Dallas Noir

by David Hale Smith (ed)

  * * *

  I lose track of time in the shower. I wash my vagina and then stand there letting the water run over me. I’m hearing the water like it’s a waterfall, loud and like I’m inside it, when I’m high I hear sixteen layers of sound. I hear someone come into the bathroom, hear a belt buckle hit the floor. DeMarcus pulls back the shower curtain and steps in behind me. Clean yet? he asks. How’s your brother? I ask. He be all right, just gets carried away with the shit sometimes. Whose tricycle is that outside? I ask again. Excuse me, he says, stepping around me to get near the water, turning his back to me. My son’s, he says finally. How did I not know you have a son? I ask. He turns around to face me but his hands are over his face, he’s rubbing his eyes. He shrugs. Work is work, he says. Don’t everybody got to know everything.

  We get out of the shower and cross the hall into a bedroom. It’s dark, the shades are drawn. B is lying on the bed with his back to the wall. A porno is playing on a television at the foot of the bed. DeMarcus is wearing a towel around his waist and disappears into the darkest corner of the room until he strikes a match and I see that he’s lighting a cigar. He candles the end and then turns it and puffs three times until it’s lit. He sits down on the edge of the bed and pats the place beside him. I sit down, I am naked and cold. I stare at the porno but I hate porn. De is watching it and his eyes are bloodshot. He says Let’s lay down so we do, he is on the outer edge of the bed with his ankles crossed and I am between him and B, who is silent and still. I have my head on De’s chest and I doze off lying on him while he smokes his cigar and watches a jarhead fuck a stripper on stage. She has her hair in two ponytails and he holds onto them like handles.

  * * *

  I wake up when I feel myself drooling on his chest. I wipe his chest and then my mouth. Sorry, I say. Happens, he says. No problem. You ready to go back? I’ll drive you. Sure, I say, thanks. I notice that B is gone but I don’t ask where he went. I feel something feathery on my skin. I stand up and can see by the bruised dawn light coming around the window shade that the bed is covered in cigar ash. Covered. Evenly, as if it is some new weather. His dad is not in the chair when we leave.

  In the truck on the way back we don’t say much. My head hurts. I see a sign that tells me we are in Irving. Working tonight? I ask DeMarcus. I’m off, he says. You? I say I am and he says You never take off do you? and I say I don’t. We’re quiet until we get near the restaurant and he says If you want that morning-after pill I’ll pay you back for it.

  I hadn’t thought of that. Do I need it? I ask, more to myself than him. Couldn’t hurt, he says. Yeah, all right, I’ll let you know, I say. I don’t tell him I already have a dose at home because the last time they gave me an extra. It was fifty bucks and I don’t mind letting him pay it backward for me so I’ll tell him how much it cost next time I see him.

  As he drives away I get in my car and I think We never even smoked the weed he said he had at the house and then I stare at the back of the restaurant and wish there were more hours between now and seeing it again later today. It’s seven in the morning and I have to be here at five this evening. I drive home, home to my clean apartment, to my clean bed. I take another shower and I take the first Plan B pill and I take some ibuprofen and I call my daughter’s father because it’s rare that I’m awake this early, when he’s getting her ready for school. I ask if I can talk to her and then I hear her high-pitched voice say Hi Mama and I hear her crunching toast. I ask her what kind of jelly she’s having today. I tell her I miss her. She asks if she can come up to the restaurant like last time, for a Shirley Temple. I say We’ll see. I imagine Hal in the green apron, smiling and asking What can I get started for you? He is thirty-four and has braces.

  I go to sleep at eight and wake up at three. Her school day. I make coffee and wonder if I have any diseases now. We’ve been warned there might be a test on the hand-sell wines this week so I review them. ’03 Stag’s Leap Winery, Napa, $90 down from $120. Ruby red, plum, earth, green tea, velvety tannins, complex. Wine is all words. People who know wine don’t need your help and people who don’t will believe anything you say if it sounds good. Our sommelier would think that was a shitty attitude to have.

  I eat a piece of vegetarian sausage while I stand in the kitchen drinking my perfect coffee and reading over the hand-sells. I look lean and I wear a digital sport watch on my left wrist so sometimes my guests will ask me if I run. I don’t say No I’m just snorting a lot of coke right now. I say that I do run and they say I bet you don’t eat much meat do you? and I say No actually I’m vegetarian and they laugh at this because I have just shown them a tray of ten pounds of raw beef carved into the different cuts of steak we offer. I hype it, the tiny mystique of my being vegetarian and working there. I say Meat is my profession, which often leads someone at the table to say Well you’re certainly a professional. I don’t say I know, because I’ve made a hundred people before you say that same thing in this same situation, I’ve made you remember your charming professional vegetarian server when it’s time for you to put a number on the tip line and I don’t say I’m not vegetarian because of the animals, I’m vegetarian because I hate the way meat feels in my mouth.

  At four I get in the shower, scrubbing everything hard. I pluck my eyebrows, brush my teeth, do my makeup, fix my hair, file and buff my nails. They see your hands more than anything. I put on my pants and undershirt and grab all my tools. I put the second Plan B pill in my pocket and hope I will remember to take it when everything is madness at eight o’clock. I stop at the cleaner’s to swap soiled for pressed, I have a good man on the corner of Greenville and Belmont who does my shirts the way I want them and doesn’t charge much. He starches everything to spec, so my long bistro apron can stand on its own and the creases in my sleeves will be so pointy that even at ten thirty tonight when I walk up to my last table for the first time they will see those creases and they’ll trust me just a little. My name is Marie, and I’ll take care of you tonight.

  NIGHT WORK

  BY CLAY REYNOLDS

  Old East Dallas

  Samuel Grand Avenue, 6:30 p.m.

  They came just at sundown, direct from the park, from the tennis courts, out the south entrance nobody ever used, wearing white. Mercedes convertible. Blue as sapphire. Not one of the nicest ones, but a nice one. Tan leather seats. Custom wheels. Not usual in this neighborhood, not even uncommon, more rare than that. It made everything around it look shabby, made the pavement look filthy. She got out. Not him. Everybody noticed that, particularly the homeys on the corner hanging out by the low-rider, a boom box on the car’s roof, smoking doobies, a little crack, cigarettes. They noticed her right off. She was tall, maybe five nine. Legs to the sky. Short skirt, cashmere sweater cut in a V that didn’t quite go down low enough over a mound of freckled cleavage. Her hair was blonde, ponytailed, pink terry cloth headband. And her eyes were blue. Cobalt blue. Blue enough to fall into forever. She didn’t walk; she bounded. That was the right word. On the balls of her feet. The blasting salsa across the lot suggested a rhythm, a sway. She picked it up. Her hips moved underneath the pleats of her skirt when she bounded up onto the sidewalk, graceful, like an antelope, past the stuffed trash cans, nasty wads of paper sacks, broken shards of beer bottles, crushed-out butts and candy wrappers, into the store. Every move was velvet, smooth as a breeze. Delicate forearms, lightly laced with golden gossamer. Her calves curved like twin tan bows down to the pink tops of her socks. Her thighs were slender, tight, ridged with muscle, rich as flan. Those legs caught the mind of every dark eye in the place. Even the bitches hanging by the video rack, drinking Slurpees, smacking gum, eating day-old donuts, reeking of Dial and cheap perfume, caught those legs, envied them too much to scowl, to do more than stare, to feel the ache of envy, afraid to catch one another’s eye for fear of sharing the loathing. She went into the women’s, in the back, past the stacked boxes, the beer poster with a half-naked cowgirl, past the racks of snacks and sweets, over the dingy linoleum, by th
e cracked wall, and through the dented door, out of sight. Everybody exhaled like something awful had passed and left them scared, safe, but revealed something true, something they didn’t want to know. Outside, the homeboys checked him out. Young, groomed, confident, dark hair, good shoulders. An athlete, maybe. A tailback, maybe. Shortstop, maybe. Fast, probably. But not big, not mean, not really strong, and not fast enough. Money. Sure. White mohair sweater’s arms knotted over the collar of a whiter polo, bracelet on his wrist, gold flashing in the dying light, more gold on a matte of dark, wiry chest hair. Money. Sure. Country club players slumming on the public courts, wrong part of town. Still in the car. Not noticing being noticed, he fucked with the radio or the CD. Looking for a tune, maybe, or a ball game, maybe. NPR, maybe. Fucked with something on the dash. AC, maybe. Trying to put the top up, maybe. Maybe he should have thought about that before he pulled up to this store in this hood. Convertibles are easy. The sun dropped behind the buildings. Tall evergreens on the edge of the park speared dark shadows across the street, the concrete lot, blackness crawling over the ground like blood on a bathroom floor. Streetlights came on too bright, store neon too loud in the urban gloaming. Cars passed without slowing. One cop. Didn’t even look. A cell burbled. He answered, talked. Never looked around. The homeboys nodded, like they were all on a string and somebody dipped their heads. Like puppets. Muscles flexed, tattoos rippled, earrings sparkled in the electric glare. One got behind his wheel, fired the engine, gunned it once, let it slide to a low rumble, bounced it again. V-8 power under primer paint and dark glass. Quality rubber. Cranked up the CD. Mexican rap. Heavy bass. It permeated, even inside, through the heavy glass, the cinder blocks. If he heard it, felt it, he didn’t show, didn’t look. The others snapped down the boom box, stored it, got in, shapes in the car, the yellow glow of lighters pricked the smoked glass. He was talking on the cell, not watching, not listening. His hand moved in the air, struck the wheel, annoyed, not angry. Not the type to get pissed off, to lose it. Money. Sure. She came out of the women’s, stopped, looked around. The bitches stared for a beat, then found new interest in old magazines. She’d had her piss, now she wanted to make it right. Buy something. Two dollars in her hand. She grabbed a pack of mints, put the bills on the counter, slid them forward with one long, pink, polished nail. The clerk, as young as she but five shades darker, fifty times more acute, stared at her. A question, maybe. A warning, maybe. Only blue eyes in ten blocks. Only true blonde in twenty. Beyond her world, beneath her notice, he said nothing, dropped his dusky face, made change. She offered a smile. He looked up as if he heard it. Teeth so white they hurt. Eyes so blue he wanted to lick them. She said something no one heard. Thank you, maybe. Then was gone. Through the door, iron-barred, steel-framed, opaque glass milky from dirt, handprints, scratches, crusty yellowed tape, and then outside. Bounding again. Off the curb, into the Mercedes. He dropped the cell, said something sharp and quick when she slammed the door, grabbed her shoulder belt. She laughed, stretched. Arms up, smile flashing, tits rolling. The homeys watched and waited while they pulled out. If he went right, toward the freeway, he was cool. If he went left, toward the barrio, he was fucked. Convertibles were easy. He went left. His brake lights weren’t even off before the homeys squealed out. The clerk watched, then picked up the phone, stood there, as if frozen, knowing it wouldn’t matter, thinking about her goddamn eyes. He looked at the bitches, saw them watching too. “Is what it is,” one of them said. They stared out into the gathering darkness and nodded when another agreed, “Night work.”

  Deep Ellum, 10:00 p.m.

  There were four of them at the counter. Not one had ever been ugly. Not one ever would be. Six-inch heels, no stockings, perfect legs, skirts so tight you could see the rounds of their asses when they moved, not enough fabric in all four to cover a pillow. No blouses, just swatches of shiny, cheap cloth, stretched over stand-up tits. No bras required. Yards of skin. Coffee, vanilla, chocolate, tattooed in telling places. Ankles, thighs, bitch stamps between sacral dimples, just above the ass crack. And hair, acres of hair, flowing and clean and fresh, scented with flowers, fruit, almonds. Nearly as much hair as makeup, artfully done. They were eighteen, maybe nineteen. An assortment, a mixture, a blend. Perfect. They wanted snacks, smokes, the cheap ones, not premium. They flirted mercilessly with the buzz-cut behind the counter. He was swimming in it, and in sweat. It bubbled across his upper lip, his forehead, in heavy beads. He couldn’t peel his eyes from those bobbing tits, flat, beaded bellies, pelvic grooves diving down into the tiny faux-leather kilts. Suggestive, not concealing. Movement constant, whirling and spiraling in front of him like phantasms. Tempting, luscious, out of reach, unreal. They were studded out: eyebrows, lips, tongues, navels, likely nipples and clits too. Paste diamonds, rubies, emeralds, plastic gold, stainless silver. Cool. Trendy. Out there. Manicures so sharp they’d cut glass, fingers twisting silky tresses, twirling in the air as they talked, cooed, and spun in front of him. A gust of sweetness he could almost taste, perfume radiating like shimmering tendrils. Willing. Eager. Laughter like breaking crystal, high heels bouncing on cold, dirty linoleum, lacquered nails tapping scratched Formica. Three hard hats on a break from overtime, stale with sweat, weary to the bone, lingered at the coffee machine, watching, gaping. They were dark, greasy, bristled, boasting more dirt than pride. Heavy boots, stained jeans, second-hand shirts, filthy bandannas. One opened his third packet of sugar. Another stood with a forgotten cup steaming in his hand. The third just stared, a hot dog crushed in his stubby fingers, oozing mustard, mouth slightly open, salivating. Like cats watching a rookery, their eyes captured the undulating movements and held them. When the buzz-cut finally found his voice, they pulled IDs from tiny purses, giggling, spiraling on their spikes, stretching their legs, straining their stomachs, flexing their hips. “How do they move in skirts that tight?” the hard hat with the hot dog asked. There was no answer. They moved. The buzz-cut studied the IDs, fanned them out in his fingers like cards in a rummy game. Eyes nearly crossed in concentration as he tried to memorize a name, an address, any detail while he pretended to verify, match a photo with a face, but he couldn’t focus, not with them so close, their scents wafting, their eyes playing, their voices chirping and tittering, glossed lips smirking when he returned IDs, and they danced with each other, raked cards through the machine, punched buttons, waited without standing still even for a second while he bagged their goods. At last, he pushed the plastic sacks forward, his hand lingering, hoping for a touch, but they were too quick, too experienced to let that happen, to let anything happen that wasn’t deliberate. They swept out as a wave into the night, then jammed, legs folding, heels flying, laughter echoing, into a small rusty Honda. Somebody’s idea of a car. Dented fender, one headlight against the jet. When the engine buzzed alive, smoke billowed from exhaled tobacco, music burst from the open windows, smothered their mirth, fueled their excitement. The hard hats moved slow to the counter, paid up, stared while they pulled away, then went out and stood on the sidewalk for a space, sipping coffee, eating hot dogs, watching the Honda as it pulled away into the garish lights of the boulevard and turned toward the flashing neon and dark alleys, toward the clubs and bars. The buzz-cut also came out, sweat drying beneath his shirt, lit a smoke. He shook his head and, catching the eye of the hard hats, blew blue out of his nose and said, “Night work.”

  Harry Hines, Midnight

  The pickup was old, older than the owners, rusty, had a caved-in right side, cracked windshield, mismatched tires, missing tailgate, ruined spare in the bed. The driver was large, bearded, hunched over the wheel, his eyes shadowed by a filthy, sweaty, shapeless cap. His arm on the window, thick, antiquely tattooed beneath coiling black hair. In the middle, a car seat with a sleeping baby. Another kid, maybe two, maybe three, crammed in next to it, only a tow crown visible in the indirect slant of the store window’s yellow light. She sat enfilade, pressed against the passenger side. When she got out, slammed the door, he yelled something,
low and mean. She shot him a scowl, came to the door. Short, light, she leaned heavy, levered with her hips and knees to push open the heavy glass. Inside, she stopped, recovered breath, found resolve, maybe strength, then strode toward the coolers. Deliberate. On a mission. She wore a uniform, yellow knee-length skirt, once-white sneakers run down at the heel. Waitress, maybe. All-night café, maybe. Swing-shift, for sure. Underarms stained, collar soiled, one missing button in front, tight in the bust and waist, but modest. It didn’t hide a flat stomach, taut ass, firm legs. Built right. Not sexy. Sturdy. Solid. Cute. Best word for it. Precious might work, but that seemed wrong. Wholesome, maybe. Compact. Nearly perfect, for sure. And strong, though she’d put in a full shift, dealt fried grease and tepid coffee to overweight slobs, losers, and drifters who glanced from the TV only long enough to watch her walk away, then tried to see her naked. But just naked. Nothing more. An assessment, not lust. Nothing dirty. Nothing nasty. She conjured different dreams, past visions. A girlfriend, maybe, girl next door, down the block, up the hall, across the classroom, on the sidelines in a short skirt and bobby socks, church choir, maybe, picture in a yearbook, maybe, somebody’s sister, somebody’s cousin, somebody’s best friend, maybe. Out of reach. They saw her in memory, the girl they met the last day of summer vacation, spotted getting off a bus, sitting at a stoplight, humming with the radio, waiting for the light to change, standing in the other line, looking the other way, looking like a girl somebody, anybody, might want to talk to. Nothing dirty. Nothing nasty. Just a dream. A girl to get to know, to send flowers to, to walk with in the rain, to marry. Maybe. A girl. Not a woman. A girl in the best sense of that word. Strawberry-blonde, feathery cut shag to her shoulders, green eyes that glinted, button nose, and a smile that would light the dark side of the moon. Her makeup was stale, but she didn’t need it. Fresh. That’s a word. She’d not lost that. Not yet. Two kids, hooked to a brute, lousy job, cheap rental, no money, no future, not much past, but she still had it. Knew how to flirt, but she knew the limit, the line between courtesy and come-on. Smart. She moved like she was gliding, skiing, lithe, easy on her feet, but now, here, tonight, also weary, weighted, resigned. She lugged a twelve-pack of Keystone and a liter of Sprite to the counter, heaved it aboard, glanced sideways at the pickup still idling off the curb, thought for a moment, then snagged some Skittles from the display and put them on top. She dug in the skirt pocket for a fold of bills, counted them out, added some change. Fingers, short but nicely shaped, delicate, ready to handle fragile things, smooth down a napkin on a metal counter, expertly pour a refill, clear a stack of plates, snatch up a sorry-ass quarter tip, wipe a kid’s snotty nose. Nails blunt, painted with licorice, chipped at the tips, light-brown hair on her forearms, small beauty mark on one wrist, deep scratch on the other, just above the band of a cheap plastic watch. She asked for a tin of dip, then a pack of smokes, and, when she got it, zipped it open like a pro, put one on her lip before she remembered, then snatched it away and grimaced, grim, abashed, but not really apologizing, not looking up. The clerk, shorter, darker, forever internal and forbidding, counted the money, said she was light twelve cents, and she looked down, counted again, moving the bills and change around as if they would multiply with her touch. She glanced outside again, looked up, a plea in her sea-green eyes. Brows up, an antique scar between them. She knew the answer before the clerk, impersonal, insensitive, uncaring, shook his head. Her face went hard for a second or two, lines creviced around her eyes, her mouth, revealed her age, showed every month, every year since she pronounced herself grown. More bad than good. They webbed the veneer. Nothing soft remained beneath the alluvial surface. Iron under fascia. No rust. Not yet. But it was coming. Leather under satin, worn smooth with use, still strong, still serviceable, still salvageable. For a while. She smiled now, not just a grin, and displayed a chipped front tooth, slightly yellowed from smoke, from coffee, from life. Made her seem older, witness to too much for her age, for her time. As if she knew that, she sagged a little, defeated, not beaten, looked again out the window toward the pickup. Quick. Dreadful. Set her jaw. She put down the smokes, the loose one carefully on top, next to the twelve-pack, the soda, the candy, the snuff. “Be back,” she said, shoulders squaring, her voice sweet, a chirp, but deliberate, like a mockingbird’s. Then she stepped to the door—one movement, tugging it open and sliding out like a gust to the driver’s side. The hulk in the cab’s shadow sat still for a moment, listening, staring straight ahead, one arm draped over the wheel, fingers drumming. She shifted her weight, lifted one foot to give it a rest, dropped it toe down, knee bent, calf rocking, while she waited, like a carhop from an ancient time taking an order, flirting with a punk. One hand behind her back made a fist. She tossed her head like a colt. He said something, she barked back, her give as good as her take. He leaned, found a crushed wallet, then his hand extended, a bill in fat, dirty fingers, and she took it, spun neatly on one leg, and returned. Jaunting, almost saucy. At the counter, her face resumed its mask. Resignation, resentment, retribution. A jade glare at a stone clerk, who came to life, all at once. Broke his face with a plastic smile when she gathered her change, the beer and bag. She didn’t look, didn’t speak. She fished the lighter from her pocket, lit the smoke, inhaled deep, and blew a warm blue cloud over the clerk’s false grin. “Fuck you,” she said. Her tone now a knell, tolling deeper, resonant, acidic, edged by unformed tears. She hauled to the door, yanked it open, welled strength, stored and summoned, bounced it against her back, held the bundle of beer and bag against her chest, squinted against the smoke trailing from the butt in her lip. Spoke around it, “I mean it. Fuck you.” She released the door, then twirled, burden balanced, trudged to the pickup door, got inside, slammed it. He pulled out with a squeal. The clerk watched them go, rubbed his eyes, pinched his nose, put his hands flat on the counter. “Night work,” he said.