The no tell motel was a run down building, a row of rooms likely paid for by the hour. Housekeeping was a novelty, the rooms far from sanitary. But it was cheap, and it was private enough, despite the ratted curtains over the windows.
Charlie remembered well, a bust he and Bobby had made, in one of the rooms. He almost lost himself in the flashback, the feeling of confidence, the gun at his hip. He called himself back with a cough, and went to the front counter to secure a room for a couple of hours.
He wasn't sure what was going to happen, he wasn't even sure what he really wanted from this guy whose name he didn't know. He didn't care that he didn't know his name. Names were irrelevant. Satisfying a need was more important, even if Charlie wasn't entirely sure what that need was. Companionship, for one. Physical comfort, possibly. The drugs were simply a lure, and a false comfort zone.