He peeled out the banknotes from inside a billfold held on a chain and paid her. Andy Jackson’s eyes were X’d out. For an edgy instant she wondered if his money was counterfeit. She also noted his missing middle finger, and a skull tattoo decorated his sinewy wrist.She put down the card key. “You’re in Seven, straight down the courtyard.”He slid the card key off, but it fell to the floor. "Oops. Ihaven’t gotten used to this high gravity.”“I beg your pardon?”“Nothing. I’m just punchy from all the driving.
Ed Lynskey, The Quetzal Motel
fantasy, science-fiction