Scorched Noir

by Garnett Elliott

  I smile, nodding at the vehicle. "Quite a monster you got there."

  He just looks at me. With the sunglasses on, I can't read his face.

  "Does it get good mileage?" I say.

  He folds his arms across his chest. "Lousy."

  We regard each other as the wind blows across the lot. Christ, I'd kill for a dog or a baby right now. I hear Vonda coming up behind me. The old guy's head swivels to track her. His glasses cant down, and from the angle and Vonda's relative height I've got a pretty good idea what he's looking at.

  "Hi," she says, using the shy voice I've taught her.

  The guy's face becomes animated. He pumps both our hands.

  While he's doing that, the RV door opens and an old woman in a green terrycloth robe comes tottering out. She looks addled for a second, like she's just appeared on stage. But her eyes sharpen when she sees the two of us. "I'm Fran," she says, giving a second round of handshakes.

  Time hasn't been as nice to this one. Fran's neck has turkey-wattles deep enough to lose a quarter in, and when she pauses to smile benign oldness Vonda and me, the bottom part of her lipstick-stained dentures don't quite line up with the top.

  "We're the McAllisters," I say, trying for a good white-bread name. "Ray and Vonda. Your neighbors from a couple spaces down."

  Fran glances over my shoulder at the van. Her jaw tightens.

  "That's our, ah, old vehicle," I say. "The other one's being fixed. I got into a wreck, which is why I'm sort of crippled-up right now."

  "A drunk driver hit him," Vonda says.

  "Terrible." Fran shakes her head. That's when I notice her eyes. Pupils the size of pin-pricks. We're all standing in the RV's shadow, so it can't be the sunlight. And hadn't she winced a little, coming down that last step? Probably arthritis. Arthritis means pain, and pain plus an old person equals medication. The good kind.

  "Are you staying here long?" she says.

  "The afternoon at least," I say, ignoring the sudden tremor in my hands. "We thought about watching the sun go down, because the view up here's so nice."

  "Frank and I were thinking the same thing. How about you come over for dinner this evening? We can eat barbecue and watch the sunset. Can't we, Frank?"

  "I insist," he says. His mirrored lenses reflect Vonda's top.

  * * *

  We spend the afternoon waiting in the van. I keep peeling the foil back from the window and staring at the Promised Land three spaces away. Knowing Fran's got medication stashed in there just makes it worse. No other vehicles pull into the lot, and the isolation's giving me wild ideas. We've never done anything violent to old people before, but we've never had an opportunity plunked down like this, either.

  "Did you see him looking at me?" Vonda says, out of breath because she's doing leg-lifts. Sometimes I envy her stupidity. It'd be nice to unplug with a little mindless exercise, instead of hovering around the window and waiting for the fucking sun to set.

  "I saw."

  "I'm not blowing him, okay?"

  "Never say never."

  "Please, Ray."

  I squat down next to her. "You know what we're going to do, once we get that RV? We'll turn it south. Head straight for Old Mexico. Fuck the U.S. Maybe we'll head to Baja and cruise the beaches all day, like those Corona commercials."

  Her eyes moisten. I remember the big guy, Lennie, from the book, and how his face got when George started talking about rabbits. She wraps sweaty arms around me.

  "Baby," she says into my shoulder, "they're not going to just give us the RV."

  * * *

  Evening finally drags around. Vonda and I hurry to the rest stop's bathroom to take a "shower" from the battered sink. It's been a while since my last wipe-down. I want to change into a clean shirt for dinner, but the polo's still my best contender.

  "We're supposed to bring something," Vonda says, as I'm dabbing at the salsa stain.

  "Like what?"

  "Wine or dessert, I think."

  Back in the van, the only thing we can find are some hot dogs floating in four inches of water. The cooler had been full of ice a couple days ago. I fish them out and wrap them in a plastic baggie. The dogs look bloated, like drowning victims.

  * * *

  Fran's waiting for us by the RV's door. Her hair, which had been a pale ginger this morning, glows dye-red in the failing sunlight. She's changed her robe for a purple sequined shirt and stretch pants.

  I hand her the soggy wieners wrapped in plastic. She manages to take them with a smile. We're led up the steps into the RV—a challenge for me on crutches. Hobbling inside is like crossing a magical barrier into affluence. The air's thick with new car smell. Soft jazz dribbles from hidden speakers. There's leather couches, track lighting, granite countertops, and a six-foot saltwater tank, all tucked into a living space that should feel crammed but instead comes off as cozy and secure. I have to sit down to let it register.

  "Costs us half a million," Fran says, unable to keep the pride from her voice.

  It occurs to me these fuckers are already living in the afterlife. They just purchased it earlier.

  "You said Frank's cooking?" I ask, glancing at the galley kitchen. "Where is he?"

  Fran points at the ceiling.

  "He's on the roof?"

  "The deck. I'll show you."

  She leads us behind a bulkhead, where a column of spokes and metal plates reach up to the ceiling. It takes a second for me to figure out it's a spiral staircase.

  "That's going to be rough for you, honey," Fran says.

  I hand the crutches to Vonda and push myself up by bracing my arms against the stair's sides. There's an open trap door at the top. We pass through onto the "deck," a little patio area enclosed by aluminum railing. Frank's sitting in a folding chair, sans sunglasses, fanning black smoke from a hibachi. An open bottle of Southern Comfort and a half-dozen empty microbrews lay by his feet.

  Fran guides Vonda and me to adjacent chairs. After I plop down, she slides a flute of pale wine into my hand.

  "That's funny," Frank says, nodding at my crutches.

  "What?"

  "This morning you were limping on your right foot. Just now it was your left. That must've been a strange accident."

  I gulp wine and give him a bullshit explanation about both my feet getting hurt. Details have always been a problem for me. But if Frank thinks I'm lying, he doesn't push it. He lets his attention wander back to his favorite subject. Vonda's low-cut blouse shows a generous scoop of her left breast and the red underwire holding that puppy back.

  * * *

  The meat, when it's finished, is amazing. Porterhouse with black pepper. I wolf it down as the sky darkens and Fran refills my flute.

  Frank tells dirty jokes, leering at Vonda between punchlines.

  I could spend the whole evening like this. A nice buzz going. Semi-pleasant company. But the truth is, unless I do something I'll be waking up in the van tomorrow.

  I ask Fran about the bathroom and have Vonda help me wobble downstairs.

  "What're we doing?" she whispers, when we're out of earshot.

  "I'm going to search the RV for a gun. Frank looks like the kind of asshole that hoards them."

  "And then what?"

  "Guess."

  She thrusts her thumbnail in her mouth.

  "Just go back up there," I say. "Keep them talking."

  She goes. I neglected to tell her I'd be searching for Fran's medications first, because there's no way I'm killing two people without getting high.

  * * *

  I head straight to the bathroom. It looks like something out of a millionaire's Vegas suite. Mirrored tile in the shower, gleaming brass fittings, and oh yes—giant medicine cabinet. I yank it open. There's a near-full bottle of Percocet on the third shelf. My hands convulse as I tear off the cap. Tabs go spilling into the sink, little pieces of Nirvana, and I grab up a handful. Swallow. Nothing but bitter pill-taste guiding those suckers down.

  I settle onto the toile
t.

  Putting the medications back, I notice the dosage reads quite high. Even by my standards. Which gives me pause. How many did I just take?

  Urgency kicks in and I get back up.

  The front cab has two enormous leather chairs, a GPS system, and a Blaupunkt. But no guns. Not even a permit. I check the main room, then the galley. The Percocet starts filling my head with gentle static. I find several black-handled knives sticking out of a block and pull one. Eight inches of serrated steel, which would definitely do the job on our hosts.

  Footsteps scrape down the staircase. I figure it's Vonda, coming to tell me I'm taking too long.

  "Ray? You alright?"

  Fran's voice.

  I shove the knife in my back pocket. The edge's so sharp it cuts an ass-cheek. Wincing, I hustle into the main room where I left my crutches leaning against the sofa. I manage to slide them under my armpits just as Fran comes swaying in. She's got a gleam in her rheumy eyes.

  "I thought something had happened to you," she says.

  "Just taking it slow."

  "Well, since we're both alone I'd like to talk. Why don't you sit down?" She pats the couch next to us.

  I sit, wondering where this is going. The knife's handle presses against my back. Fran squats so close she's practically on my lap.

  "You need to know something about Frank and I," she says. "We … like young people. Couples especially. Understand? Frank really likes Vonda, and I've taken a fancy to you, honey. The four of us could finish this evening real nice."

  She reaches up and adjusts her top set of dentures. With a deft motion of her thumb she pulls the whole plate out, trailing spit, so that her upper lip curls around empty gums. Her voice is smooshy and rapid as she talks. "Don't let that scare you. That's just age. Age means experience, and I know a lot about making love. Do you know what kind of pleasure a woman can give, without teeth in the way? I'd bet you'd like to find out. I bet you would."

  My hand's already crept halfway for the knife. But it's no use. The prospect of jabbing a blade inside her feels as alien as what she's trying to goad me into doing. Maybe it's the Percocet. All that medication, smoothing me out. Maybe it's because I'm not a killer. You'd think it'd be easy, but with the beady-eyed prospect sitting next to you, leaning so close you can smell her mentholated skin cream, I realize it's not.

  RV dreams go flicking by in a futile slideshow.

  * * *

  How long we sit like that, Fran giving me the phone sex routine as she runs bony hands up and down my shorts, I can't tell. The opiates steal my will to fight her off. For a while I can hear Frank and Vonda barking laughter on the deck above, but that stops and it gets eerily quiet. Only the bubble of the saltwater tank and Fran's hot breathing.

  Someone's feet thump the stairs.

  Frank comes in, moving fast, his hands flying to his back pocket while we shuffle upright on the couch. "Babe," Fran says with half her teeth, "I was just telling Ray how we could all get together—"

  "Save it," he says.

  By this time the dope's reached its zenith, and my perception's working on a different level. Sort of lazy, picking out the odd details. Not acting like it should. For example, it takes a couple seconds to notice Frank is pointing a silver object at me, and then a couple seconds more to realize it's the automatic pistol I knew he had. But my attention doesn't stay focused on the barrel. It drifts up to Frank's face. The 'V' of his hairline has tiny sweat-beads glistening along its length. They're starting to drip down past his eyebrows, into his eyes, and I'm thinking about rain filling an empty pool in someone's backyard, because that's how empty his eyes are.

  "You don't know how long I've waited," he tells me.

  And then he turns the gun on Fran.

  Her head snaps back against the couch the same time I hear the pop. Something warm peppers my cheek. All I can think is the blood's really going to fuck up the couch's upholstery, and pop—there's a pressure in my chest like a tiny fist just punched me. Which should be painful, I suppose.

  Pop, pop.

  Okay. Now it hurts.

  * * *

  Vonda's voice brings me around. Someone's got a hold of my ankles and there's a sliding feeling under my back.

  I'd stopped breathing. In order to resume, I've got to send a message to my chest: breathe. It takes effort. Pain shudders through the Percocet, and I figure I won't be doing this whole respiration thing much longer.

  I crack my eyelids.

  Vonda's dragging me. She takes me down the RV's steps. Three bumps, which I barely feel. Then gritty pavement slams the back of my head. It's still night outside, and Frank's voice echoes from someplace in front of us. Breathing might be a bitch, but I can hear him just fine.

  He's laughing.

  "What's so funny?" Vonda says.

  "Upgrades. The RV's got them all. Granite countertops, deluxe suspension, even copper pipes in the bathroom. But you know what? There was still an upgrade the dealer couldn't sell me."

  "That's sweet, Frank."

  We reach the guardrails at the edge of the ravine. Strong hands seize my armpits from behind.

  "First thing I'm going to do," he says, "when we get to Mexico, I'm taking a long look at those titties."

  "They cost three thousand dollars."

  A swing back and forth and then I'm over, air rushing past me as the cottonwoods spear upward.

  †

  The Darkest of the Debbies

  Edging past midnight in the ER of St. Lucia's, Debbie Dodd on graveyard. She looks out into the waiting area and surveys the sparse crowd there. Cold and flu season's winding down. An old Korean woman in a hand-knitted shawl sits across from a teenage couple. The kids have a blanket spread out over them, playing some kind of grab-ass underneath.

  Nobody looks like they're hurting

  Ah, but it's Friday night, she reminds herself, and St. Lucia's, being the good Catholic hospital that it is, squats on the fringes of Barrio Libertad.

  Any minute now.

  The phone rings in the nurse's station. Words exchanged, and grim-faced Debbie Costikyan hurries over. "We've got two gunshot wounds en route. Rival gangs, so I've already notified security."

  Debbie Dodd hides her wolf's smile.

  All you got to do is wait.

  * * *

  Their "security" is Omar, the fat night watchman, but it's obvious he isn't necessary as Debbie Vargas helps to wheel in the first patient, a shaved-head beaner dwarfed by two hulking EMT's. The guy's out. Slack-jawed unconsciousness. Probably close to slinging gang signs with the Big Vato in the Sky, so Debbie D. holds off until the next gurney bangs through the doors.

  This one's awake, at least. Older and darker with a Pancho Villa moustache. Grimacing—yeah, that's good. She hustles over. The EMT lifts the sheet and shows her where a bullet's traced a bloody gouge along his hip. The jeans have already been cut away.

  "That an exit wound?" she asks, pointing.

  The EMT shrugs. No longer his problem.

  "Hey," she says, leaning close to Pancho. "My name's Deb and I'm going to be your server this evening. We've got two other Debbies on shift, can you believe that?"

  She gets a cursory set of vitals and wheels him into bay D. He glances around, disoriented. "Where—?"

  "Saint Lucy's. Try not to move."

  "The police—"

  "They'll get here when they get here."

  His IV's been expertly placed. Taped to his forearm with a neat white X. She glances at the saline level in the bag and starts to draw the curtain, then decides to poke her head out for a quick check. Omar's just standing there near the doors, arms folded. Debbie Vargas is checking out the ass on the beefiest EMT. No sign of Costikyan.

  Okay. Showtime.

  "Look," Pancho says, licks his lips. "I tried to tell them in the ambulance. I'm not a gangster. That other guy, maybe. He was breaking into my car—"

  "Save it."

  "Because the police, when they come—"

  Sh
e hovers inches from his brown eyes. "The most important thing right now? Breakthrough pain. I don't want you going into shock."

  "Okay."

  "Are you in pain?"

  "They gave me something in the ambulance."

  "Uh-huh. And how's that holding you? Scale of one to ten, ten being really bad."

  "Ah, a four?"

  Wrong answer.

  "Let me check that wound." She slides a gloved finger along the trench in his hip, finds a bump of already-clotted blood. Presses down.

  Pancho screams.

  "Hang on," she says, throwing back the curtains while she puts on her Oh-Fuck-We've-Got-Trouble face and marches out of bay D, straight for the attending's office. Debbie Vargas watches with narrowed eyes.

  * * *

  Dr. Chandrabhan Chattopadhyay leans back in an ergo-chair with his feet propped on the desk, a copy of Men's Health in hand. His slumped, pear-shaped body makes a pointed contrast to the ripped model on the cover.

  Debbie Dodd ought to know.

  "Christ," she says, shaking her head, "we've got two gunshot wounds out there and you're on your ass."

  He gestures at the bank of vitals monitors arrayed around him. Gives her a "what?" look.

  "You want to help, doctor? Authorize two ampoules of morphine for my guy in bay D. Man's screaming, it's so bad."

  "The EMT's didn't give him any?"

  "They're tight. You know that."

  He eases himself out of the chair and sways close. The top of his slick black hair comes up to her shoulder. She can smell the exotic mix of curry and stress-sweat underneath the sandalwood he douses himself with. His eyes are level with her breasts.

  "Why can't I say 'no' to you?"

  "Because you're horny all the time?"

  "So crude."

  But he signs the order for the morphine. She knows, this shift or next, he'll be wanting his recompense.

  * * *

  The first gunshot wound doesn't make it past early morning. Omar and an attendant wheel his body to the morgue.