How Do You Like Your Blue-Eyed Boy? (Phoenix Noir Book 1)

by Graham, Barry

  I went to the window and opened the blind. It was so bright outside that the concrete and asphalt seemed to be shining, generating light and heat. But I was thinking of a cold and foggy day, a day Janine and I had spent in San Francisco. My band was playing at the Parasite Lounge, and Janine had come along for the trip. Instead of crashing on friends’ couches, she and I decided to splurge and get a hotel room. We booked into a Travel Lodge. It was winter, and we turned the room’s heating on full-blast. That night, after the gig, we curled up together in bed. There was condensation on the windows. Fog was rolling across the city like an army of invading ghosts. We could hear the horns of boats in the bay. I grumbled about the weather and said I’d be glad to get back to Phoenix. Janine cuddled against me and said, “I’ll keep you warm.” Later she said that she’d like to live in San Francisco, if it wasn’t so expensive that she’d actually have to get a job. In the morning, before getting on the road home, we went for a walk around the Haight district. She reached for my hand, saying, “Gimme that paw!” And I took her hand. We walked around, holding on to each other amongst it all.

  Now, in hundred-degree heat, I wanted to deny the new reality, that I couldn’t hold on to her any more. It had all seemed so solid, so secure, and now I didn’t know how to accept that it had been a sham, something that was going to end. I didn’t know how to let it go. It seemed that I hadn’t really known Janine. Who I thought she was had been an illusion, but I didn’t know how to let go of it. I wanted someone who didn’t exist in my life, and who might have never really existed outside of my head. It was like Janine was only an actress who had played a fictional character. If the character wasn’t real, I didn’t know who Janine was.

  I wanted her back, but I didn’t know who it was I wanted. I knew it wasn’t Janine, but who I wanted her to be, who I’d thought she was. And I knew that for the most part it wasn’t even about that person, real or imagined. It was about everything—all the things I’d been holding off by meditating and living a calm, ordered life, all the things I’d always been afraid would come back and overwhelm me. But it came together in the person I wanted Janine to be, the person and the love I didn’t have.

  There were things I knew I must do. I knew I needed to consider what to do about the killer. I knew I should get a gun, but I didn’t have the money to buy one. I had barely anything in my bank account. I knew I needed to do some handyman work, and I needed to start looking for a full-time job. Now that Janine wouldn’t be paying half of the rent on my apartment, I wouldn’t be able to pay it out of my self-employed income.

  The night before, I’d planned to spend the day dealing with those things. But now I just didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t that I didn’t think the killer would come after me. I was sure he would. And it wasn’t that I wanted to be broke and homeless again. But nothing seemed to have any urgency, any real imperative. My present seemed without immediacy, seemed less real than the past, the time spent with Janine. It felt as though my life with Janine was solid and real, and what was happening now was a mistake, an interruption or just a weird dream. It felt as though the unreality couldn’t last, that the mistake would be rectified or I’d wake up.

  Christown Mall is in West Central Phoenix, at 15th Avenue and Bethany Home. It has a Wal-Mart, a movie theater, some cheesy gift shops that sell Southwestern “art,” and a food court with a McDonald’s, Arby’s and Chinese and Japanese places. The mall has a reputation for roughness—it’s a popular hangout for gang kids—but I’ve always kind of liked it. Janine and I used to go there a lot when she was having car trouble. There used to be a good auto shop, Christown Car Care, nearby. We’d leave the car with the mechanics and go hang out in the mall while they worked on it. We’d wander around, checking out the slogans on the T—shirts in the store windows—“I’M NOT AN ALCOHOLIC, I’M A DRUNK—ALCOHOLICS GO TO MEETINGS”, “REDNECKS FOR SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY”—or we’d sit in the food court and eat something and talk or read magazines—Shambhala Sun and Men’s Health for me, Spin, Vanity Fair and Sassy for her.

  Now I sat at a table in the food court and tried to figure what happened, where all that went so suddenly. I ate a burger and fries and drank Dr Pepper and tried to get it.

  The mall was full of families, and of kids by themselves. I saw a bunch of little kids looking at me, then talking amongst themselves, electing a spokesman. The one chosen came over to me and said, “Hey, mister.” He was about nine, Mexican, with serious eyes and a big grin. “Hey, mister, can we have your stickers?”

  “What?”

  “Your stickers.” He pointed to the cup that contained my drink. I looked and saw that there were some cartoon stickers on it, something to do with a competition. “Can I have them?”

  “Sure,” I said, handing him the cup.

  He peeled the stickers off and handed my drink back to me. “Thanks, mister.” He went back to his friends, who waved and called, “Thanks, mister.”

  What do we do to them? How do they get to be me, Tim, Spike, Janine, Laurie, Mara? How did they get to be the killer? All little kids, dressed in dreams. And their little white teeth tearing at meat. I remembered a cat I owned once, when I was a teenager living in LA. I loved him and he was kind to me. But I knew that if I was smaller than him, he’d kill me after a few hours of amusing torture. And I remembered a bunch of young soldiers stubbing out cigarettes on the head of a prisoner’s cock.

  I left the mall and went home. Although I’d slept late, I felt exhausted. I took my clothes off and got into bed. I know I had a lot of dreams, but I only remember one of them, because it was the one I woke from. And, although I know it was a dream, I’m not sure I believe that’s all it was.

  I was lying there on the bed, and someone was standing over me. His face was bone, skeleton, with flesh hanging from it. I knew he was Death. And he bent over the bed, his face close to mine, and I thought he was going to kiss me. But he didn’t. He said, “Nobody could want you. Even I don’t want you. Even I won’t take you.” And I woke up sick, but convinced that the killer wouldn’t get me.

  EIGHT

  I took a shower, then cooked some pasta and ate it. I didn’t want to be by myself, so I called Laurie and asked what she was doing.

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you this soon,” she said.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It depends,” she said. “What made you call?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “Do you? Or do you want to see Janine? Or just want to see somebody? Tell me the truth. If you lie, I’ll know. Please don’t fuck with me, Andy.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s okay. Just as long as you’re not lying to me. I’ll tell you what. I’ve got band practice this evening. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. You think about what you want, and call me and let me know. You can come over here no matter what you want. But you have to know what you want, because I have to know. Fair enough?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Okay. Call me later.”

  I knew I didn’t want to be alone, doing nothing. But I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do. So I decided to get in my car and just drive for a while.

  At around nine, I was heading North on Seventh Street. Near Glendale, I saw a woman standing at the side of the road, thumb stuck out. I’d heard this was a common device among hookers, but Seventh and Glendale is far from Van Buren. I pulled over.

  “Where’re you going?” I asked her.

  “Dunlap,” she said, getting in the car.

  Dunlap Avenue was just a few miles North.

  “I can take you there,” I said.

  “What’s your name?” she asked me as I drove.

  “Andy. What’s yours?”

  “Anne. With an ‘e’.”

  We drove for about a minute, then she said, “Do you ever date women?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “I mean, do you ever date women for sex?”

  “That’s b
een known to happen too.”

  “Do you pay for a date?”

  Hold something under my nose and beat me on the head and I might finally get it. “No,” I said.

  “Would you be interested in paying for a date with me?”

  “I’m broke.”

  “So you couldn’t maybe lend me twenty bucks?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Let me out at the next corner,” she said.

  I did. “Good luck,” I said as she got out of the car.

  As I drove away, the pickup truck behind me flashed its lights at me. I kept on going. He followed me, and flashed his lights again. Fuck, I thought, I’m a magnet for cops even when they’re off-duty. I pulled to the side of the road.

  The guy who got out of the truck was in his late twenties or early thirties. “Are you a cop?” I asked him as he walked toward me.

  “Yeah,” he said, flashing his open wallet at me. I saw a Bank One card, but no police ID.

  “Let me see your ID again,” I said.

  “I showed it to you once.”

  “Show it to me again.”

  “The woman you were with is a known prostitute.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Show me your ID.”

  “She’s under surveillance for drugs. Now lean on your car and spread your legs.”

  “Blow me.”

  “Are you refusing to co-operate?”

  “Very good. You must have gone to college.” I smiled at him. “I know who you are, you piece of shit.”

  He reached inside his leather jacket. I couldn’t believe how relaxed I was; I let him get the gun most of the way out, then took it out of his hand with a roundhouse kick. I spear-handed him in the throat, then grabbed his hair, stepped behind him and wrenched his head back. I used my other hand to choke him, and, when his breath stopped, I let him fall.

  I looked in his wallet. The bank card and driver’s license were in the name of Michael Flatgard. Arizona bank, Arizona license. So you’re local, you son of a bitch, I thought. I checked that he was dead, then got in my car and left him there.

  I went to a Denny’s and called Laurie and told her that I didn’t want to be alone, but that I definitely wanted to see her too, and that was all I could tell her at the moment.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Just don’t ever fuck me around, Andy.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Do you want to come over?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  As I drove to her place, I saw police helicopters in the sky, shining their searchlights as usual, looking for someone as usual. But they weren’t looking for me, and if they were they didn’t know it. Laurie’s incense smelled good and she smelled better and I was actually happy as I lay beside her.

  NINE

  I thought something had ended, but it hadn’t yet.

  Laurie got up early and went to work. I slept late, then drove to the offices of the Republic. Tony came down to reception and led me to the newsroom and Spike’s desk. Knowing they had a paper to put out, I didn’t waste any time; I emptied the contents of his desk into a bag and took it home with me. I also took a copy of the paper with me.

  When I got home, I read it. Some details of the previous evening appeared in the “Valley and State” section. And they told me that Michael Flatgard wasn’t the killer. He was a thug and a con artist and had been a burglar in the past, but he wasn’t the killer. He was in the habit of shaking down the customers of hookers for blackmail money, but he didn’t kill anybody. Though somebody had killed him, and the cops had no leads.

  Cops and reporters have some things in common, but there is one major difference. Cops follow up all relevant leads. So do reporters. But good reporters also follow up irrelevant leads. I did. I called every phone number Spike had that wasn’t self-explanatory. There was a California number written on a piece of notebook paper. I called it, and talked to the man who answered for ten minutes. And, when I hung up the phone, I knew who the killer was.

  I sat with the information for a long time, hours, trying to talk myself out of it. But I didn’t manage to. Talking to myself wouldn’t help. I had to talk to the one person who might understand.

  It was late evening. I went outside and got in my car. I drove with the windows rolled down, but the dark air that streamed in felt like it was blowing from a hot fan. The radio was on. The Zone played Green Day, then Natalie Merchant. I’d have turned it off, but I needed some sound.

  I headed South on Seventh Street until I reached Osborne, then slowed down, looking for the apartment complex.

  I parked the car on the street and went into the complex. It was quite large, and had a scummy swimming pool. The apartment I wanted was on the second floor. I stood outside it and looked at its window. The venetian blind was closed, and no light showed behind it, but I could hear the TV that was playing inside.

  I knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Janine called.

  “Andy.”

  She opened the door. She was wearing red shorts and a blue tank top. Her hair was tied back. “Hi,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Hi. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

  “Oh, yeah...Of course.” She moved away from the door and I followed her inside.

  It was a studio apartment. She had a bed and a couch and a table and a TV. She hadn’t finished unpacking all her stuff yet; there were some boxes strewn around.

  The only light came from the TV. Janine picked up the remote and killed the sound, leaving the picture.

  “How’re you settling in?” I asked her.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “Okay, I guess. The guy downstairs is a little creepy. He keeps coming to the door and asking if I want to come down there and have dinner with him. I’ve been polite, but I think I’m going to have to be rude before he gets the message. That’s why I looked weird when I opened the door—I thought it might be him.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “So, are you doing okay?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you want to talk about that? Because I’m not sure it’s me you should be talking to. You need some distance, babe.”

  “If the guy downstairs is bothering you, why don’t you just kill him?”

  She gave me a puzzled smile, and it was so fake. “What’s that?”

  “I said, why don’t you kill him, Rebecca?”

  “Why are you calling m— ?”

  “Rebecca Dichter.”

  When I said that, she stopped talking and just sat there looking at me. The silence went on for so long that I couldn’t take it, so again I said, “Rebecca Dichter.”

  Janine closed her eyes and quietly said, “God.” Then she said, “Is there anything I could say to make you believe you’re making a mistake?”

  “No. That’s what I was hoping when I came here. But not now.”

  “God. How did you find out?”

  “I don’t see why I should tell you a fucking thing. But there’s something I want to know, so let’s trade information. Tell me how Spike got wise to you.”

  “You don’t know that?”

  “No, I don’t know that.” I was trying not to cry.

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I’ll tell you that after you tell me about Spike.”

  “I guess he talked to Dumb Jerry Voach. Jerry saw me getting in my car about a block from Tim’s house, just before he found Tim’s body. He must have talked to Spike.”

  “Why didn’t you kill Jerry?”

  “What’s the point? He’s retarded. I didn’t think it would occur to him to mention me to the cops, and they wouldn’t have taken him seriously if he did. Nobody would.”

  “Spike obviously did.”

  “Yeah.” Pause. “Andy, would it mean anything to you if I said I was really, really sorry?”

  I spat on her. It landed on her hair.

  “Okay,” she said. “Now will you tell me how you found out?”


  “I went through Spike’s things. He had a phone number. For a retired cop in Santa Barbara. He told me what he told Spike. There used to be someone there who had a big rep as a killer. But there was never enough evidence to do anything. Her name was Rebecca Dichter. A couple years ago, she left town. The cops couldn’t keep track, and they didn’t have enough to justify a wide search. They told the FBI about you, and the Feds told them they were crazy.”

  She nodded and smiled, trying to reach out to me. “In Santa Barbara, the cops are so bored they cruise around and bust people for jaywalking and not coming to a complete stop.”

  “How did you start?” I said.

  “Start what?”

  “Killing people.”

  “What do you think this is, Andy? A pulpy movie? You think the bad guy is now going to confess everything and tell you the story? Come on. I’ll tell you this: I killed somebody when I was very young. Not for money, but because he did something to me. Then I waited to get caught, and I never did. And I thought about how it felt to kill somebody. And it didn’t feel like anything. I thought it would make me different, but I was still the same. And it gets easier after the first time. But you already know that.”

  “Where did you learn....how to be a pro?”

  “Open your eyes. It’s not rocket science. There’s plenty of places where you can learn. Look at that class you teach. Your own little school for killers.” She shook her head. “And you spit on me.”

  “Did Fallowell hire you to kill Tim?”

  “Not directly. But, through my agent, yeah. Fallowell never knew who I was.”

  “But you thought he might say who your agent was and lead me to you. That’s why you killed him.”

  “Yeah. And because I thought you’d be satisfied then and let it go.”

  “And Spike.”

  “Yeah. You just wouldn’t back off. You wouldn’t stop. That’s why I left you. I didn’t think you’d find out, but I knew you were never going to get off of it. I couldn’t live with that.”