Dallas Noir

by David Hale Smith (ed)

  Oak Lawn, 1:45 a.m.

  Behind him, Outside Security felt the pulse, the laughter, the low ebb of privilege, money, power filtering through the thick wooden barrier. A mass of masculinity. Handsome, in a way. Intimidating, in a way. Large, dense, well-defined. Polite, firm, impassive, circumspect, obsequious, blind, deaf, dutiful, obedient. Automatic. Ex-soldier, maybe. Ex-cop, maybe. Ex-pro player, maybe. Ex-boxer, maybe. Ex-con, maybe. Ex–all of it, maybe. Nameless. Beefy. Forty-something. Strong. That was the word. Unmovable object. A block. Still athletic. No other ability, no potential. What he had was enough. Bald head, close shave, broken nose, mashed ears, solid chin, muscled neck. A body defined, chiseled, sculpted by iron and steel, sweat, steak, salad. No carbs. No booze. No tobacco. No drugs. Fit. Another good word. Off-the-rack suit, thick-soled shoes, white shirt, tasteful tie, Windsor knot. Coiled, even at rest. Ready. Gray eyes wide. Alert. Sentry. Guard. Picket. Invisible, but present. No one in. Not unless he said so. List memorized. Kept in his head. Authority, under his arm, in his pocket. Locked and loaded. Fully permitted. Nothing chanced. He scanned the restaurant. Dark, empty, quiet. That kitchen closed at ten. Tables cleared, white cloths replaced, folded linen and silver setups arranged. Regular staff gone. Waiting for tonight. Overpriced food served with style. Panache. Class. Good tips. The outer bar closed at midnight. Now deserted, scrubbed and polished oak and brass stretched down the wall, backlit. High glass shelves with top tequilas, vodkas, gins, whiskeys that ran a Franklin a shot. Brandies, cordials, liqueurs with names he couldn’t say. Wines, vintage. Beer, imported, microbrewed. Varied clear pastels and earth tones of alcohol, awaiting orders. All quiet out front. Behind him, the door, oak-paneled, steel-lined. Three inches thick, but the deep bass vibe passed like light through tissue. Back room. Separate kitchen. Separate bar. Different staff. VIP. Twenty-dollar cigars. Dancers, players, gamblers, politicians, a police chief. Bankers, judges, doctors. Gangsters. Visiting CEOs. Mistresses. Whores. Men on their way up, women on their way down. Crowded, loud, smoky, secret, illegal. Wealthy people. Private party. Nothing to him. A paycheck. Never ask. Never say. Keep the List. Never ask. The door opened too quick. He pivoted as if on a spindle, arms out, hands ready. The din, the reek of tobacco, stench of alcohol, expensive perfume, sweet cologne blended into the waft. The flotsam of excess buffeted his face. Jaw set, fingers flexed. Mental check of weapon, a quick impassive mask. She came out. Hair dark as thunder, wild and straggled, froused over alabaster shoulders. Exposed, naked. Black dress, too short, too tight, too young. Satin wanting to be silk ripped open down one side. Bloodred fingernails held the ragged edges partly together; one breast, bold but helpless, escaped, a pink nipple testing the ambience. Eyes blind with panic, she slammed against him, bounced back. A wall. Pure sinew. A rock. Unyielding, impervious. Unforgiving. She tottered on heels too high, the dress rode up her rounded ass. Thighs like clouds. Over her tangled nest of hair, he looked past the door, assessed lights flashing wild, heavy music, hard, driving, blasting. Roar of shouted conversation. A nude dancer pranced, crotch shaved, revealed, unashamed. Well-dressed men and women watched, laughed. Drank. Ate. Jewelry flashed. In the alcove beyond, golden light over oak-trimmed tables, green velvet, vested dealers, chips stacked, cards sliding, dice flying. Waitresses in bustiers, black-mesh stockings, high heels, long hair, large breasts, tall legs threaded through controlled chaos, balanced silver trays in constant noise. He caught the eye of Inside Security. A nod. A caution. Not serious. Not yet. He shut the door, stepped back. She listed, swayed, looked up. Panic. Wild eyes welled. Violet pupils, high, perfect brows. Mascara ran black muddy rivers down soft pale cheeks, one blistered with bright prints. Whole fingers. Pain. Perfect teeth, whiter than a wedding, gritted. A long neck, chafed, red marks traced against the cream. Lips messy with smeared gloss, cut, bleeding. A fresh scarlet trail on a clipped chin. Her arms reached, long fingers loosing torn fabric, forgetting, letting it fall. Grasped his muscles, dug sharp red nails into cheap black fabric. Pleading. Desperate. Naked to the waist. More new bruises. “Please!” Breath laced with booze, dope, sex. Her eyes cut to the door, looked through it, beyond it. “Please!” A lisp, lip bleeding. “Hurry!” Her head fell forward, pounded a crown into his chest. A shield. Then up, into his face. “Please!” once more. He held her away, out from himself, off her feet, hands under her bare arms, her breasts, large, soft, swayed flaccid against her body. He felt the pulse of terror, smelled fear all over her. Soiled, exposed, helpless. Dangerous. New noise now. Shouts over the vibe. Anger. He looked once more into the tortured face. Considered. He felt the velvet of her skin beneath his fingers, the fragility of her bones. He decided, returned her to the floor like a delicate crystal curio, then slanted his gray eyes to the bar. She looked at him once. Quick. Verifying. Then scrambled, the shards of fake silk bunched, held closed, and passed through the publican’s gate, dropped to the rubber-padded floor behind the long, heavy counter. He could hear her breathing when the door opened again. A man emerged. Not so fit. Not so tall. Not so strong. A player, maybe, run to fat and ruined by prosperity. Midthirties, maybe, but wrathful. Face dark with fury, marked by three long scratches, ear to chin, deep, crimson dollops on a white custom collar. Fists clenched. Platinum wedding band. Diamond horseshoe. Movado watch. Italian shoes. He jutted, nearly tripping, into the dim of the vacant restaurant, looked around. “Where?” No eye contact. Indirect confrontation. An insult. An order. A challenge. An accusation. Arrogance. Privilege. Condescension. Then, a collecting pause, an assessment. Calm. Control. Careful. Softer, now. “Where, goddamnit?” Outside Security’s eyes slanted toward the side door. Exit only. An escape. No access, not even for cops, except those on the List. “Shit! Fucking shit.” He rushed across, then out, holding it open with one hand, looked. Right, left, right again. He peered into the night, breath vaporizing slightly in the humid air. Another scout, a survey, a reconnoiter, final check. Thorough. Met by disappointment, frustration, then a shout into the shadows, voice cracking soprano. “Bitch! Fucking bitch!” A sag, a shrug, a return. Handkerchief out, pressed against his face, soaking it red. Still no contact. “Got a smoke?” in enhanced baritone. A cigarette appeared in thick, hammer-hard fingers. A lighter followed, and the first gray breath flooded out, struck unblinking eyes. “Need an ambulance?” Now he looked. Up. Judging tone. Judging size. “She say anything?” A short moment, then a shake of the head. Dark eyes studied gray, then narrowed. “You see anything?” A longer moment, a deeper beat, a bubble down deep started to form, to rise, to burst on a solid surface. A desire to assert. Indignation. Pride. Self-esteem. But then, priorities. A shake of the head. One more look. Verification. Then a nod, and the man stepped forward. Outside Security held the door as he went through, holding his face, laughing now. Falsely vindicated. He faded into the chaos, naked youth dancing on tables, wrinkled age lounging on leather, watching without looking, talking in shouts, laughing in yells. Lasers flashed on expensive gems, solid gold, Spanish silver. Music boomed, swirled through the smoke. He shut the door, muting hell. A moment. Then two. She emerged like a fawn from a grove. Crept forward, hand grasping the rag across her body, face swollen, blood dried, hair a twisted mat, eyes masked by ruined pencil and paint. Thirty, he thought. Not younger. She sagged, knees buckled. He stepped to her. Four paces. Caught her, steadied her, held her with one hand. “My bag.” A gasp, a sob. “My bag. Keys. Money.” Her eyes looked at the door in horror. He shook his head, definite, probed his pocket, found a bill, pressed it into her palm. “Wait on the corner. Behind the bus stop. Green cab. Ten minutes.” She looked at him again, hard and deep, to be sure. Her smashed mouth mouthed silent thanks, then choked, “I’ll pay—” He shook her arm, pressed his face down into hers. “Don’t come back.” She looked, nodded. Stumbled away, out the side door. He followed, made sure, returned. His post. Pulled a cell from his breast pocket. Punched a number, listened, then said, “Yeah. Again. Night work.”

  Northwest Highway, 3:00 a.m.

 
He pulled up in a nondescript ten-year-old Chevy Impala—gray, no frills, no distinctions, no front plates—killed the lights, got out, stood for a moment in the amber glow of the arc lights, inspected the parking lot as if it was real estate he might buy. His gaze lingered on the dark edges, shadows bunched like lurking gangs of ghouls. One more sweep. Careful. He came in. Empty shop, golden light, a lone clerk. Tall, lanky, Ethiopian. Slim mustache and a small beard on the edge of a pointed chin, dozing on his feet, behind black laminate. A textbook open on the rear counter. The bell’s jingle animated him. Reminded him. Instructions, policies. The man, older, bowed shoulders, thin face, sharp, hollow, lined, marked by clear eyes, light brown, never still. Not tall, not short. Nondescript. Average. That was the word. A dark blue suit with worn lapels, shiny creases, threadbare, clean. White oxford button-down, black tie, worn loose. Rumpled. Driving awhile. All day, maybe. More, maybe. Heavy shoes—wing tips with composite soles. Shined, high gloss. Nothing else looked kempt, neat, new. He was balding. Thin strands, well oiled, raced away from a forehead furrowed, and bushy eyebrows. Short, sharp sideburns, pointed ears flat against a peaked crown. A narrow mouth, sharp amber teeth. Thin lips. Grim. Like a knife scar, like a scratch on a new car. He waited, adjusted from the darkness outside, took in the clerk, nodded a greeting. Silent, unsmiling, ignored. The clerk waited, shifted. Unaccountably uncomfortable. Adjusted items in his reach. A pad, a pen, a small display of packaged fruit, dry cookies. Looked busy, not nervous, but he was nervous. The man inspected the shop. Constricted aisles, small, bright orange plastic booths, shelves of coffee appliances, clever crockery, upscale implements. A ravaged bakery display. Stale pastries, gummy sandwiches left from the day trade. He rolled his shoulders, his neck. Stretched without extending, flexed his fingers, one of which twisted in an awkward tangent, and again met the clerk’s eyes. “Regular coffee?” Starting as if pinched, the clerk nodded to the coffee island in back. Thermos pots and bold carafes. Hot and ready. Checked every half hour. Instructions, regulations, policy. “Self-serve after midnight.” The man stared, ugly mouth grim, eyes unblinking, then nodded, walked there directly, not fast, but steady. Like a cat, one foot in front of the other, confident, cautious. Eyes roaming. At the island, he studied the vessels, selected a paper cup and poured, added cream, sugar, stirred, then turned, faced the door, blew on the surface, eyes worked the shop over the rim. Sipped, tested the heat. The clerk watched, looked indirectly, furtively glanced, shifted, wanted to move, for some odd reason, to whistle. His head felt light, neck prickled, brow burned. Fear sprouted in his abdomen. His hands roamed, straightened candy, energy bars, gum, napkins, impulse items near the register. Something to do. He coughed a little, although he didn’t have to, swallowed dryly, glanced again at the man, put his hand on the cell phone next to the register, pretended to adjust it, check it. Surreptitiously, he hoped, he punched in three numbers. Didn’t call. Ready. The man noticed but didn’t show it. He leaned against the island, crossed one foot over the other, drank deeper, looked around, eyes always moving. Watchful. Lights and appliances buzzed white noise, a barely audible hum, like the sound of pulse in the ear. The clerk turned oblique, watched the convex mirror overhead, fidgeted, wanted to walk away, maybe to run. He touched the textbook, then pushed a button on a wall-mounted console. A hiss, then music, low and jazzy. He offered a half-smile. Not returned. He resumed his blank stare, tried to see without watching, tried to hear without listening, willed himself not to shake. The man finished, refilled, added more cream, capped it, brought it forward. Same careful stride, slow and measured. Hands large but thin, thickly veined, hairy knuckles. Right at his side, loose, ready. Left held the cup lightly. He stepped close, set it down. “What’s the book?” The clerk, alarmed, confused, recovered, relieved. “Uh, economics . . . finance. Studying . . . college.” He baked with an invisible blush. The man nodded, dismissive. He touched the cup with the twisted finger, put his left hand in a pocket. The clerk named an amount. The man’s eyes narrowed. The clerk tried to swallow, couldn’t. The man looked at the cup, rediscovered it. “That’s a lot.” The clerk nodded, tried again to swallow, cleared his throat. A rasp. “Cup and a refill.” Then, “Refills are half price.” The man’s eyes rose, quick and menacing. “You’re serious?” The clerk nodded, pointed to a small hand-lettered sign, one of six posted around the shop, verifying instructions, regulations, policy. The man read the words slowly, his lips moving, as if they were in a language he didn’t know. “Economics.” The thin mouth’s corners turned up. “Finance.” He shook his head, but his eyes remained fixed on the clerk’s. “Fucking bean-counters.” In reply, a blank nod. Underarms awash, brow dripping, sweat rolling down his back, his sides. Primordial fear. Inexplicable. Instinctive. The man extracted coins from a pocket, studied them, replaced them, opened his coat. The wooden butt of a heavy revolver appeared beneath his left arm, tucked deep. The clerk’s head snapped back, heart plummeted to his belly, crushed balls tingled, tried to withdraw into his body, legs dissolved. He wanted to slump. He sought balance, stepped away, hips blocked by the counter behind him. Throat closed, mouth arid as the desert that spawned him. A desperate need to piss. The man removed a battered brown wallet, pulled five crisp singles, cascaded them on the shiny laminate, adjusted them with the twisted finger. The clerk couldn’t see them, only the pistol. The man looked right and left, up at the mirror, replaced the wallet, buttoned the coat, checked his watch, although there was a clock on the wall, just over the clerk’s head. A reach into the side pocket produced a small, wrinkled piece of paper. He smoothed it out. The clerk looked down. “You know where that’s at?” A beat. A look. “Exactly?” A long stare, half a minute, maybe, and then the clerk made sense of the penciled symbols. At last, he wet his mouth, swallowed hard. “Two blocks down. To the right. Third building.” His voice sounded small and far away. One hard nod. Affirmation. He replaced the paper, picked up the cup. “Keep the change.” The clerk forced a smile, a nod. “Night work,” the man said. “It blows.” The clerk grinned wider. “Yes. Sir.” Then the happy jangle of the bell, and the clerk breathed. The first of his life. He watched the man stop, survey the lot, get into the Chevy, start it up, pull out. Nevada plate. Brake lights flashed. A right turn. Even a signal. The clerk stared down at the money, the phone, scooped up the bills, punched them into the register, wiped the counter, mopped his face. Same towel. He looked at the empty shop, swallowed, breathed deeply again, heard the jazz, swayed slightly in the golden light, felt the cooling of hot sweat. “Night work,” he muttered.