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

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Zack flashes his ID and he and Elvis are admitted to the Barbours Cut terminal. As they make their way to the wharf, they maneuver around warehouses and sheds, forklifts, trucks, and cranes. Railroad tracks curl around the sides of the buildings. Zack wrinkles his nose, surprised by the briny tang in the air.

  They head toward a small shed behind the pier where his port contact should be waiting. Everything looks normal to Zack. Too normal. No odd movement catches his eye. Something is wrong. Where is his back-up? They have almost reached the shed when Zack’s cell phone rings.

  “Yeah?”

  “Zack, it’s over. Let it walk.” It is his contact agent.

  “You know, I’m kind of tied up right now,” Zack says into the phone. His eyes stay on Elvis. “I’ll talk to you about those motorcycles later.”

  “It ain’t gonna happen today, man. Let it walk.”

  “Got it.” Zack snaps off the phone. He slows his breathing, forces himself to remain calm. Something has happened. Something bad.

  “What’s up, man?” Elvis tilts his head.

  Zack shakes his head and opens the door to the warehouse. He doesn’t like what’s going down, but he follows orders. A beefy man with a tomato-red face and neck is waiting for them. Zack pushes up his sunglasses and pulls him aside. When they finish their business, Zack watches as the man and Elvis make their deal. But his mood progressively sours, and when Elvis hands over the cash, needles of rage edge up his spine. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He pulls his shades over his eyes.

  ***

  Inside the hotel room three agents and the ASAC sit at a round table. All four, with their impassive Bureau faces, seem hewn from the same block of granite. Zack’s anger has been building, twisting inside him all day. His icy calm has vanished; he feels as weak as a tuft of tumbleweed.

  “What happened?” He swipes his forehead with his sleeve. The heat in the room is oppressive.

  “We lost her,” the case agent says.

  “Dora?”

  The agent nods. “She didn’t report in.”

  “What happened?” Zack repeats, suspicion coating his words.

  “We don’t know. That’s why we pulled you out.”

  “But she spent months putting it all together. And Elvis is a punk. Someone’s behind him.” Zack eyes his superiors. They don’t disagree. “Let me find out who it is.”

  The ASAC shakes his head.

  “Why not? You know as well as I do it’s the only way.”

  “No,” the ASAC says. “We lost a good agent. We can’t afford to lose another. Go home and regroup, Mueller. It’s over.”

  ***

  Back in his room Zack stares at the ceiling, a series of spongy panels peppered with tiny holes. He wants to leave this damp, deadly place where the green grass looks painted on and the pretense is as thick as air. He takes a swig of bourbon. As he swallows, his cell phone trills.

  “Yeah?”

  It’s the analyst he called on the way to Houston. “That plane? I ran down the numbers.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a Cessna. Belongs to Maverick Oil.”

  Zack sits up straight. “Say again?”

  “A Grand Caravan. Registered three years ago.”

  He thanks the analyst and disconnects. The plane belongs to Maverick Oil. A suit got off the plane and handed Elvis a briefcase full of money. Why would an oil company give money to a scumbag like Elvis? Unless he was working for the oil company. Unless they are the ones behind him.

  Zack paces the room, thinking it through. It is crazy, but it fits. Maverick backs a spurious arms deal. Stage-manages an insurrection, knowing the Mexican government will come down on the rebels. Then with their cover in place, the oil company comes in and drills. Zack blinks. A corporate-sponsored war. With the indirect support of the Mexican government. It’s crazy all right. Crazy like a fox.

  He corners the room. No one at the Bureau has said a word about any of this. Not one of the people in the hotel room. Zack calls the analyst back. “What do you know about Maverick Oil?”

  “I was wondering when you’d ask,” the analyst says. “It’s a small company, but they’re expanding into Mexico and South America.” There is a pause. “The CEO is an old college pal of Huntington’s.” Zack sucks in his breath. Gerald Huntington, the ASAC of the Houston office, has made known his desire to retire from government service. With six kids, his public sector salary just can’t pay the bills. “They were frat buddies at Texas A&M.”

  “I see,” Zack says.

  Once again he hangs up. Images of rainforest people dance across the white wall. The Indians are caught in an intractable vise. If they rebel against the oil company, they will be overpowered. If they turn on their own soldiers, they will be killed.

  But now it makes sense. Lured with the promise of wealth by his old buddy, Huntington sanctioned Maverick’s plan. Allowed it to go down. Hell, he probably saw it as a slam-dunk. It was easy to rationalize: an economy based on oil is much preferable to a drug cartel.

  There is only one problem. Dora’s blood is on their hands. The Bureau’s, Maverick’s, even the Mexican government’s. Dora, who came from nothing. Who was cheated out of the opportunity to make a difference. For Zack, it is an issue of loyalty. Huntington’s. Dora’s. His own. Again he paces the room.

  Later that night he slips into Elvis’s hotel room. The shower is on. Zack hears off-key singing from the bathroom. At length Elvis emerges, a towel around his waist. When he sees Zack’s Sig Sauer aimed at his chest, his singing stops.

  ***

  Houston, Texas (AP): The FBI today announced it is searching for Duane Pollack, a mercenary known to be active in the Mexican Rainforest. Pollack, aka Elvis, disappeared several weeks ago after two million dollars from Maverick Oil was reported missing. FBI sources fear the money will be used to finance an armed revolt in the Mexican rainforest, an area Maverick Oil hoped to explore. US ports are on alert for suspicious cargo. Meanwhile, Maverick Oil’s plans to explore in the rainforest have been put on hold.

  In related news, former Houston FBI chief Gerald Huntington says he’s rejected an offer of employment at Maverick Oil, although there is some dispute at Maverick headquarters whether an offer was ever tendered.

  Zack finishes his coffee and folds the newspaper under his arm. He tosses a few coins on the counter. Elvis won’t be surfacing. He made sure of that. Neither will the cache of weapons. Sergei was happy to switch the port of entry back to Newark, especially after Zack warned him that the FBI might be on to him.

  He opens the door of the restaurant. A cold clammy drizzle is falling, but he smiles. He is home, back East in Jersey, thousands of miles from Texas. The drilling has been blocked. The Indians are safe. And since his recent retirement, there is a healthy bank account, a commendation from the Bureau, and an arsenal of Russian weapons in a nearby warehouse. He whistles as he moves down the street. Dora would be proud.

  THE END

  I grew up in Washington, DC, and I always wanted to set a story there. For some reason, it never quite worked until now. HIGH YELLOW remains one of my favorites, not just because it triggered so many memories of my childhood, but for what it says about the culture of what was—until the Kennedy administration—essentially a southern city. It was written for and published in Megan Abbott’s A HELL OF A WOMAN: An Anthology of Female Noir (Busted Flush Press, 2007).

  HIGH YELLOW

  Patricia Thomas’ mama said everyone needed a fixer in their life, and from the moment she met Desmond McCauley, Patricia knew he would be hers.

  She stepped down from the streetcar at Connecticut and Calvert into a wall of September heat so heavy and humid you could carve big chunks out of it and swallow them whole. Despite its pretensions, Washington D.C. in 1957 was a sleepy Southern town where summer didn’t end until October. Even Congress had the sense not to come back until then.

  She tried to keep an unhurried pace as she walked the three blocks to Oyster School. She
didn’t want to sweat on the first day of the new season. She’d dressed carefully in a crisp, black and white sleeveless outfit she snagged in Hecht’s bargain basement. She’d ironed starch into it, but in this heat it wouldn’t last. She was wearing black pumps, and carried a little black bag. Her thick, dark glossy hair, good hair, was held back with a wide red band.

  As she rounded the corner, she nodded coolly at the Negro man who stepped to the side and doffed his hat. Afterwards she savored the little thrill that ran through her. Likewise when she stopped into People’s Drugs for a comb, and the woman at the cash register with chocolate skin made sure their hands never touched when she dropped Patricia’s change in her palm. She smiled. With her dark hair and eyes, pale skin, and delicate features, Patricia was passing. She looked like an exotic beauty—maybe Oriental, maybe Italian—but definitely not colored. High yellow, they called it.

  Patricia remembered asking her mama if the father she never knew had been white. She recalled how her mother’s lips tightened as she shook her head. “He was just a light-skinned no-good nigger who ran out on us first chance he got.” Her mama, a Southerner with skin like brown ochre, had spent years scrubbing floors, ironing shirts, and cooking meals for the Friedmans, a white family who lived near the school. They kept telling Patricia she and her mama were part of their family, but that was just white folks’ talk, Mama said. An excuse to have Mama babysit their kids when they went to Mexico every winter to get away from it all.

  Her mama would laugh at all Mister Friedman’s jokes, put up with the Missus’s mood swings, and never said anything about the empty booze bottles under her bed. Every year they would take the streetcar down to 9th and G to buy the Friedmans a box of Velati’s caramels for Christmas. Good thing, too. Turned out Mrs. Friedman was her first fixer. It was through her influence that Patricia got her job teaching first grade.

  Which was how Patricia came to believe in fixers. “Look at me, sweetie-pie,” her mother had warned. “Don’t end up like me. You got the right cards in your deck. Play ‘em. Whatever it takes, you make life better fo’ yourself.” Once Mrs. Friedman intervened on her behalf, and Patricia bought her a few bottles of gin, she understood. She definitely wanted a better life, and she’d do anything to make it happen. Oyster School was just the beginning.

  Now, as she mounted the steep steps to the school, she let out a hot breath. The first week would be the usual confusion of learning the children’s names, assigning desks, and figuring out what they knew. Oyster School was in a white neighborhood inhabited by government officials, ambassadors, and long-time Washington residents. There was talk of expanding the school’s boundaries to include the coloreds and poor whites who lived across the bridge, but the school board kept putting it off.

  Still, Patricia loved her students. She patiently taught them how to sound out letters, and she would clap her hands when they figured out the words to “See Spot Run.” She giggled when they correctly added 6 bananas to 4 apples, and told them they would have a fine fruit salad. Her students liked her, too. She wasn’t elderly and frumpy like Miss Murray, who wore gloves every day because she was allergic to chalk. Nor was she like Miss Finkel, whose manner was so stern it sent chills through everyone, even the principal. She was Miss Thomas. Fresh, young, and lively. She was their fixer.

  But when Desmond McCauley walked in, his shy little son clutching his hand, Patricia felt a jolt. Maybe it was his wide appealing face, his blond hair slicked back with Bryl Creem. Or maybe it was the way he politely greeted her and had his son, Franklin, do the same. Or maybe it was his wintry blue eyes so utterly lacking in deception.

  Whatever it was, she wondered if he felt the same spark when they shook hands. She did sense a slight hesitation on his part. She thought his eyes widened just a little, and his expression took on a more observant cast, as if he was seeing her—really seeing her. She looked into those eyes and let her hand rest in his just an instant too long. Then she squatted down to assure Franklin they would be great friends and that school would be loads of fun.

  Once she was able to coax a shy smile out of the boy, she stood up slowly, and stretched to show Desmond her long legs and slim waist. Desmond smiled, a flush swimming up from his neck to his face. “I can’t thank you enough. We just moved here, and Franklin doesn’t have many friends.”

  “Where did you move from?”

  “Cleveland, Ohio.”

  “Nice place, Cleveland,” Patricia said, as if she’d just been there last year. “Now, don’t you worry, Mr. McCauley. I’ll take good care of Franklin.”

  Desmond swallowed. “Thank you, Miss Thomas. Thank you.”

  ***

  A month later, a hot scrim of summer still hung in the air. Even so, Patricia could feel her anticipation build, like the knowledge that the season would eventually burn itself out and submit to autumn.

  The day it finally happened had been routine. The children had spent the afternoon working on colors and writing down “blue”, “red”, and “yellow” next to dabs of paint. Patricia got ready to dismiss them for the day.

  Usually Mrs. McCauley came to pick up Franklin. Like her husband, she was blond. No wonder Franklin was flaxen-haired. Today, though, both parents came to the school, Mrs. McCauley two steps ahead of her husband, as if she was embarrassed to be seen with him. Patricia watched as she corralled Franklin, who was playing with Henry Deutsch near the jungle gym. Franklin was settling in well. He was quiet, but methodical for a six-year-old. Mrs. McCauley retrieved Franklin’s plaid book bag and hurried him across the playground.

  “We’ll see you after your meeting, then.” Mrs. McCauley said to her husband, inclining her cheek for a kiss.

  Desmond pecked her cheek, gave his son a hug, but made no effort to leave. “Aren’t you coming?” His wife asked.

  “I’ll just grab a cab, dear. I want to talk to Miss Thomas. About Franklin.” He added hastily.

  His wife nodded and disappeared. Desmond hovered at the edge of the playground while other parents collected their children. As if by tacit agreement, they didn’t speak until all the students were gone.

  She turned around. “You’re still here.” She pronounced it as if she’d just become aware of it that minute.

  He nodded and looked at the ground.

  She crossed her arms. “So. You wanted to talk about—Franklin?”

  Desmond studied his hands, flipped them over, then back again. She thought of washing the children’s hands before lunch. Drying them on those rough brown paper towels.

  “Actually,” he faltered. “I—I was hoping—well—would you like to have a drink?”

  Patricia stared at him. “A drink?”

  His forehead, cheeks, even his ears turned crimson. Must be all that pale skin. “Well, perhaps a cup of tea?”

  Patricia tilted her head. He was watching her. She smiled. “You know? A cocktail would be just fine.”

  As they crossed Calvert Street to the Shoreham Hotel, a fragrance she couldn’t quite identify hung in the air. Good scents lingered in this part of town. The late afternoon sun gilded everything in hues of gold. There was no litter on the streets. Even the hum of traffic was muted.

  ***

  They spent an hour in the hotel bar, drinking cocktails and listening to Eddie Fisher crooning through discreetly placed speakers. The Shoreham was one of the most elegant hotels in Washington with an outdoor swimming pool, an enormous high-ceilinged lobby, and the Blue Room, a night club that attracted the best entertainers in show business.

  Desmond seemed just as shy as his son, and Patricia carried the conversation. During the first round of drinks, she amused him with stories about her students. During the second round she pumped him gently about his marriage. Lorraine was sturdy Midwest stock from Omaha, he said. They met at Ohio State and fell in love, but their marriage was more an accommodation these days, he admitted. Best friends who lived together. “You know what I mean?”

  She’s lost interest in him sexually, Patrici
a thought. Aloud, she replied, “More than you know.”

  By the third round, Patricia told him she was looking for a new job.

  “I thought you loved teaching.” Des wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief.

  “Oh, I do. But—I want to do something bet—I think I’m capable of more.”

  “Like what?” Desmond asked, picking up his cue.

  “A government job. Working with international issues. Better pay, lots of travel, more responsibility.” She eyed him. “I want to make a difference. Do something for my country. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” A tiny smile played around his lips. “I see.”

  Patricia leaned forward. She noticed a sheen of sweat above his lip. “What do you see?”

  Desmond swallowed. Patricia lifted her index finger to his lip and gently stroked the sweat away. Then she ran her finger over her own lips, opened her mouth, and inserted her finger.

  He stammered and cleared his throat. “I—I might be able to help, you know.”

  “Is that so?” Patricia smiled lazily, although she already knew he could. She’d checked Franklin’s file in the office one day during lunch. She knew exactly where Des worked and what he did. Even who his boss was.

  “What do you do?” She took her finger out of her mouth and wrapped her hand around her drink.

  Desmond’s eyes followed the track of her finger. “I’m an—an Assistant Secretary in the Commerce Department’s International Trade administration,” he said. “I help protect U.S. businesses from unfair pricing by foreign companies and governments.”

  “Well now.” Patricia feigned surprise. “That sounds right up my alley.” She smiled coyly. “If the right opportunity ever pops up, I hope you’ll think of me.” She met his eyes with an appraising look.

  “Yes. I might be able to do that.”

  She twirled the little umbrella that had come with her drink, then put it down and inched her hand across the table. Her long, slender fingers were topped by pink nail polish she’d applied last night. It didn’t take long for Des to cover her hand with his own. She let him massage the back of her knuckles.