Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “In that case, well….” I heard the rip of an envelope, the crackle of paper. His tone was so emotionless he could have been reading a grocery list.

  “Dearest Teresa,

  After Grayson died, your father was my confidante and closest friend. But you were the most precious thing in his life. He always wanted to give you a better life, and he never stopped trying. He talked about you so much I felt like I knew you. And though I wasn’t your birth mother, I loved you, too. Now that I’m gone, I’m in a position to help your father express his love for you. Just consider it my way of repaying all the favors.”

  The lawyer was quiet. I stared out at the street but to this day, I don’t remember what I saw.

  “Miss Nichols, are you there?”

  “Yeah.” I grunted after a pause.

  He started spewing details about what I was supposed to do and when, but I wasn’t paying attention. He said he’d send me a registered letter and checked my address. I hung up the phone and started to walk back to the car. My head was spinning. The old lady didn’t order the hit. I took out the wrong target. And now I was rich. I massaged my temples.

  But if she didn’t do it, who did? I stopped. There was only one other person who knew where I was going. Johnny D. Pop’s partner. He knew everything about my father,. He’d been there when Pop died. He was the only man I trusted. We’d even had our wills done together. He’d promised Pop, he said. It was the best way to protect me from the occupational hazards of our jobs.

  I walked around some more, then headed back to the car. I had one more job to do. It would probably be my last. But I’d do it, and I’d do it well. Pop would have wanted me to. The old lady, too. But first maybe I’d go back to that diner and buy the frigging butterfly.

  THE END

  This was originally published in the WORLD WIDE WRITERS Magazine, (UK, November, 2000). It was republished in the webzine, Mysterical-E, in January 2001, and was voted one of the best five stories of that year. It was one of the first stories I wrote that wasn’t set in Chicago.

  THE RAINFOREST MESSIAH

  Tumbleweeds skitter across the desert at random, like dust motes caught in a shaft of light. Zack swallows as he drives, but the air is so dry his tongue is coated with dust. The huge Texas sky hangs down on all sides of him like the flaps of a tent. When he was little, he felt tucked up and secure in tents, but this one is too vast, too relentless. His eyes hurt when he looks up.

  He bears down on the gas. The Pontiac shudders, then shoots forward. Past uneven fence posts linked by barbed wire. Past an abandoned oil derrick rising out of the brush. He tries to shake it off, this unease, but it has already penetrated, like water seeping through a leaky roof.

  A distant ribbon of grey detaches itself from the horizon. A few minutes later, it puckers into geometric shapes. He has reached the outskirts of Laredo. He cruises south past a cluster of ramshackle buildings. Colonias, they call them, inhabited by Mexicans who cross the border to work at menial jobs for less than minimum wage. Third-world shantytowns are more like it.

  He slows and parks next to a cantina. A chalk-board with several letters missing announces cold beer inside. As he opens the door, a gust of cool air slaps him. He tries not to think of the old westerns where the bad guy swings through the saloon doors.

  A radio blares out a tune by the Judds. On one side is the bar, a slab of splintered wood which will pierce his skin if he isn’t careful. Folding chairs and card tables sit on an uneven floor. Except for a Budweiser sign, a dusty mirror, and a Texas map with Webb County outlined in black, the walls are bare.

  He glances at his reflection. With his Nikes, Dockers, and Polo shirt, he has Yankee written all over him. He lifts his sunglasses and scans the place without seeming to, the way he’s been trained. A stocky Mexican woman lounges behind the bar with a bored expression. The only other customer sits at one of the tables, a longnecked Bud in front of him.

  Zack studies him. A beard covers his face, making it hard to take in his features. He wears a buckskin jacket and camouflage pants, and his long hair is tied back with a leather headband. The man is a cross between Davy Crockett and one of the weirdos Dennis Hopper always plays.

  Zack steps up to the bar. “I’ll have a beer.”

  The woman fishes a longneck Corona out of a cooler and holds up five fingers. Zack digs out a five. He knows he’s being ripped off. She stuffs the bill inside her shirt. He tips his head back for a long swig, hoping to rinse the grit from his throat and glances at the man. The man stubs out a cigarette. Zack takes that as a sign of greeting and nods.

  “Long ride?” The man asks.

  “Long enough.” Zack walks over and pulls out a rickety chair. “Why here?” He waves the Corona in the air.

  “It is what it is.”

  Zack sits down. It doesn’t really matter where the meet is. Or the cross-over. He’ll be well out of it by then.

  The man thumps a pack of Camels on the table. “So I put out feelers and one name comes back to me. Just one. Zack Mueller. Special Agent, FBI.”

  Zack shifts in his chair. The man has a flat Midwestern accent, but he affects a twang, as if he wants Zack to think he’s a Bubba.

  The man slips a fresh Camel between his lips. “How does an upstanding federal law enforcement agent turn into a gun runner?”

  “Hard work and initiative.”

  The man’s eyes narrow. “How do I know you’re not fixin’ to set me up?”

  Zack shrugs. It has taken time and effort to get this far. But he is prepared. He keeps his mouth shut. The man, perhaps sensing a stalemate, lights his cigarette.

  A flash of light strobes Zack’s peripheral vision. Someone has opened the door to the cantina. A young Hispanic woman, dressed in cargo shorts, a white shirt rolled up to her elbows, and desert boots. The man with Zack nods to her. She closes the door. In the dim light the girl’s skin is the color of burnished copper. Her dark eyes glow like polished obsidian.

  “You made good time,” the man calls out.

  She calls to the woman behind the bar. “Mamacita,” she says. “Como te a ido?”

  The woman smiles, revealing a mouth with several teeth missing. She turns down the radio. “Estoy bien a veces. Un poco causada pero.” I’m okay. A little tired.

  “Trabajas demaciado.” You are working too hard.

  “No tengo otra alternativa.” I have no choice.

  The girl nods sympathetically. “Una Pepsi.”

  The woman opens a cold Pepsi. The girl throws a dollar bill on the bar, hikes the bottle to her mouth, then joins the men at the table.

  “You know her?” The man jerks his head in the woman’s direction.

  “No,” the girl says. “Yes.” She eyes Zack. “I’m Dora. Dora Anuncion.”

  “Zack Mueller.”

  They both look at the man. His turn. “I’m what you might call—an agent too,” he laughs. “For some Indians in the Maya Rain Forest. They have endowed me with the—uh—authority to buy them a shitload of guns.”

  “What do we call you?” Zack asks.

  “You can call me Elvis.”

  “Elvis?”

  “The Indians think I’m their king—no, their fucking messiah. You know. Gonna save them.” A half-smile plays on his face. Zack wonders if he’s pasted it on for effect.

  “You know the Rainforest?” Elvis asks. Zack knows it’s in southeastern Mexico, Belize, part of Guatemala. “A lot of in-di-ge-nous,” Elvis draws out each syllable, “Indians down there. You know the type. Running around naked. Never saw a white man ‘till twenty years ago.” Elvis shifts in his seat. “But now it seems progress has come.”

  “How’s that?” Zack asks.

  “An American oil company thinks there’s a gold mine under the forest. They’re fixin’ to come in and drill. At the invitation of the Mexican government.” Elvis glances at the girl.

  Dora clears her throat. “The government wants to jumpstart the economy of the region, create jobs.”
/>   “But the Indians don’t want it,” Zack finishes for her.

  “Right. The drilling will destroy their homes, their sacred ground. Not to mention what it will do to the habitat.”

  “I met Dora in the jungle.” Elvis takes over again, Zack notices. He doesn’t like to relinquish control for long. “She’s on our side. Now the Indians, see, they started out saying they were gonna commit mass suicide if the oil company comes in. But we changed their minds.” He chuckles again.

  “You’re encouraging armed insurrection.”

  Elvis points a finger at Zack. “Your words.”

  Zack rolls his beer on the table. “How’d you get to me?”

  Elvis glances at Dora. She takes a breath. “I’m an environmental anthropologist. Before the Maya Forest I was in Colombia.”

  Zack nods. He remembers Colombia. The Indians there kept blowing up the pipeline to keep the multinationals out. When that didn’t work they escalated to kidnapping, then to Russian arms. He was in the middle of it.

  “But that’s jack—Zack—compared to what we want to do.” Elvis smiles at his little joke. “Can you help us?”

  Zack scratches his cheek, pretending to think. “Depends on what you want.”

  “Don’t they got AK47s, stun grenades, rocket launchers, explosives down in Colombia?”

  “They placed an order.”

  Elvis fingers his beard. “One from Column A, one from Column B.” His smile fades. “Who the hell are you, man?”

  Zack drains the last of his beer. “I’ve been with the Bureau twenty-five years. Retiring next year.” He is ready. He feels it. The fatigue of too many years at the same job. “My daughter has cerebral palsy,” he lies. “She needs care. Insurance won’t cover it. So I started moonlighting.”

  Elvis tilts his head as if he can somehow divine the truth of Zack’s words. “What’s your connection?”

  Zack smiles. “I can’t tell you that.” Mentally he flashes back to Petrovsky, the Russian general who didn’t speak a word of English. Always in uniform, as if it proved he was once an important man. Petrovsky, accompanied by Sergei, his younger partner, who did speak English. And wore those cheap, shiny Euro knock-off suits.

  They’d negotiated a small deal, the three of them. It went down without a hitch. Afterwards Zack lured Petrovsky to Atlantic City with promises of wine, women, and more business. The Bureau nabbed him at the Newark airport—the general never made it to the crap table. But Sergei, who stayed home, disappeared from sight. Now he was Zack’s business partner.

  “Who are you man?” Elvis repeats.

  “Just a guy looking out for his family.”

  ***

  Elvis and Zack discuss terms. Zack doesn’t ask where the money is coming from. The Indians may be primitive but they’re not dumb; they’ve been dealing coca and weed for years. In Colombia over forty percent of the economy depends on the drug trade. He’s not sure about Mexico.

  He tells Elvis a front company will accept a wire payment through a bank in the Caribbean. “Except for my fee. I want it up front. In cash.”

  Elvis wavers. “How do I know you won’t cut me loose?”

  “You don’t. But that’s how I do business. My man at the port will want his cut too.”

  Elvis gazes around the room, as if considering Zack’s terms. Finally he nods. They’ll meet back at the cantina tomorrow.

  Zack finds a relatively clean motel on the edge of town and boots up his laptop. He sends some e-mails and waits for the replies. He will drive Elvis to the port of Houston; he needs to make sure his team is in place. He leans back against the headrest. The sheets are cool, the pillows surprisingly soft. He has been on the road for a while.

  A knock on his door wakes him. Through the blinds the late afternoon sun has turned heavy and red. He rolls out of bed, cracks open the door. Dora Anuncion steps in, sits down on the bed.

  “So, can you do this?” she asks. Zack smiles. She digs into her cargo shorts, pulls out a scrap of paper. “Here is the wire information you’ll need.”

  Zack takes the paper. “I’m thirsty. Let’s get a drink.”

  “I should get back.” She looks at her watch, one of those Dick Tracy numbers with the time, temperature, directions, maybe the whole Internet on it too. “He’ll wonder where I am.”

  “Tell him I tried to put the moves on you.” She smiles. They get in the Pontiac. “So who is this joker?” Zack keys the engine.

  “Name’s Duane Pollack. We’re not sure where he’s from. He showed up a few months ago.”

  “No one’s checked him out?”

  She turns her face toward him. “What do you think?”

  Zack shrugs. They backtrack through the colonias, past squalid shacks, a rusted car, a child’s tricycle upside-down at the edge of the road. Nearby is a dump overflowing with glass, fast-food wrappers, a dented bucket. The detritus of a desperate population.

  “This looks like a refugee camp,” Zack says.

  “They have to live someplace,” Dora says.

  “Why do they keep coming?”

  Her laugh is hollow. “Because the alternative is starving in Mexico.” Her face gets a faraway look, as if she’s dwelling on a painful memory. “These places have grown unsupervised for years. No electricity, running water, sewers. Two or three families sharing one home.”

  “The law looked the other way?”

  “Until the developers showed up.”

  “Developers?”

  Dora’s lips curl. “They promised to provide electricity, running water. The infrastructure to turn these slums around. They lied. Never built anything. Just took the money.”

  Zack nods. It is an old story.

  “Eventually it got embarrassing. So the legislature decided to outlaw new settlements. Made them illegal.” Her voice tightens. “Which, of course, was worse than doing nothing. The developers moved on to their next prey. But the people—they have nowhere to go.”

  Zack grunts. “What will happen to them?”

  She presses her lips together. “Maybe they’ll ask for your services one day.”

  “How do you know so much about places like this?”

  “I made it out. I was lucky.”

  They get a drink then drive back. She hops out of the Pontiac, leans her elbows on the open window. “I don’t have to go.” She smiles lazily.

  Zack considers it. Dora is his type. All legs. But the time isn’t right. He swallows. “Not yet.”

  She glides back to her car. He watches her hips sway. She wants him to know what he is passing up.

  ***

  Zack hears from Sergei the next morning. The deal is on. A shipment will leave Odessa within sixty days. Once the cargo is offloaded, Elvis will truck it across the border.

  Zack waits for Elvis and Dora at the cantina, but they are late. Finally the door swings open, and a young Latino hurries in. He waves his arms at the woman behind the bar. Even in Spanish, the words can’t spill out of him fast enough. The woman tightens her lips. She looks over at Zack.

  He approaches the bar. “Is there a problem?”

  The boy looks at Zack, then at the woman. The woman stares at the floor, perhaps mulling over her options. Then she gestures to the boy.

  “Di le que paso. Con la mujer.”

  Zack stiffens. “Tell me what about the woman?” He leans across the bar, splinters be damned.

  The boy answers in unaccented English. “Your friend, the girl. She was here early this morning. I drove her to the airstrip.”

  “Airstrip?”

  The boy explains there is a private airstrip a few miles from the cantina. Oilmen used it to visit their wells. Dora asked him to show it to her. “When we got there, she told me to stay in the car, but she got out. She hid behind a ridge.”

  “Go on,” Zack says grimly.

  “A few minutes later, I heard the sound of an airplane. I snuck a look. A private plane landed. A man wearing a suit got out. He had a briefcase in his hand. Then, I see
the man who was here yesterday—”

  “Elvis?”

  The boy nods. “He just appears. From nowhere. And the woman is in front of him.”

  “He and the woman together?”

  “They were walking toward the plane. Slowly. Close together. The man in the suit gave him the briefcase. And then—”

  Zack reads the fear in the boy’s eyes.

  “They pushed her, pulled her up the ladder. She disappeared inside. The man—Elvis—went down the steps. And then the plane took off.”

  Zack runs his tongue around his lips. “Describe the man in the suit.”

  “An Anglo. He looked rich.”

  “What about the plane?”

  The boy hesitates. “One engine. White. Blue numbers and letters on the side.”

  He tells Zack the numbers he recalls. Zack feels the door open behind him. He raises a finger to his lips and turns around. It is Elvis, a briefcase in his hand. Alone. “Everything okay?” Zack asks.

  Elvis smiles. “Couldn’t be better, compadre.”

  Zack makes a show of looking behind Elvis. “Where’s Dora?”

  “I sent her back, man. She couldn’t wait to get back to them Indians.” He makes a sound that could be a laugh or a sneer. “This thing she’s got for them, you know. She’s like a goddammed saint. Gonna save them.”

  “From who?”

  Elvis hesitates, a lopsided grin on his face. “You know, man. The bad guys.”

  ***

  The scenery changes as they drive northeast on Fifty-nine. Patches of irrigated desert give way to fields of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. Farther on, a mantle of green covers the prairie.

  Despite the air conditioning, the close, humid air inside the car settles on Zack’s forearms. He smells the tension on Elvis. After an hour, he pulls into a rest stop. While Elvis goes inside, Zack places a call to his intel analyst back east. Elvis comes out with a bag full of candy bars and soda. His face twitches. Zack wonders how much he put up his nose last night.

  Outside Houston Zack loops south to the port, a huge facility that stretches twenty-five miles from the Gulf inland. He heads toward the mouth of Galveston Bay. Sergei will hide his shipment inside a cargo of steel rods and bars the Russians will dump on the U.S. market.