went I had to leave, some reason, all of a sudden. Had to or wanted to.

Hundred days was fourteen times this’d be I’d put in rent, or anyway seven times but I put in for two weeks each time, but this must’ve been the fifteenth time, fifty dollars a week fifteenth time, meant it was hundred and fifth say, hundred-and-somethingth day. Anyway, seven hundred fifty for the apartment so far, twelve hundred for the storage, I’d always dip in for at least another forty bucks each week on top of the forty I designated for walking around, so that was another twelve hundred.

Rubbed my face with the wrist of the hand holding my cigarette. Always did this same count every week because I refused to actually verify how much I’d spent, how much I had left, like keeping notes all in my head’d change anything—got excited times I’d mess up the count, think I hadn’t spent as much as I’d thought, always come down from that hard even though all the while I knew how underneath I was.

Spent the rest of the day sipping from my flask, wandering the aisles of shops not feeling like swiping anything, just looking, looking. Looking.

I’d overheard someone say that none of the pawnshops around’d take anything from the local merchants, wouldn’t take anything they knew was kept in stock around. Never yet got up the nerve about verifying and anyway even in the worst case scenario my reserve could last me another several months, no need to worry about getting drawn and quartered over six bucks for a mini-television or anything.

Office of the Akerman was its own little building really looked like a miniature house, someone there all hours but’d only come to the window if you said something they thought worthwhile into the intercom. ‘Rent,’ usually worked, said it with a sigh and rubbing my lower back and having a look around. There always seemed to be somebody else at the window, strangest thing in the three months I’d been there, no chance at a rapport or anything and here it was again I was explaining all to someone new I was paying for the two weeks, because if I didn’t say it, didn’t insist on it, I knew they’d take the hundred, mark down I’d paid the one week only and what kind of a position was I in to argue that with them?

There was a cigarette machine at the base of the side entrance stairwell, something I always gave a kick vaguely hoping a pack’d fall into the collection drawer, never did. Started my ascent leisurely and at the landing to the third floor stopped, leaned to the wall, took a particularly deep drag. Caught out the corner of my eye a woman I knew lived down in the motel—knew her name was Kathryn, I thought—peek her face to the widow panel the door, move away, second later door opened.

She caught her breath noticing me, laughed when I said ‘Hello, sorry.’

‘It’s fine, no, I’m sorry.’

I nodded as well, looked like she was going to maybe stand there long enough some small talk, but then she didn’t, just ducked her head and down the stairs.

Finished my cigarette, started another before I went the next four landings up, stubbed it on the wall by my door I went in. Poured a tall glass of vodka, dumped what was left of a fruit juice bottle in on top of it, just a mouthful, turned on the television, giving it a nod as I always did as though to remind myself it was worth the extra five dollars rent per week to have the thing. Sat, looking at the screen with the volume muted.

Stood long enough to refill my glass after downing the first faster than was necessary, back to my chair. Thoughts drifted maybe I could try for some work, get something going—nothing official, certainly I couldn’t chance that—maybe see if some of the other residents worked odd jobs on the cheap, or maybe just place an advertisement I’d be up for anything, moving boxes, cleaning, see if the ad ran a week and I got some response.

Didn’t remember turning off the television, but when I drifted awake, still in the chair, the room was dark enough I noted licks of colour in slaps to the outside of my drawn curtain. Used the toilet before taking a look out, two police cars parked in front, little mash of people around talking. As an ambulance was pulling in to the lot I lost interest, padded around in the dark for my cigarettes.

If I weren’t so inebriated, so beat on top, the police presence’d have me more on edge—but I was still pretty drunk and’d gotten used to the fact police’d come around for this and that, they didn’t seem to bother with anyone in the Akerman except just whoever might be involved in whatever specifically brought them out, usually domestic quarrels, drug busts.

Chuckled, drinking water from the tap, it’d probably be more trouble than it as worth for police to talk to residents, must be an alarmingly high felon rate the Akerman and pretty obvious anyone wasn’t a felon yet just hadn’t been nabbed up, would get the distinction soon enough.

Took a last mouth of water, swished it, spit it, went back to my chair.

Came awake again to the heat of the day in through the blinds, scent of cooking dust and whatever food was maggoting its way through the walls. Had a quick shower, put the same clothes as the previous day back on, made sure I had my forty dollars, put twenty in the kitchen drawer, hesitated, took it out and left, locking up, scoffing as I always did the flimsiness of the door, that if I leaned on it too long lock’d probably pop free.

Right away down the stairwell knew something was still going on with the police, voices echoing, swirling up the well, general sounds of feet scuffing and vague taps of door knocking.

Just passing the fourth floor landing, heard someone call Excuse me, turned it was some guy cheap suit.

‘Yeah?’

‘What’s your name?’

Stared at him a minute, on principle. ‘Why, what’s going on?’

‘What’s your name, you live here?’

‘My name is Terrance Wales, yes I live here, on seven, seven H.’

‘You going out all day?’

Held another stare. ‘What happened here?’

‘Were you around last night?’

‘Sure.’

‘You’re on seven?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were in all night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seven H?’

‘Yes.’

That seemed to be all he wanted, just turned away like it obviously wasn’t worth it having a word with me.

It was the third floor where the main concentration of activity was going on, took a peek to see how far down the corridor, maybe in apartment three D or E. Out the door, now there were four police cars, two other cars probably belonging to detectives, mild crowd of people milling around, some talking to police, police taking notes, uniformed officers knocking on doors the motel area.

Lit a new cigarette as I cut through, trying not to feel like everyone was giving me a hard glance.

Nothing