Dallas Noir Read online

  “You show me where he keeps the cash,” the cop says. “And I’ll let you walk.”

  I nod slowly as a strange thing happens. The ache on my forehead begins to feel warm and worm its way to the pit of my stomach.

  I stare at his comb-over and pasty skin. A tingling sensation dances across my thighs.

  “In the safe.” I nod toward the other office. “There’s usually a lot of cash.”

  “You know the combination?”

  I nod again. It’s Quint’s mother’s birthday. Quint wasn’t worried that I would rip him off. He knew I understood the consequences of that action.

  The cop lifts up my chin so he’s looking me in the eye. A sexual energy pulses between us, makes my skin tight.

  I’m teary and sad. My lip quivers, not just from emotion. I am also aroused.

  Sorrow and sex, they go together in my world.

  I lean closer and kiss him.

  For an instant, he doesn’t respond. Then he kisses back.

  We go at it for a few moments. He tastes like spearmint gum and coffee.

  I push him toward one of the desks. He sits on the edge, drops the plastic sack with the revolver on the surface by the phone.

  “The safe,” he says. “The money.”

  “Later.” I drop to my knees.

  My thighs tingle as warmth spreads across my body, the two-headed beast tugging at my very core, arousal and control.

  I unzip his jeans.

  “Damn, you’re a nasty ho.” His tone is reverential, the words meant as a compliment.

  I take them as intended. I like to be nasty; it’s where I excel. Nasty is my comfort zone.

  He tilts his head back and groans as I engulf his penis in my mouth.

  With one hand, I reach for the plastic sack containing the .38.

  The cop’s groaning morphs into moans of pleasure. His breathing becomes shallow. He grabs the top of my skull with both hands, his head still tilted back.

  I jam the muzzle against his testicles.

  He looks down. “What the hell?”

  I pull the trigger.

  Three Weeks Later

  The bar sits at the end of Front Street, facing the bitter grayness of the Bering Sea.

  Even in summer, with nearly twenty hours of gloomy light each day, the choppy waters at the end of the Seward Peninsula are cold and foreboding, pockmarked with rain more often than not.

  The bar’s clientele form the bottom of the social strata. Wet-brained white trash, meth-addled Aleuts, drunk Inupiat whalers. They are the dregs, no mean feat in a town of last chances and broken dreams, the figurative and literal final stop for an entire continent.

  The higher-end joints, places where you won’t get stabbed for your government check and even an occasional tourist ventures, are farther down the street, in what passes for the good part of Nome.

  The bartender at the place at the end of Front Street is also the owner, a professional vagabond in his early fifties named Mike.

  If life’s a TV show, Mike’s pretty much seen every episode and knows all the characters: the grifters and sociopaths, lovers and fighters, the terminally despondent, anybody who’s ever wanted to lose themselves in the booze-mottled anonymity of a saloon.

  There’s not a sad tale Mike hasn’t heard or a con he can’t spot simply by the way a guy holds his head and leans across the bar.

  Until The Girl from Texas arrives.

  That’s what they call her, Mike and a small group of regulars.

  The Girl from Texas, or, for short, simply The Girl.

  She is clearly a cheechako, somebody new to Alaska.

  Beyond that, Mike can’t figure her out.

  She arrived about two weeks ago, parking in front of his place at the end of Front Street in a dirt-covered Cadillac with plates issued out of Texas.

  She’s been here every night since, sitting at the end of the bar, a bottle of Budweiser and a pack of Winston Lights in front of her. Three, four beers, the same number of cigarettes, and she leaves.

  She is devastatingly attractive. The best-looking woman on the south shore, opine more than a couple of the regulars. Blond and blue-eyed, she’s on the good side of thirty, a body and face designed to make men dream of better times and choices that might have been.

  But the eyes betray her. They are a stew of emotion, quick and sad and angry at the same time, hinting at a despondency that has no measure.

  She always pays in cash, tips more than she should. She rebuffs the advances of those who want to buy her a drink, the clumsy attempts to take her home. After the first few days, the come-ons stop, and she drinks in peace.

  The Caddy disappears at the end of the first week, replaced by an almost new Ford four-wheel-drive pickup with oversized snow tires and a heater plug hanging out of the front grill, the vehicle of someone who intends to spend the winter in Alaska.

  Word filters back to Mike that she paid cash for the trade difference, crisp hundred-dollar bills. Mike also hears that she rented a place on the other side of town. A year lease, the security deposit and first month’s rent also paid in cash.

  This perplexes Mike because people with those kinds of resources don’t usually frequent his bar.

  She doesn’t talk, beyond the minimum to place an order. She just drinks and smokes, an hour or so in the evenings, then leaves, wandering out into the sunny night sky.

  Until tonight.

  Tonight is different. Sunday evening, two weeks and a day since her first appearance. She has a cell with her, resting on the bar. The phone flashes, an incoming call. From his vantage point by the beer taps, Mike can read the screen: Parklnd Hosp.

  She answers and turns away, a whispered conversation.

  Mike’s watched enough History Channel to know that Parkland Hospital is the main medical facility in Dallas, the place where President Kennedy died back in ’63.

  The Girl ends the call, turns back around. Her face is colorless, eyes brimming with tears.

  Mike empties an ashtray, says, “Everything okay?”

  “Did I want to leave her?” The Girl’s voice is a whisper. She’s staring at the label on her beer bottle, speaking to no one.

  Mike doesn’t say anything.

  “Did I have a choice?” She wipes her eyes. “I got her to the hospital. Did what I could.”

  The jukebox clicks on, Lynyrd Skynyrd, “Sweet Home Alabama.”

  “You want another beer?” Mike points to her empty bottle.

  She looks up like she’s seeing him for the first time. “How about a shot of Crown and a little privacy, huh?”

  Mike shrugs. He doesn’t take offense. Booze makes people ornery, a minor occupational hazard if you work in a bar. He pours a glass of whiskey and brings it over.

  She downs the shot, motions for another. “And a beer back.”

  Mike brings her the drinks and then retreats to the middle of the bar. A good drink-slinger can be invisible when necessary.

  She stares at her beer and whiskey for a few moments. Wipes tears again. Then she looks up, catches Mike’s eye.

  “I, uh, I’m sorry.” She clears her throat, sniffs. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Mike saunters back, polishing a beer mug with a towel.

  “I . . . got some bad news.” She takes a drink of whiskey.

  “Sorry to hear.”

  “Mike? That’s your name, right?”

  He nods, continues to polish the mug.

  “You got any family, Mike?” She drains the shot. Sips on the beer.

  He shakes his head.

  “Me neither.” She brushes a tear from her cheek. “Not anymore.”

  “You’re from Texas, I hear.”

  No response for a few moments, thoughts clearly rumbling through her mind.

  Then she smiles for the first time in the two weeks and one day she’s been coming into the bar, and the very air in the dingy tavern changes like a switch has been flipped.

  It’s not a happy smile but that d
oesn’t matter. The pain in her face disappears, replaced by a raw sexuality that is like a blast of arctic air, invisible but powerful, impossible to ignore.

  She shifts her weight on the barstool and her flannel shirt slides open slightly, revealing pale, freckled cleavage. Her eyes brighten. She runs a hand through her hair, causing the shirt to open a little wider.

  “I’m from Dallas.” The Girl licks her lips. “You ever been to Texas?”

  Mike stands straighter, sucks in his stomach without realizing he’s doing so. He’s seen people like this before, slept with more than a few, damaged souls who wield their sexuality like a velvet-shrouded sword.

  Nothing good comes from a woman like this, but for the moment he doesn’t care. He has weaknesses like anyone else. The way she looks at him, the smile on her lips, that changes something inside of a man. Makes danger seem safe, the darkness appear sunny.

  Mike lists the places in Texas he’s been: Houston, Corpus, Port Arthur. The Rio Grande Valley. Austin.

  The Girl and Mike smile at each other, a shared connection.

  “The woman at the Century 21 office.” The Girl points toward town. “She says you’re trying to sell this bar.”

  Mike doesn’t reply. He had indeed told Century 21 he was looking to sell. It’s time to move on, the wanderlust is setting in. The Girl from Texas has been busy.

  “How much do you want?”

  Mike rubs his chin. Then he names a price, a number that is on the top end of reasonable, low six figures.

  The Girl nods thoughtfully, a lock of hair dangling in front of her eyes. She uncrosses her legs and slides a heel on the top rung of the barstool, props her chin on the raised knee. Her appearance is an intoxicating mix, sultry innocence.

  By the way she holds her body, Mike realizes this woman is his for the night if he wants her. He won’t even have to ask, just take her home.

  “There’s no owner-financing either.” He repeats the price.

  She nods.

  He leans on the bar, hands clasped, eye to eye. “You got that much money?”

  “My first husband.” The Girl runs a finger down his forearm. “He left me a sizable inheritance.”

  Her touch is cool and electric. The skin on the tip of her finger makes Mike’s flesh tingle, stomach get warm.

  “Maybe we could go somewhere and discuss this privately,” she says.

  Mike smiles. He takes most of the cash from the register and asks the soberest of the regulars to watch the place for an hour or so. Then he and The Girl slide out the back, walking the two blocks to Mike’s house down the street from the VFW Hall.

  In the bedroom, they don’t speak at first.

  She peels off her clothes, faded jeans and a flannel shirt, down to her bra and panties.

  Mike notices the bandages on her forearm and the scars, circular like burns from a cigarette. Some are fresh, some not so much.

  “What happened there?” He points to the injuries.

  From her shirt pocket, she pulls out a pack of Winston Lights and taps a cigarette free. “Got a match?” She leans back on the bed.

  Mike tosses her an old Zippo.

  She lights the cigarette, blows a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

  Mike kicks his shoes off, steps out of his clothing.

  She takes another couple of puffs and extinguishes the cigarette against the smooth flesh of her arm. A tiny moan escapes her lips as the glowing knob of tobacco mashes against her skin.

  A rare case of paternal concern crosses Mike’s mind.

  “A pretty girl like you.” He winces. “What’s so bad that you got to do that to yourself?”

  She unhooks her bra, tosses it across the room. “Come to bed, Mike.”

  He hesitates. Then puts a knee on the mattress, marveling at her body. Batshit crazy in the head, but damn, what a looker. He leans toward her. And stops.

  “What’s your name? I don’t even know your name.”

  She doesn’t reply for a moment. In the dim light of the bedroom, it’s hard to tell but it looks like her eyes are filled with tears again.

  “C-C-Chloe,” she says. “My name is Chloe Parker.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Chloe Parker.” Mike eases down beside her. “You sure are a nice-looking—”

  “Don’t talk, Mike.” She presses a finger against his lips and pulls him close.

  DOG SITTER

  BY CATHERINE CUELLAR

  Love Field

  As Xóchitl turned her key in the lock, Buster—a fluffy blond Pomeranian in her care—tugged his leash. She elbowed the latch and backed through the heavy arched wooden door of the Tudor-style cottage. A titanium racing bicycle worth more than Xóchitl’s car was tilted against the dining room wall. Giving the door a hip bump closed before releasing Buster’s leash, she walked past floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with art books and CDs to the kitchen. Standing over a trash can, she tossed catalogs, coupons, and postcard pictures of registered sex offenders and missing children, while setting aside bills on the island by the phone. As Emma rubbed against her leg and started meowing for food, Xóchitl stopped at a pink envelope hand-addressed to her.

  She put the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter next to stacked cans of Fancy Feast and broke the seal, giving the knuckle of her index finger a slight paper cut. She pressed the stinging wound to her lips, sucking a tiny drop of blood, then slid the card out of its envelope. There was a cartoon of a cute puppy on the front with the caption, I get so excited when I see you, and inside, I can’t control myself . . . with the puppy looking embarrassed next to a puddle, signed, I Can’t Wait To Get Together Again, Love, Jeremías. This was not an American Greetings or Hallmark card; Xóchitl imagined Jeremías picking it out at a 7-Eleven or truck stop. It bugged her that he capitalized every word. But mostly, she was creeped out because he was writing her at work—and she was opening his card less than twenty-four hours after they had kissed goodnight.

  Obviously he’d pulled some strings at the post office where he worked to get this card to her the same day he sent it. Jeremías wasn’t a carrier—he sorted packages for shipping at the main post office on I-30 where all the mail in town was processed. Every year on April 15, Xóchitl and her oldest friends Tom and Valda bought beer and tailgated in the parking lot until midnight. They laughed as they watched the traffic caused by frantic taxpayers backing up the exit ramp onto the westbound highway. Although mail carriers stood by the turnoff from the access road, many cars headed past—drivers parking and scurrying inside to have their tax returns metered so they could get the postmark to meet the IRS deadline. The former classmates had been tipsy, sitting on the hood of Xóchitl’s old Ford Tempo, when Jeremías walked out to his new Honda Accord, parked next to theirs. He struck up a conversation with Xóchitl (and was very cute) so she offered him a beer. Jeremías accepted. They got drunk, then Valda drove Xóchitl’s car back to her house-sitting job while Tom followed, giving Valda a lift home. Xóchitl forgot giving Jeremías her number until he rang her the next day.

  They met for drinks at the Inwood Lounge and talked awhile. Xóchitl had thought it was hilarious that sometimes when Jeremías was trying to sound smart or exotic or important, he would affect an ever-so-slight British accent, even though he was as Texan as she was. After he drove her back to Hollywood Heights where she was staying, he walked her to the door and followed her inside. They kissed on the couch until Emma’s cat hair made him sneeze. Now, he might be her stalker. At least Jeremías didn’t know where Xóchitl would be living next. Her only real address was a post office box in the downtown courthouse.

  * * *

  Xóchitl put the card down, peeled open a can of Fancy Feast, and dumped it in Emma’s bowl. Buster pranced in, his leash still trailing behind him. She detached it from his collar and hung it on a doorknob. Buster headed into the sunroom toward Emma’s litter box, sniffing for a snack.

  “Oh no you don’t!” she shouted in the voice she used to talk to animals and babies. She gr
abbed a tiny plastic shovel and started cleaning out the clumps.

  It felt fun and glamorous, playing house in rich people’s homes. Xóchitl paid no rent or utility bills. She got to listen to different CDs, read new magazines and books, and usually had cable. Once in a while there’d even be a swimming pool, sauna, or jetted tub. The money was good and the digs were fancy. She knew which prescriptions her clients took, what they kept in their pockets, and where they hid their sex toys. She liked sleeping in their big beds when they traveled and compared the number of pillows, softness of linens, and firmness of mattresses. She loved animals, wasn’t allergic, and found comfort in their affection.

  But no matter how plush her surroundings, she knew her job was scooping poop.

  * * *

  From Memorial Day through Independence Day, Xóchitl stayed in Lakewood with Salma Hindlick and Angelina Jowlie, a pair of Rhodesian ridgebacks. They woke her up for their walk every morning as the sun was rising, followed by their ritual feeding and a game of catch in the yard. She came to recognize the neighborhood power walkers and pet owners she saw at the same time each morning.

  On July 4, after their morning routine, she packed up her car, set the alarm, and returned her house key through the mail slot in the front door. As she backed down the driveway in her Ford Tempo, Xóchitl was jolted in her seat by a huge thud. She was afraid one of the girls had dug out from the yard and somehow gotten behind her car, but she hadn’t seen anything in her rearview mirror.

  Parking with her engine still idling, she hopped out to see what she’d hit. Xóchitl’s heart beat faster as she walked toward her rear bumper, then lurched into her throat when she saw a man’s bare-chested torso facedown on the sidewalk under her passenger-side rear tire, with his shorts-clad legs, ankle socks, and running shoes sticking out the other side.

  “Goddamn,” she said.

  She jumped back into the driver’s seat and pulled forward to get her car off the runner, then killed the engine. Rolling him over, she saw his nose was smashed and his face was bruised and covered with blood. He wasn’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse. “Mierda,” she muttered.

  She ran her hands over his dark plastic shorts searching for an ID, phone, or keys, to no avail. Xóchitl felt like throwing up. She tried to remember if, when, and where she had seen him running on other mornings while she was walking the girls. They were so close to the lake, there were dozens if not hundreds of faces to recall, but his cold corpse bore no resemblance to any of those fit athletes.