Dallas Noir
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
Published by Akashic Books
©2013 by Akashic Books
ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-190-5
eISBN: 9781617752025
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013938543
All Rights Reserved.
Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
info@akashicbooks.com
www.akashicbooks.com
Table of Contents
___________________
Introduction
PART I: COWBOYS
Hole-Man
MATT BONDURANT
White Rock
The Realtor
BEN FOUNTAIN
Swiss Avenue
In the Air
DANIEL J. HALE
Deep Ellum
The Clearing
EMMA RATHBONE
Plano
En la Calle Doce (Flaco’s Blues)
OSCAR C. PEÑA
Oak Cliff
PART II: RANGERS
The Private Room
MERRITT TIERCE
Uptown
Night Work
CLAY REYNOLDS
Old East Dallas
Full Moon
LAUREN DAVIS
Pleasant Grove
Like Kissing Your Sister
JAMES HIME
Irving
An Angel from Heaven
FRAN HILLYER
Northpark
PART III: MAVERICKS
Coincidences Can Kill You
KATHLEEN KENT
Cleburne
Big Things Happening Here
DAVID HAYNES
Oak Lawn
The Stickup Girl
HARRY HUNSICKER
South Dallas
Dog Sitter
CATHERINE CUELLAR
Love Field
Miss Direction
J. SUZANNE FRANK
Downtown
Swingers Anonymous
JONATHAN WOODS
M Streets
About the Contributors
About the Akashic Noir Series
About Akashic Books
INTRODUCTION
A PERMANENT BLACK SCAR
My favorite line in my favorite song about Dallas goes like this: Dallas is a rich man with a death wish in his eyes / A steel and concrete soul in a warm-hearted love disguise . . .
The narrator of Jimmie Dale Gilmore’s perfect tune “Dallas” is coming to town as a broke dreamer with the bright lights of the big city on his mind. He’s just seen the Dallas cityscape through the window of his seat on a DC-9 at night. Is he just beginning his quest? Or is he on his way home, flying out of Love Field, reminiscing after seeing the woman who stepped on him when he was down?
Dallas itself is like a marvelous piece of fiction. It is a city created out of nothing. Nobody even seems to be certain why it’s called Dallas. Founded because it sat on a navigable spot in the Trinity River, the city was originally envisioned as a port from which ships could travel to and from the larger gulf port at Galveston. However, only a few boats ever successfully made the journey, and none without encountering major trouble along the way. The river is too shallow. It barely exists anymore, except when one of our terrifying Texas thunderstorms turns it into a dangerous flood. Despite this apparently doomed beginning, Dallas seemed to will itself into existence and flourish against all odds. Two major railroad lines eventually crossed paths here, the town became a major cotton exchange, and it has been pulsing with life and growing ever since.
In a country with so many interesting cities, Dallas is often overlooked—except on November 22 every year. The heartbreaking anniversary keeps coming back around in a nightmare loop, for all of us. On that day in 1963, Dallas became American noir. A permanent black scar on its history that will never be erased, no matter how many happy business stories and hit television shows arise from here.
In a stark ongoing counterweight to the JFK tragedy are those two iterations of the TV show. Dallas is not a TV show. It’s a real city with a booming downtown, a flourishing arts district, generous philanthropists, and ever-sprawling suburbs that boast some of the most beautiful neighborhoods, best schools, and lowest cost of living in the US. My parents moved to Dallas when I was in elementary school. We were welcomed into a diverse neighborhood with hills and trees in the 1970s that included Jews and Gentiles living next to each other, academics sharing ideas with entrepreneurs over backyard beers, and artists howling at the moon alongside frog-giggin’ cowboys and avid deer hunters. All of my early memories were made here. I love this town. And for the past forty years, my capacity to be surprised by it has not diminished one bit. I hope the stories in this collection will surprise you too.
In the February 2013 issue of Texas Monthly magazine, Pulitzer Prize winner Larry McMurtry wrote: “Dallas is a second-rate city that wishes it were first-rate.” Perhaps Dallas has a certain image that makes it easy to underestimate, or to dismiss with blanket assumptions and odd assertions such as McMurtry’s. Like a beautiful woman with poison under her fingernails, this is a town of dangerous paradoxes. Art and commerce in constant battle. Immense wealth and crushing poverty. An obsession with private schools and competitive youth sports. Country club kids with good drugs and guns in the glove boxes of their cars. Professional athletes, interior decorators, gangbangers, and narco-traffickers jammed into a nightclub, dancing the night away during an ice storm. Texans with more money than taste, gilding the wide streets with latter-day châteaus. The “eighty-thousand-dollar millionaires” driving rented Aston Martins and Range Rovers up to the valet lines.
Business is combat in Dallas. And everybody—even the old-money rich—is leveraged in mountains and mountains of debt because they are always rolling the dice on another deal. In this atmosphere, nasty surprises lurk around every turn. There are winners and losers. And in good noir stories, they are often one and the same.
Forget the typical bad-news headline stories every city has about murders, rapes, and other nasty violent crimes (the kind used on the screen crawl and daily front page to sell newscasts and newspapers). Dallas has those too. But the other true crime of the century may have been the savings-and-loan crisis that bubbled up and then ran unchecked for nearly a decade in Texas, with the Wild West of Dallas as the epicenter in the 1980s. Before Enron and Bernie Madoff and even the subprime meltdown, there was Danny Faulkner, who was caught perpetrating a real estate fraud that bankrupted five savings and loans and cost the US government (meaning you and me) one billion dollars. Faulkner and a group of buddies turned Dallas into their own personal cash machine. Through a scheme of insanely friendly loans from their thrift-banker pals, they figured out how to buy large chunks of land for pennies along Interstate 30 in East Dallas County. Then they flipped their new properties like Bisquick pancakes, often many times over in the same day, jacking up the land value on paper by several hundred percent in a few blinks of an eye. They promised beautiful condos and bountiful returns.
Their astounding fraud happened in plain sight, with dozens if not hundreds of people involved in the deals. Everybody had their hand in someone else’s pocket, like a dirty daisy chain. Everybody got paid. Until the last guy in the chain ended up holding property that was worthless. Then there were no buyers for the cheap condos. When the final property owners couldn’t pay their debts, the lenders went under in a huge collapse.
At the height of Faulkner’s success in the mid-1980s, he was worth millions. An illiterate house painter from Mississippi, he drove around Dallas in a fleet of Rol
ls-Royces and flew in his own helicopter. The FBI started an investigation. It wasn’t pretty. More than a hundred people were eventually convicted in the scheme. Those collapsing Texas S&Ls were the early-falling bones in a domino effect that crippled the nationwide independent banking system and eventually resulted in a lovely US government bailout to the tune of an estimated $500 billion.
Dallas’ very own Danny Faulkner was the poster boy for the entire debacle. For decades afterward, the interstate highway along which he and his pals did their finest “land development deals” was lined with acres upon acres of partially constructed, unsold condos with no roofs and vacant concrete foundation slabs. A man named Faulkner, from Mississippi, creatively developing a small parcel of land . . . but it’s not fiction. It’s Dallas history.
This kind of real-life brave citizenry and lendy-spendy atmosphere make terrific fodder for noir fiction. That’s what I’ve tried to gather together in this collection. To paraphrase Frank Underwood, current leading man of great hamartia on the original Netflix show House of Cards, it’s always such a pleasure to find someone who’s willing to put a saddle on a gift horse rather than look it in the mouth. When Johnny Temple of Akashic Books approached me and asked me to edit Dallas Noir, he gave me an incredible gift. And I knew exactly where to put the saddle. An anthology of brand-new dark short fiction, set in the city known for perhaps the worst crime in American history, to be published on the fiftieth anniversary of that infamous event. Sign me up.
I didn’t ask McMurtry to contribute a story, so I don’t know whether he would’ve written something or not. I wanted to get as many voices as I could from writers who actually live in Dallas now, or come from here, or have deep connections to this town. I found some great pieces. Editing this anthology together was even more rewarding than I thought it would be. The stories feature some of the finest writing set in and about this city that I’ve ever read. There are tales here from a few writers you may recognize from the crime fiction trenches, but also ones from a debut writer, a poet, a teacher, and a National Book Critics Circle Award winner. You’ll find a story about when defense against the West Nile virus turns into a lethal rooftop brawl. Another features the most exquisite femme fatale in the history of residential real estate. There are murderous swingers killing each other for drugs after an orgy, a lonely waitress in desperate trouble, the deadliest Civil War battle reenactment ever, and a tale of haunted guilt so dark it’s like Edgar Allan Poe on Tex-Mex. This collection reveals a Dallas fiction scene that is dark and exciting, growing and writing its own new story.
With all due respect, Mr. McMurtry, you have it wrong: Dallas is a first-rate city, and it’s the ultimate noir town.
David Hale Smith
Dallas, Texas
July 2013
HOLE-MAN
BY MATT BONDURANT
White Rock
By the time Anders opened the newspaper, four of them were on his left foot, proboscis planted deep, their hairy black torsos pumping with effort. He mashed them with his hand, leaving a bloody smear, and wiped his palm on the brittle St. Augustine grass. Nine in the morning, Saturday, late July, already ninety degrees, and a dark fog of swirling mosquitoes hung above the back alley. Anders’s two-year-old daughter Blake was pushing a miniature stroller around the tiny patch of grass. Beyond the grass the blue eye of the pool, and the eight-foot wooden privacy fence, the steady atonal thump of roofing hammers pounding throughout the neighborhood. It was the summer in Dallas when the West Nile virus was killing off a dozen senior citizens a week. City Hall was in a public relations panic, and in the evenings low-flying planes crisscrossed over the neighborhood, blanketing the city with dense fogs of pesticides.
Anders and Blake were both wearing a visible sheen of 65 percent deet, stuff Anders got online because you couldn’t legally buy it in stores. It helped, but the sticky residue was difficult to scrub off, leaving a pungent odor reminiscent of public restrooms. Anders was irritated for several reasons. When he was putting the trash in the alley that morning, he looked through the chinks in their fence and saw that the house across the alley had a pool that was mostly empty. This represented a blatant disregard of one of the principal codes of suburbia. Standing water meant larvae, meant mosquitoes.
Anders’s pool was like something out of resort brochure, expertly cleaned and with a water quality that almost made you cry to look at it. The pool service kept it sparkling and inviting, a crew of men coming weekly to vacuum, backwash, apply chemicals. The pool took almost the entire backyard, the edges of it coming within four feet of the house on the garage side. Anders put a potted palm tree on the deck and a plastic owl on the diving board to keep the ducks out.
He was a fleshy man, over six feet, with the broad back and pillow shoulders of swimmer. A former collegiate water polo player, Anders had insisted on the pool when they moved to Dallas, but he’d been in it maybe a dozen times that summer, mostly due to Blake’s lack of interest and the horde of mosquitoes that descended about a minute after you exposed your naked flesh.
Blake had a sippy cup and her Batman mask buckled in the seat of her toy stroller. She was murmuring to the mask, and Anders could see a half-dozen mosquitoes on her face and neck, like a slash of dark freckles on her fair skin. Fuck! Anders swiped at her face, then scooped her up like a football, Blake hanging onto the stroller, and ran inside the house. He set her down and she continued pushing the stroller through the kitchen, murmuring to her mask. Anders was getting a wet paper towel to wipe her down when he heard the slow crunch and thrum of footsteps above him. Someone was walking across the roof.
This was East Dallas, the broad swath of suburban neighborhoods with teardrop cul-de-sacs, wide concrete avenues, and brick ranch-style homes built tight together. A network of alleys ran behind every house and everyone had privacy fences with lumbering automatic gates that opened to the garage. Front yards were landscaped and unspoiled, tended by feverish bands of Mexican men who descended upon the neighborhoods in droves at all hours, eight men at a time cutting, edging, trimming, cleaning gutters, pruning trees in a yard barely big enough to hold a racquetball court, knocking the whole thing out in about ten minutes. Sometimes in their enthusiasm they did yards they weren’t contracted for, but it didn’t seem to matter. So a gang of Mexicans running across your roof with backpack leaf blowers and pruning saws wasn’t too unusual—but Anders knew that his normal day was Tuesday. This was Saturday.
He stepped out the front door to look but there was nobody on the roof, at least on the front side. His square plot of front yard grass was neatly trimmed and edged, his hedges cut with razorlike precision. When was that done? Some of his neighbors a few houses down and across the alley had crews scrambling around, men carrying ropes, saws, stacks of shingles, stepping from roof to fence to neighboring roof like circus performers. Somebody was always getting their roof done, and Anders never understood how this was possible. In North Texas hail the size of golf balls was a yearly occurrence, but it seemed that some in his neighborhood were getting their roofs replaced several times a year. He decided that he would have to get a better look at the pool across the alley before he reported it to some kind of authority.
So Anders got on his roof. Easy enough using the side fence gate; low slope, no gables, a brick chimney for the gas fireplace that they never used. He hadn’t been on the roof before, and he was struck by the ease of access and the powerful monotony of the vista. The same roof layout was repeated in rows as far as he could see, some partially obscured by the swelling branches of oak and pecan trees, alleys running between the rows like rivers, the privacy fences cutting clean lines. He walked up to the peak over the garage, next to the alley, and stood for the best angle.
The house directly behind him was a rental; that he already knew. It was the exact same house as his, the 1960s ranch-style, with large windows covered by heavy shades, cracked and buckled cement patio, sunbaked landscaping. The vegetation was withered and clearly uncared for, and small
drifts of rotting leaves lay in the corners of the house and fence. Must be the only one on the block, he thought, without a lawn care contract. Dominating the backyard was a deep in-ground pool, a couple feet of water in the deep end choked with leaves and debris, a turgid swamp of muck and algae growth, the air above vibrating with movement. Dragonflies swooped and cut through the outer edges of the cloud of mosquitoes, like cowboys culling the herd, and formations of brown swallows lined up and took turns plunging through the fog, mouths agape. The water must be thick with larvae, Anders thought, a new batch erupting every few minutes.
He noticed a roofing crew on a nearby house looking in his direction, motionless, hammers dangling in their hands, shingles balanced on their shoulders, long-handled spades for scraping tar paper cradled akimbo. Then, as if on cue, the pounding of roofing hammers began again, and Anders realized that all the roofers in the neighborhood had gone silent when he got up there, as if they were tethered together by some unseen cord. When he came inside Megan had ground beef in the skillet for tacos, Blake sitting at the table using her plastic scissors to cut shapes out of tortillas.
Anders and Megan came from West Texas, flatlander kids who met at a fraternity mixer at Texas Tech when Anders became enamored of the pretty girl who delicately vomited into her solo cup. He offered a new toothbrush and paste from his room in the frat house, and this was the anecdote they often depended on to set what they felt was the appropriate tone of their relationship; they were uncomplicated, casual extroverts who were not humiliated easily. Megan went to his water polo matches and whistled and catcalled from the bleachers every time he came out of the water, Anders flexing and posing in his Speedo. Anders was a three-meter man, or “hole-man,” the position in water polo that demanded the most strength and a vicious nature. The hole-man posted-up with his back to the opponent’s goal like a center in basketball, and all the offense ran through him, while a hole defender—the biggest, nastiest man on the other team—fought him for position and to deny the ball. It was something akin to freestyle wrestling a powerful psychotic in eight feet of water with a ball coming at you every ten seconds.