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  Inwood, 6:30 a.m.

  If the cop, lazing against the photo counter, nursing sore feet, a bad back, feeling the weight of twenty-some-odd pounds of equipment and arms, worn all night, could have seen the horizon past the buildings and trees across from the front of the drugstore, he would have watched a growing silver glow warning the night of imminent mortality. Instead, he watched the fat man and the girl. The fat man trudged through the automatic doors. A high-pressure system. Invasive, huge, dominant, calm, confident as daybreak. He placed himself solid amid the wash of anonymous music misting from invisible speakers that seemed to mute in his presence. His head, an oblong ball mounted on a thick pedestal of neck based on a dense beam of muscle. Massive torso, draped by an ugly, stained, faded, flowered shirt worn half-buttoned. A hairless chest swallowed by a bulging gut. Shirttail out to cover a tortured waistband of cargo shorts worn low. Pockets bulged. He stood broadly. Boxy feet planted, like trotters flatly spread, crusty, yellow, jagged nails projecting over toes of flattened rubber shower-shoes. Dense hands, square fingers chewed ragged, raw, fresh-scarred knuckles akimbo at his sides, arms ink-sleeved with incomprehensible blue, green, and red designs—faces, whorls, symbols, and illegible words, chaotic collage. Hair, dyed ghastly yellow, stretched into a greasy miniature ponytail. Thin line of sideburns and curved, thick Fu Manchu affected a gangster style. Twenty years younger, a hundred pounds lighter, a dimension cooler. Tiny pale-blue eyes framed a vulture’s beak, held court for a jowled face heavy with thick lips, perpetually pouting. He rested on spurred heels, recumbent inside his mass, poised in personal power, and took inventory of early shoppers browsing bright aisles, full shelves arrayed with the familiar at cut rates. And behind him, the girl waited, as if in queue for something she didn’t want. Crouched in the shadow of his bulk, seeking invisibility in plain sight. Mindless patience, still as wounded prey, breathing lightly, hiding in full view. Small, black, timid, displaced. Wispy strands spraying out from poorly braided cornrows. She wore a man’s white tee over cutoffs, floppy casings for rope-skinny thighs, balls of knees, shapeless calves falling like spikes onto bony ankles elling into too long, too narrow feet with peeling polished toes in worn leather sandals. Unshielded nipples dented white cotton, tiny juts betraying her age—too young, too old, already dying. Her eyes, black as ebony, unfocused, flickered dimly, looked dully at nothing. One orb slanted into an ugly bruise, the other dark pupil was matted by a bright, broken vessel, tinting the edge scarlet. Her right hand cradled her left in long, thin fingers chipped by red paint, the forearm crooked into her body under the tented points, held gingerly, like a baby. Her mouth, slightly parted, too wide, too crooked, lips swollen, nose misshapen in some exquisite way. Ugly. No other word for it. Except pitiful, maybe. She frowned when he shifted, reclaimed his shade, her acne-pocked cheeks wrinkling in a wince. He waited another moment. Checked the clerk in her company-blue vest, ignorantly busy, ringing up a sale, and then the cop, still leaning on the photo counter, watching him. Casual, calm, curious. With a nod, he snatched a plastic handbasket and marched, heavy paced, lumbering to a rear aisle, the flattened rubber flipping and flopping against the callouses of his soles. She followed two steps behind, as if on a lead, her stalky legs stutter-stepped, nearly limped, as if hobbled. The cop unlimbered, rolled his head and cracked his neck, hefted his utilities, adjusted the black pistol at his waist, strolled forward, stopped briefly in the pretense of adjusting some novelties on display, but kept in view the man and girl, who, now returning, stopped at the cooler, opened a door, then came forward, him slapping, her shambling, nearly stumbling. At the counter, the girl, a pint of chocolate milk, package of cheap sugared pastries in her good hand, waited as he dumped the basket. A jumble. Gauze, peroxide, latex gloves, medicinal tape, iodine, painkillers, antiseptic, bandages, a sling. His head bobbed, she surrendered her loot, reluctant, timid, scowling when her bad arm moved. The clerk, bored, tired, glanced at the clock on the wall, scanned, bagged. “Morning,” the cop said, stood off a yard or so, moved his hands to his belt, hooked his thumbs, rocked back on neoprene heels in the classic posture of surety policemen long ago adopted, perfected. A twirling nightstick was wanted. The fat man nodded, stared at the clerk, mouth closed. “Trouble?” The question hung between them like smoke suddenly exhaled in a small airless space, swirling without direction. The fat man’s neck reddened. “Accident.” Fat hands cupped, bunched the final items for the clerk, who finished, named a price. He dug a wad from a side pocket of the shorts, ignored the cop’s startle, and counted out bills. Soiled, wrinkled. Head down, eyes focused, lips slightly moving with uttered numbers. The ponytail bobbed against the sickly orange orchids on his shirt collar. He turned, money in hand, faced the cop. Eyes pale. Direct. Cold as skim ice. “No big deal.” The cop’s chocolate eyes flared for a heartbeat. Gaze steady. “Report it?” The fat man’s mouth parted. “Just a fender-bender.” He took a wheezing breath. “No fault, no problem. Nobody hurt that bad.” A confirming nod to the girl, his eyes still matched with the cop’s. “Right?” She looked up, found the cop’s face, drew away his stare. An instant cry, maybe. A flash, a signal. Maybe. One quick nod, her face found the floor. Her good hand reached for the sack with the milk, the pastry. “Nobody hurt that bad,” he repeated. “Nothing can’t be handled.” For a moment, two, maybe, they stood en tableau, without breathing. Tension taut, atmosphere electric. Overhead, the music shifted to a waltz. The clerk, change made, now suddenly aware, now frozen, eyes on the cop. The girl pulled her arm tighter to her body. Bag dangling. One foot covered the other, one knob of knee folded over the other. Protective. The cop gave first. “She with you?” The fat man appraised her like a stranger. “Right.” He swung his gaze to the cop. “Got ID?” The fat man gathered his bags. Casual. He stepped forward, closed the distance. The cop held ground. “No need. Stepdaughter.” The cop glared. “Right?” the fat man asked the air. She raised her face. A plea, useless without words. Her head moved, barely. The cop studied, unwound, nodded, turned to the kiosk behind him, pretended to adjust a row of perfumes, soaps, bath salts. “Have a nice day.” The fat man nodded, the ponytail bobbed. He tacked out the door, a ship unmoored, bags for ballast. The girl trailed like a dinghy on a line. Helpless but to follow. The cop watched them go, saw the yellowing sky, looked at the clerk. Her face a hundred questions. He hiked up his utilities, leaned on the counter, looked her in the eye. “Night work,” he said.

  FULL MOON

  BY LAUREN DAVIS

  Pleasant Grove

  A cool rain was falling when Danny Contreras awoke to the nightmare and shouted, “Cuidado!” The face of his mother floating, a specter behind his throbbing eyeballs. Way too much crystal meth and tequila last night. Christ knows what else, but he craved hair of the dog. A shot and a rail. The sting in his septum. The burn of the añejo coating his guts. The thought eased the pain and he sat up and gazed around the room as if taking inventory—admiring the open floor plan, the midcentury modern furniture. Raising his arm, he squinted and tried to focus, but his wrist was bare. Oh yeah—the Rolex. He’d let the dope dealer hold it.

  He reached for the phone on the night table. Five till nine. He called work and had the secretary he shared with the other midlevel investment brokers cancel his appointments. “Yeah, I know it’s the third time this week.”

  No way was he fighting Central Expressway from Uptown to North Dallas this hungover in the rain. Fuck it—it was Friday. He had the weekend to get the devil out of his system. He could try normal again on Monday.

  Normal. He thought about his mother, crying in the nightmare. “Cuidado, mi’jo!” she’d warned, but what was he supposed to be careful of? When she’d died two months ago, that’s when he’d started to fuck up, feeling like his life was coming off the rails. He was in Thailand—running down profit margins on a sapphire mine. It was fucking paradise over there. He’d decided to stay on a few days. Get some R&R on the company. He’d stashed his phone in the hotel safe with his other valu
ables, and explored Bangkok, off the charts. He’d spent four days in an opium den. Shadows came and went in the red glow of the semidarkened room. Someone would lift the cold metal tip of the pipe to his mouth, and he’d suck until his lips were blistered. Oblivion. By the time he came out of his stupor, his mother had already been buried. “We couldn’t hold up the funeral,” his father had said when Danny called, after he’d listened to the frantic messages. “You knew how sick she was. Where were you, son?”

  Danny brought the gold crucifix that hung from his neck on a heavy chain to his lips. Eighteen karat. He could pawn it for an eight ball, he thought, kissing the crucified Christ. Maybe two.

  The rain had stopped by the time he’d made coffee, so he went outside onto his postage stamp of a balcony. He drank the whole pot, black, and tried to make sense of the nightmare.

  It had been about the Christmas when he’d been twelve. His mother and his aunts were cooking. Mamá took a smoke break and carried in a tray of hot chocolate for the kids. There was a loud knock. It was Uncle Santiago. When Mamá let him in, he looked real pale. Shaky too. He said he’d been driving through a stretch of mesquite scrub outside Austin when he heard a voice whispering his name. It was warm that year. Mideighties—like it can be in Texas at Christmas, so his windows were down. He said he thought it was the wind, so he sang back, “Si, yo soy San-ti-a-go.” That’s when the sun went behind a cloud and a giant owl with an eight-foot wingspan flew out of the mesquite thickets ahead.

  “I started to say the Hail Mary backward, and when I did La Lechuza flew off.”

  “You better go see a curandero,” Aunt Mary said, stepping into the living room from the kitchen. “Somebody’s put a curse on you, and you need to break it.”

  “A curse? Pinche cabróna,” he countered. Everybody laughed, and he went out on the deck where the men and the beer were. Mamá lit another cigarette and began to tell the old Mexican legends to the kids. About the ghost of La Llorona, the weeping woman who steals naughty children out after dark, and about the witch-bird called La Lechuza. The omen of death. But Danny was twelve, and he didn’t believe in spooks anymore. When Uncle Santiago was found dead the week after New Year’s, Danny’s father said he’d drunk himself to death, but the women at funeral had whispered a different tale.

  Fucking crystal and tequila. Keep it together. He made a peanut butter sandwich, checked his unopened mail, and found a threatening letter from his landlord, so he decided to play the “money game.” He paid one credit card with another, getting his credit limit raised enough to put the rent payment and the late fees on another card, leaving a final card maxed out and unpaid. He was good at manipulating money. That’s what he did. MBA on scholarship in five years, the golden boy who’d showed a profit for the firm his first year, in spite of the crash of ’06. His rise had been quick, but his career had hit a ceiling. For the last three years, he’d been treading water. Just another $75,000-a-year millionaire, jockeying on the concrete treadmill, up and down I-75, five days a week to keep the image alive—the high-rise apartment in the West Village, the BMW, the hundred-dollar haircuts. He wasn’t quite thirty, but he was tired of keeping the balls moving in the air, all sleight of hand, prestidigitation—legerdemain. The thought of it was exhausting, so he loaded a bowl of hydro, hit it, and decided to crash.

  It was getting dark when he woke. No headache, so he sat up and checked the phone. Only one missed call. From his father. He’d called every day since Danny had got back to the States. He’d avoided him—hadn’t even been to visit his mother’s grave.

  He rang Kevin, the dope dealer, and the call went straight to voice mail. Danny thought about hanging up, but he was too desperate for games. “Yeah, so, it’s about six thirty. Give me a buzz when you get this. I was hoping I could come by and hang out. You still got my Rolex—right?”

  If Kevin wouldn’t answer, Danny would hit the streets. Friday night in Big D. He might get lucky. It had been awhile, but not because he hadn’t had chances. He pulled it together with his best GQ-meets–Wall Street look and thought his years as a gym rat were still paying off, as he did his last line of crystal meth and rolled a joint for the road. On the way out, he checked his reflection in the full-length mirror and wondered if his clothes weren’t starting to hang. But the crystal kicked in. Naw, he thought. You still got it, Danny-boy.

  When he got to Hotel Zaza, he had to wait in line to valet the Beamer. The Dragonfly bar reminded him of something from an old black-and-white movie. The place was a sea of tall wineglasses and short skirts. At the bar, he opened a tab with his company AmEx and had a couple of shots of Patrón. He scanned the room, casually. As if he wasn’t really on the hunt. A honey of a brunette in a tight red dress took a seat when the stool next to him opened up. He liked her direct approach and wondered if she might be a pro. When he asked her, she laughed but didn’t say no. Fucking Dallas.

  They talked, mostly about him, so he bought her a couple of fifteen-dollar martinis. She was eager to listen, grateful for the booze, and seemed up for most anything as she rubbed the inside of his thigh. He didn’t object, but it was too early. He was more interested in hearing what Kevin had to offer. Danny couldn’t even remember her name, and when the phone vibrated in his pocket at ten thirty, the brunette might as well have been dead.

  From Zaza, he headed downtown, fishing out the joint he’d tucked under the driver’s seat. He enjoyed driving through downtown at night. Through the shimmering tinsel of the lit skyscrapers that loomed along the nearly deserted streets. Especially when he was fucked up. Lately, he’d found Dallas more approachable that way. From the Commerce Street viaduct he exited onto Beckley. The car’s radio whined, searching for a signal. Fucking Oak Cliff. It was a different world on this side of the Trinity River.

  Growing up, Oak Cliff had been his turf. And as he passed the illuminated monolith of Methodist Hospital, he tried not to imagine his mother’s last moments there, gasping for breath, craving one last cigarette. At Beckley, he turned onto Jefferson, coasting past the pawn shops, Mexican restaurants, and the brightly lit windows of the quinceañera stores with their quaint names and outrageous dresses.

  “Cuidado!” a voice shouted.

  Danny stomped the brake pedal, stopping just short of hitting a mariachi dressed in crimson velvet, weaving and jaywalking away from El Ranchito Restaurante.

  “Pinche borracho!” Danny yelled, lowering his window, flipping his middle finger for emphasis, but the old mariachi just laughed and stumbled on his way. Rattled, Danny pitched the roach out of the window and tried tuning the car’s radio again, without success. At Rosemont Street he detoured, creeping past his old home with his headlights turned off. When he came home to visit, before his mother died, he always thought the house seemed smaller than he’d remembered it growing up. But tonight, the two-story prairie-style looked big and empty, and Danny knew his father was inside. Alone.

  At West Davis he put the headlights on again. He was getting close to Kevin’s place. Adrenaline surged at the anticipation of the novelties he would offer. Meth for sure. Maybe some Thai stick. Hash or opium? He wanted something special to make the journey worthwhile. He enjoyed hanging out with Kevin—even though the guy was old enough to be his grandfather, he could match Danny drink for drink, drug for drug, and never got sloppy. Danny admired Kevin’s business model too. He didn’t cater to the in-and-out doorbell trade. There was a minimum. He offered an experience—he had clients.

  Kevin answered the door in a white caftan. “Come in, Danny,” he said with a hand flourish. Danny imagined this was what a real ’60s drug pad looked like. He’d never seen one, and he’d never seen another place like Kevin’s. All the legs of the upholstered furniture in the living room had been sawed off, and the amputated sofa, love seat, overstuffed chairs, and ottoman sat on layers of Persian rugs that covered the floor. There were rugs and black-light posters hanging on the walls, incense burning, beaded curtains in every doorway, and a mounted sixty-inch plasma TV over
the fake fireplace. Kevin broke out some hash and motioned for Danny to sit. They played backgammon, snorted lines of crystal, and when Danny got too trashed to offer Kevin a challenge on the backgammon board, he switched on the plasma and they played Grand Theft Auto till a little past two. Kevin pulled out his photo album, just like always. Danny flipped through the laminated pages of old Polaroids of Kevin’s days at Berkeley, the antiwar protests, pictures of parties where every guy had his arm around a skinny girl and a joint in his other hand. He said he’d been a chemistry major—that he’d dropped acid with Timothy Leary.

  Danny knew he couldn’t rush this part of the transaction, or Kevin would feel slighted. Finally, after another ten minutes or so, they got down to it. Kevin would give Danny five grand in credit for the Rolex, with the option to redeem it for six. He took two eight balls of meth and a quarter pound of some weed called Afghani gold. The shit had purple hairs. Kevin prepared a five-hundred-dollar grab bag of Thai stick, hash, and a ball of opium the size of a walnut. Danny was into him for just over three grand in product.