Guest Blog from Criminal Minds Alum Alan Orloff

This week we welcome back our own Alan Orloff. For those with short memories, I inherited Alan’s spot on this blog in 2017. He provided readers with five years of delightful posts about writing before passing the torch to me. Since leaving us, he’s done quite well for himself. Won three of four major industry awards, including the Agatha, Anthony, and a couple of ITW Thriller Awards.

I’m happy to report that Alan is here to tell us about his newest release, Sanctuary Motel.

 

Motels Rock!

 

 

Thanks, Jim, for inviting me back for a visit to the ol’ blog. Always nice to see some friendly faces! (For those of you who don’t know, I blogged here for five years, 2012 – 2017.)

 

 

I thought about answering the question of the week, I really did. But then I realized I have a new book to hawk, so…

 

My latest suspense novel, SANCTUARY MOTEL, comes out next week, and, as you might be able to discern from the title, much of the action takes place in a motel. Not a fancy, concierge-laden five-star hotel, but a modest downscale fourteen-unit eyesore.

 

I’ve always been fascinated by motels, and it started at a young age. My father, bless his heart, was a frugal man, and when we went on our twice-yearly family vacations, we would stay at motels. No recognizable chain motels for us; we stayed at quirky or kitschy, or, uh, unique establishments. 

 

When we went to Ocean City, Maryland, we’d stay at a place called The Stowaway. Yes, it was on the boardwalk, which was nice. No, it wasn’t anywhere close to being on anyone’s recommended lodging list. But I didn’t care; in fact, I was mesmerized, mostly by the assortment of off-brand sodas and snacks in the vending machines. Strawberry soda? Sure! Something that resembled an aqua-colored Ho-Ho? Don’t mind if I do-do!

 

We also frequented a state park in West Virginia, where we would stay in the lodge (for those uninitiated, a West Virgina state park lodge is a poor cousin to a cut-rate no-name motel. If you don’t believe me, just ask my wife. Thirty-five years ago, I planned a vacation at one, and I haven’t planned a vacation since.). The carpet was as thick as a paper towel (not Bounty, I’m talking generic paper towel), and the lodge restaurant’s menu never changed over the dozen years we went there. But that didn’t matter to me; I was always happy getting fried shrimp and butterscotch sundaes (fried shrimp at a landlocked West Virginia state park? Living on the edge, my friends!). Somehow, I survived.

 

Many years later, my wife and I packed up the minivan and took our two boys on a seven-week cross-country road trip. I got to emulate my father, as we often stayed in <clears throat> *affordable* lodging. 

 

True story: One night at about two a.m. (don’t ask), we were cruising through southern Minnesota, looking for lodging. Finally, we spotted a motel off the interstate in a place called Albert Lea (or maybe that was the name of the motel operator—still not clear about that). When we arrived, however, there were no available rooms. 

 

“No rooms?” I asked. “At all?” 

“Well, we do have one room.”

“We’ll take it.”

“The door doesn’t latch.”

“Huh?”

“The door won’t fully close. And, of course, it won’t lock.”

“That’s our only choice?”

“There’s another motel up the road. About forty miles.”

I looked at my tired family. Did I mention it was 2 a.m.? “Fine. We’ll take it.”

We pushed all the furniture up against the door. And we weren’t really worried. If someone tried to get into the room, the resident cockroaches would protect us. They were ENORMOUS.

 

Another true story from that road trip: A couple weeks later, we were looking for a place to stay in San Francisco. I remembered that I’d once stayed at a place in Union Square, and it was nice. So we found a reasonably priced place just a few blocks away, and we booked it by phone before we arrived.

 

I hear some of you snickering right now. Justifiably. 

 

That’s right, we ended up at a place smack dab in the middle of the Tenderloin. One star, not recommended.

 

And don’t even get me started about the night my father booked us at the luxurious South of the Border tourist-trap motel, nestled between six Walmart-sized souvenir shops, in the shadow of I-95. Or maybe that shadow was caused by the 200-foot Sombrero Observation Tower. I was probably too sugar-buzzed on strawberry soda and blue Ho-Hos to remember.

 

 

About SANCTUARY MOTEL

Mess Hopkins, proprietor of the seen-better-days Fairfax Manor Inn, never met a person in need who couldn’t use a helping hand—his helping hand. So he’s thrown open the doors of the motel to the homeless, victims of abuse, or anyone else who could benefit from a comfy bed with clean sheets and a roof overhead. This rankles his parents and uncle, who technically still own the place and are more concerned with profits than philanthropy.

When a mother and her teenage boy seek refuge from an abusive husband, Mess takes them in until they can get back on their feet. Shortly after arriving, the mom goes missing and some very bad people come sniffing around, searching for some money they claim belongs to them. Mess tries to pump the boy for helpful information, but he’s in full uncooperative teen mode—grunts, shrugs, and monosyllabic answers. From what he does learn, Mess can tell he’s not getting the straight scoop. It’s not long before the boy vanishes too. Abducted? Run away? Something worse? And who took the missing money? Mess, along with his friend Vell Jackson and local news reporter Lia Katsaros, take to the streets to locate the missing mother and son—and the elusive, abusive husband—before the kneecapping loan sharks find them first. 

About Alan
Alan Orloff has published ten novels and more than forty-five short stories. His work has won an Anthony, an Agatha, a Derringer, and two ITW Thriller Awards. He loves cake and arugula, but not together. Never together. He lives and writes in South Florida, where the examples of hijinks are endless. www.alanorloff.com