Seattle Noir

by Curt Colbert

  I sat by my lonesome, caught up in what might have been. Fresh off a bitter divorce and not looking for any company, I was content to finish off my mug of beer and call it a night.

  That was before she walked in.

  A cross between Halle Berry and Beyoncé, her complexion was like maple syrup over buttered waffles. Shiny raven Senegalese twists framed a heart-shaped face that featured full ruby lips. With plenty of curves in a tight red dress and three-inch heels, she really caught my attention.

  She wore dark shades, but seemed to be scanning the place as though searching for a reason to stay.

  When she sat at the table next to mine, I wondered if this was my lucky day.

  I didn’t wait to find out.

  “Buy the lady a drink?” I asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  I smiled and slid over to her table. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Gin and tonic.”

  I flagged down a barmaid and ordered two cocktails. “You’re new here,” I said to the gorgeous girl beside me.

  “I’ve been around,” she said coyly.

  “I think I’d remember if you had.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  I’ve never been known for my sweetness but wasn’t about to argue. “By the way, I’m Conrad.”

  “Hi, Conrad.” She stuck out a small hand with long, polished nails. “Gabriella.”

  I shook her hand and didn’t want to stop there.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Will Smith?” she asked.

  “Not in this lifetime.” I saw myself as more like Denzel Washington. But who was I to bicker with this Halle/Beyoncé red-hot chick?

  Gabriella smiled but left it at that.

  The drinks came quickly. I stayed focused on the object of my interest.

  “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” I suggested.

  She removed her sunglasses. Her irises were the color of rich chocolate. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  Everything came to mind, but something told me that might take more time than she had. So I cut to the chase.

  “How about how you ended up here with me?”

  She laughed. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “I never do.”

  “Good.” She took a sip of her drink, her lips lingering on the rim of the glass for a moment. “I’m married.”

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I wasn’t necessarily looking to step into another man’s shoes, but I’d done it before. “Not in my book.”

  She looked relieved. Maybe a little nervous too. I couldn’t be certain.

  “He’s home right now, probably wondering where I am,” she said.

  “That’s too bad for him.”

  “He’s not very nice when he’s angry.”

  “So why make him angry?”

  “Why not?” She batted her big brown eyes. “Sometimes a girl just wants to have fun.”

  I flashed my best smile at her. “So does a guy.”

  Gabriella licked the gin off her lips. “You probably have a wife and kids at home.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “She’s an ex and has full custody of the kids. So I’m on my own.”

  She gave me a dazzling smile. “Doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “Oh… ?”

  “Maybe we can have fun together?”

  “Maybe we can.”

  The smile left her pretty face. “This isn’t really a good place to talk.”

  Our conversation seemed to be working fine up to that point, as far as I was concerned. “You have a better place in mind?”

  “Meet me tomorrow night.”

  I wondered if I could wait that long. “When and where?”

  “Denny Park at 7 o’clock—near the play area.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Her smile returned. “See you then.”

  Gabriella put on her shades, then got up and left.

  I wanted to follow her, but decided to honor her wishes. So I went home by myself to the apartment I rented on North Yale Street. It was a studio—a big step down from the house my ex walked away with in the divorce settlement.

  At least I had a roof over my head and a bed to climb into. I would’ve preferred to do so with Gabriella, but that would have to wait for another day. I hadn’t been looking for anybody, but now that I’d found her, I put my head on the pillow and counted down the minutes before I could see her again.

  Denny Park was Seattle’s oldest park and a cornerstone of South Lake Union. Once a cemetery, it had undergone extensive renovations over the years and given people a place to hang out (and hope muggers looked the other way).

  But I was less interested in its past than my near future with Gabriella.

  I found her occupying a bench by the children’s play area. What I had in mind was strictly for adults.

  Gabriella was dressed to kill in a low-cut fuchsia dress.

  I sat next to her. Her flowery fragrance smelled like a slice of heaven.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said.

  “I was too intrigued not to.”

  “I’m not that interesting.”

  “I beg to differ.” I moved over, close enough that we touched. “What’s your husband think you’re doing right now?”

  She smiled. “He thinks I’m visiting my sister.”

  I grinned. “I’m okay with that.”

  “I’m just looking to have a good time.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  She looked away. “My husband is a very jealous man.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Our eyes met. “I want you to know what you’re getting into.”

  “Thanks for the warning, but I can take care of myself. And you too, if that’s what you want.”

  “Eric’s much older than me and he’s been married twice before. I think he just sees me as a beautiful woman, somebody he can control and show off at parties.”

  “Like a trophy wife?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What did you see in him? Is he rich?”

  “He’s someone who makes my life easier.”

  “At what price?”

  She looked away. “I can’t answer that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  She chewed her lower lip. “He cheats on me. Still sees his last wife and probably other women.”

  “Why do you stay with him?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Isn’t that what all men do? Cheat?”

  I thought of my ex who started fooling around with her boss before the divorce.

  “Some women cheat too,” I said.

  Gabriella put a hand on my knee. “Why shouldn’t we get our fair share?”

  I put a hand on hers. “You’re right, why shouldn’t you?”

  “Eric will be going out of town on business tomorrow.”

  I liked where this was headed. “I’m listening.”

  “If you come over around 8 tomorrow night, we’ll have the whole houseboat all to ourselves.”

  “A houseboat, huh?” I’d never been inside one before. “Eight o’clock it is.”

  She gave me the address. “I like you.”

  “Works both ways.”

  She kissed me hard on the mouth. “Till tomorrow…”

  Gabriella got up and sashayed away. I went in the opposite direction.

  Things were beginning to look up again in my life. I had this lady with the shimmering Senegalese twists to thank for that.

  The next day I made my way to the Yale Street Landing marina, eager to hook up with Gabriella and see how many ways we could please each other.

  Only a smattering of houseboats were moored there, but enough to tell me I had moved up quite a few notches in wealth. I was beginning to understand why Gabriella was in no hurry to pack her bags. />
  I’d barely stepped onto the floating walkway leading to the moorages when a dark-haired, well-dressed Latino man bumped into me from behind.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He gave no response, just hurried past me toward the houseboats.

  I continued on my merry way, sure that I was headed for a night to remember.

  Her houseboat was hard to miss. It had an end moorage and was the biggest and classiest of them all.

  The wraparound lower deck afforded a full view of the city skyline. The surrounding water caught reflections that danced across the lake. This place must be worth a mint, I thought. Even so, the main attraction for me was obviously inside.

  Gabriella opened the door before I could ring the bell. I gave her the once-over and liked what I saw. She was wearing a carnation-colored kimono that revealed a lot of cleavage. I wondered if she wore anything under it.

  “You’re right on time,” she said.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

  “Not really.” Her cheeks flushed. “Come in.”

  I walked into a wide, open living and dining area. It had cane furnishings, rich, paneled walls, multiple picture windows, and more than a touch of class.

  Gabriella looked perfect in this setting. She was everything I ever dreamt about. With luck, this could turn into a regular gig.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “I’ve got wine, whiskey, brandy, beer…”

  “Wine.” I liked beer, but wine sounded more romantic.

  She handed me a long-stemmed glass and filled it with a Cabernet Sauvignon.

  “Does your husband go away on business often?”

  “Often enough.”

  I grinned. “Works for me.”

  “I’m glad it does.”

  I sat my glass down and pulled her close. I kissed her deep and long.

  After a while, she pulled away. “Why don’t we go in the bedroom where it’s more comfortable?”

  “Lead the way.”

  She took my hand and we ended up in a spacious master suite on the main floor. It had a king-size four-poster bed and crisp red satin sheets ready to be wrinkled.

  “I’m yours,” Gabriella cooed.

  I didn’t want to give her a moment to change her mind, so I untied the belt on her kimono. Indeed, she wore nothing beneath it. Her voluptuous naked body just begged to be caressed.

  She kissed me, ran her tongue through my lips, then laid down on the bed, her long, shapely legs making me forget any woman-trouble I’d had in the past. She curled a finger and beckoned me to join her.

  I got undressed in a hurry, eager to get between those satin sheets.

  But I didn’t hurry through our lovemaking. It had been a long time since I’d been with a woman, especially a woman like this—I spent what seemed like forever lost in her touch and her firm breasts, her smooth, velvet-soft bronze skin, her legs wrapped around me, her hands cupping my buttocks.

  A loud noise in the hallway interrupted our passion.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Gabriella’s eyes went wide. “I think my husband’s back.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “You said he was out of town.”

  “He must have taken an early flight,” she said, jumping out of bed and grabbing her robe. “You have to get out of here!”

  Hell… I doubted I could get dressed and past her husband without him seeing me.

  I’d just put on my pants and loafers when a sixty-something white man burst into the bedroom. He was heavyset, paunchy, and wore a designer suit. His eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at Gabriella.

  “You bitch!”

  She cowered behind me like she expected me to go from lover to protector.

  “Hey, why don’t we talk about this?” I told the guy.

  He sucker-punched me on the chin, stunning me. My legs gave out, but I got up quickly. He was bigger than me, but I was half his age. He swung again. I ducked and hit him twice in his big belly.

  He doubled over, gasping for air.

  I thought it was over, but he suddenly charged me like a battering ram and got me in a headlock. We both tumbled to the floor.

  He ended up on top in our struggle, then got his huge hands around my neck and started to choke me.

  I couldn’t break his grip. Desperate, I balled my hands and slammed them against his temples as hard as I could.

  He groaned and released his grip on my neck. I scrambled out from under him and got to my feet. But so did he…

  Man, this dude was as strong as an ox and ready to go at it again.

  Then a shot rang out.

  The big man clutched his chest and fell flat on his face.

  I turned and saw Gabriella holding a Glock in her hand.

  “Damn, you killed him,” I said, attempting to catch my breath.

  “Yeah.” She looked at me with eyes that had gone cold.

  I tried to collect my thoughts as I moved toward her. “Look, you could say that you shot your husband in self-defense.”

  A man appeared behind her in the bedroom doorway. “That won’t be necessary,” he told me.

  It was the Latino man I had run into on the dock. Gabriella handed him the gun and he aimed it at me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, staring into the wrong end of the gun with nowhere to run. “Who are you?” I looked to Gabriella. “What the hell is this?”

  “Shall I tell him or do you want to?” the man said to Gabriella.

  As he put a protective arm around her shoulder, she smiled at me. “You followed me home, Conrad, and beat and raped me.” She said this in a stone-cold, matter-of-fact tone. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “What a bad man you are,” she continued. “But when my dear husband came home early, he tried to save me, and the two of you got into a fight. Then you shot him to death. That’s when Enrique, my husband’s lawyer, came over for a meeting. Thankfully, he got hold of the gun and shot you. You might have killed me too.” She looked at Enrique. “Hit me in the face,” she told him. “We’ve got to make it look good. Leave some marks; just don’t spoil my looks.”

  Enrique made his free hand into a fist. “Don’t worry, baby, nothing can spoil your looks.” Then he punched her. Twice. Pretty hard—left a big welt on her cheek and bloodied her nose.

  “Damn, Enrique,” said Gabriella, wiping at the blood with the palm of one hand.

  “Why me?” I asked Gabriella.

  “You were available.” She glanced at Enrique. “Shoot him, now,” she ordered. “Get it over with.”

  “My pleasure.” He cracked a cocky grin. “So long, sucker. Hope she was worth it.”

  “Just do it!” Gabriella yelled, giving Enrique an impatient shove. The unexpected jolt caused the gun to go off. Lucky for me, the bullet missed but I actually felt it whiz by my head.

  I did the only thing I could in that moment of confusion: I barreled straight into Enrique, buried my right shoulder in his mid-section, and grabbed hold of his gun hand.

  Gabriella screamed. As we struggled for the gun she stepped in to help her man. She hit me a good one, then scratched my face, but I held on.

  That’s when the Glock went off again. A couple times. Bam bam!

  Gabriella collapsed to the floor, blood gushing out of her like a fountain.

  “Baby!” Enrique yelled. “Baby!”

  He forgot all about me for a second. I wrenched the gun away from him.

  The man fell to his knees beside her and cradled her head in his arms. “No, no, no,” he repeated when he realized she was probably dead. “No, no…”

  “Get up, you bastard,” I said, my head swimming, my knees weak. The Glock was shaky in my hand, but still aimed square at his head.

  I took a deep breath. It was over. I had him.

  Then he surprised me.

  He charged me just like I’d done to him.

  Except it didn’t work for Enri
que—I squeezed a shot off at the last moment. His head exploded like a melon hit with a sledgehammer.

  Blood and brains all over me, I sat down on the bed and tried to gather my wits. I felt sick. Felt even sicker as I stared at the three lifeless bodies sprawled around me in the bedroom.

  How long I sat there like that, I don’t know… All I know for sure is that I finally picked up the phone and called 911.

  August 24, 2009

  Editor

  Noir & Intrigue Mystery Magazine

  PO Box 473

  New York, NY 10051

  Dear Editor:

  So, that’s my short story, “The Wrong End of a Gun.” I sure hope you’ll publish this. I worked very hard on it. It’s all true. And I also hope you won’t be put off by me being an inmate here at the Twin Rivers Correctional Facility.

  I know it sounds clichéd, but I got the kind of justice that African Americans get all the time: lock us up and toss the key, never mind the evidence. I am innocent, I swear. I couldn’t afford a decent attorney. I’m doing fifteen-to-life. That’s the best my public defender could get.

  I’ve tried the newspapers, TV, and radio—I even tried 48 Hours and 60 Minutes—but nobody would listen to me. That’s why I have written this like it’s a mystery story. I figured maybe it would be good enough to publish in your magazine. I sure do hope so. My appeal was turned down. You’re my last chance. I think a lot of people will understand this story and like it and buy your magazine. It could do you and me both a lot of good.

  I have enclosed a SASE like it said to do in the Writer’s Market.

  Thank you for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely yours,

  Conrad Sinclair

  Inmate #SN/IR-4569

  Build. C

  c/o Twin Rivers Correctional Facility

  Monroe, WA 98057

  PART IV

  TO THE LIMITS

  PAPER SON

  BY BRIAN THORNTON

  Chinatown

  The grizzled morgue attendant manhandled the makeshift plank table to the center of the hot, small, noisome viewing chamber. James Robbins Jewell took an involuntary step back as he watched. Not since attending the funeral of an uncle who had stepped off a curb on New York City’s Canal Street and directly into the path of a beer wagon had Jewell seen someone who had met a violent end. He had been twelve that summer.