Dallas Noir

by David Hale Smith (ed)

  “J-J-Jenny.” Daryl wipes his nose with the back of one hand. “That’s her name.”

  Jenny, the waitress from Sizzler.

  Anger runs white hot in my veins. I aim the 9mm at his nose. Cock the hammer. The sound of the weapon preparing to fire, metal scraping on metal, is sharp against the hard surfaces of the pawn shop, almost as loud as the shot a few seconds before.

  “P-p-please.” Daryl cowers. His face is red, cheeks damp from tears. A dark splotch forms on the crotch of his pants.

  Then, like a plug’s been pulled, the anger inside me drains away, replaced by sadness and disgust and a churning stomach full of should-have-beens, the story of my life.

  I lower the gun and leave Big Odelle’s.

  * * *

  Jefferson Boulevard used to be the main commercial street of Oak Cliff, a small town just south of downtown Dallas, across the Trinity River. After Oak Cliff got swallowed up by Dallas in the 1950s, Jefferson fell on hard times. Boarded-up storefronts, junkies in the alleys, hookers on the curbs.

  Now Jefferson Boulevard looks like Guadalajara during the piñata festival with a little Austin hipster neighborhood thrown in the mix. Lots of signs in Spanish, taco joints. About a zillion Mexican bridal shops and stores specializing in quinceañera dresses.

  They’re waiting for me when I get to the parking lot. I round the corner of the building, stuffing the wig in my pocket.

  By our stolen El Camino stand two gangbangers in white T-shirts and calf-length shorts, La Eme—Mexican Mafia—tats on their faces.

  Chloe is against the door. Her hands are up.

  Gangbanger One has a knife against to her neck.

  “Yo, bitch.” Gangbanger Two smiles at me. “What’s in the Mickey D’s bag?”

  I tuck the money under one arm. My right hand stays in my pocket, the 9mm in a tight grip. A robber getting robbed. Didn’t I just see this on an episode of Law & Order?

  Chloe whimpers, eyes wild with terror.

  I try to control my fear, the racing heartbeat and ragged breathing.

  Here’s a couple of facts that are important to know at this point. Number one: Chloe is not cut out of for a life of crime, hence her role as a driver. Chloe is weak. I’m not saying this as an insult, just as a way things are. When the stepdads were coming into our room late at night, she didn’t handle it very well. Moi? I handled that and everything else life threw my way. That’s why I’m working the trigger on all our jobs.

  Speaking of guns, here’s the second important fact: I’ve never shot anybody. Nearly two dozen armed robberies so far and the most I’ve ever done is pop a cap into a wall of Mexican conjunto CDs. And that only happened about thirty seconds ago.

  “Show me the bag.” Gangbanger One presses his knife against Chloe’s throat.

  I squeeze the Smith & Wesson, start to ease it out of my pocket.

  Sweat drips down the small of my back.

  The control is slipping away.

  I wonder if I can actually pull the trigger on another human being.

  The parking lot is small and secluded, empty.

  My vision gets blurry and then clear, everything looking like it’s been magnified. Sounds are different too. I can hear Chloe’s terror as much as see it, the crackle of her lungs, the pinpricks of sweat that erupt noisily on her skin. I grip the gun tighter.

  Gangbanger One’s feet crunch on the broken asphalt as he moves toward me.

  Then, there is nothing.

  Blackness.

  My limbs are heavy, skin cold.

  The palm of my right hand stings as the stench of Aqua Velva fills my nose, the aftershave one of my stepdads used to wear.

  * * *

  Chloe’s face is pale.

  She’s in the passenger seat of the El Camino. I’m driving and I don’t remember how that came to be.

  I speed down the alley behind Big Odelle’s.

  At the cross street, I stop and close my eyes for a moment.

  In my mind I see the two gangbangers lying on the dirty asphalt, blood pooling underneath their bodies.

  My ears ring, and I can now smell burnt gunpowder.

  Then I remember the rest of it, the first shot that I fired, the one that missed its intended target.

  I look over at Chloe.

  She smiles weakly and presses the rag against the wound in her stomach.

  I start to cry.

  She shushes me, pats my arm with her free hand.

  “It’s okay, Nadine. Just drive.”

  * * *

  We’re back at the motel.

  The bleeding has stopped. Chloe’s face is pale but she appears to be stable.

  I offer again for the twentieth time to take her to the hospital. She reminds me again about gunshot wounds and the police and our rather colorful arrest record.

  We knew this was a possibility but chose never to dwell on it.

  Truth be told, neither of us wants to grow old doing armed robberies. It’s not a healthy, long-term plan. Look at what happened to our great-great-aunt.

  We do have a goal though—make enough cash, then skip town. Head to Alaska where land is cheap and the men are grateful for female companionship, especially when it’s supplied by two blond girls from Texas.

  I count the money in the McDonald’s bag. One thousand and five dollars.

  That’s the biggest haul to date, bringing our total nest egg to just over three thousand.

  Only one problem. That’s not enough cash to finance a getaway to the Great North. We need a whole lot more, ten grand at least. And now we need a doctor who’s not too particular about filling out paperwork.

  There’s only one option and this makes my skin clammy.

  My first husband, Quint. A crooked ex-cop I married when I was nineteen.

  I shudder just thinking his name. In a town full of hustlers and whackjobs, Quint is in a class by himself. He’s evil and twisted, dangerous like a sleeping snake.

  “Quint.” I whisper the word.

  “No.” Chloe shakes her head. “You can’t do that.”

  “A hundred thousand. That’s how much he carries in the trunk of his car.”

  Chloe doesn’t reply.

  A hundred K, give or take, tucked under the spare tire of his Caddy. Then there’s the cash in his safe, much more than what he keeps in the car.

  “We need to get out of town,” I say. “The five-oh is gonna be looking for us hard. And you need a doctor.”

  Chloe stares at me, a blank look on her face.

  “Quint has doctors. People that owe him.”

  She shakes her head.

  “He’ll be glad to see me. I’ll flash him a little leg, get the name of a doc.”

  “No, Nadine.” She licks her lips. “You can’t.”

  “Then I’ll lift his car keys . . . or something.” I shrug. “What’s the problem?

  Chloe knows all too well what the problem is. We’re sisters after all, twins. She was there when the marriage ended, helped me put the pieces of my life back together. Helped heal my wounds, both mental and physical.

  She shakes her head. “Not Quint.”

  I stare at the far wall. “We don’t really have a choice.”

  * * *

  I’m dirty, coated with dried sweat and Jefferson Boulevard grime.

  If I’m gonna charm my way with Quint, I’d better get clean, presentable.

  After making sure Chloe is okay for the moment, I go to the bathroom and take a quick shower, scrubbing away the sweat and funk from the robbery of Big Odelle’s.

  Then I get out, wrap myself in a threadbare towel, and peer at my face in the steamy mirror. After a few moments, I tug at the towel and let it drop to the floor.

  The goods are still looking good.

  Time goes by.

  The steam dissipates and I’m still gazing at my naked self in the mirror, my thoughts empty.

  This is not the first time I’ve done the stare-at-the-mirror routine. Doesn’t happen very often or wit
h any warning. It’s a sudden thing, like an earthquake no one can sense but me.

  I try to figure out what I’m feeling but I can’t. Everything’s jumbled up inside. I’ve watched enough Dr. Phil to realize I’m searching for an emotion, but I don’t know what it is or even how to articulate what it might be.

  All I know is there’s a coldness inside me that makes no sense.

  Another slice of time passes. Snippets of my life drift past on the movie screen in my head.

  The stepfather with the bum leg, whose breath stunk of bourbon. That black girl at juvie hall who stole my sneakers.

  At the end of the reel, there’s a child about ten who’s overcome with pain and rage and then more pain. She looks like me but is different somehow.

  The AC in the motel room clicks on, a humming noise.

  I blink, shiver with cold, wonder what’s inside me. A list of possibilities forms in my mind.

  Anger at what this body has caused.

  Shame at what I’ve done.

  Sadness over what’s been done to me.

  Some combination of all of the above that no amount of showering will ever wash away.

  After a while I break free from the empty place and rummage through a bag of makeup until I find the small bottle of Clinique base tucked in a corner.

  The scars are tiny, caused by cigarettes, Winston Lights, if you must know. Over the years, they’ve almost disappeared. Almost.

  I dab a little on the two worst ones, rubbing in a circular motion, hiding the tiny ripples in what is otherwise smooth, flawless flesh.

  Then I get dressed and check on Chloe.

  She’s in a bad way.

  * * *

  A quarter of an hour later the El Camino rattles into the lot in front of a one-story brick building not far from Central Expressway. I park next to a ten-year-old Cadillac, Quint’s car.

  A few blocks away, there are shiny high-rise offices and nice stores. But here, in the shadowlands of the city, the structures are old and worn. The homes are clapboard, unpainted. The vehicles, battered.

  The brick building has blacked-out windows with iron bars, tiny cameras mounted under the eaves. It sits between a Popeye’s fried chicken and a place where you can sell your blood for cash.

  I get out, pause for a moment so the cameras can get a good look at me. It’s not smart to surprise Quint’s people.

  The front of the building is a legitimate business, a small insurance agency that specializes in monthly auto policies. The front usually has a handful of people working on computers, talking on the phone, selling policies. Sitting to one side of the office workers, on a lumpy leather sofa, will be two heavyset men in tracksuits, armed. They’ll be drinking coffee, playing gin, and watching the monitors that show the parking lot.

  I should be afraid of walking inside this building, but I’m not. The bullet wound in Chloe’s stomach has seen to that. I would, and am about to, do anything to save my sister.

  I push open the heavy wooden door. Overhead, a bell clangs.

  The front room is empty. The cheap metal desks where the insurance agents sit are vacant.

  No one is on the lumpy sofa. A deck of cards lies neatly stacked on the coffee table by two Styrofoam cups.

  I step inside, walk past the receptionist desk.

  The monitors are mounted on the wall a few feet from the door. They’re visible now. They show the main and rear parking lots, empty except for the El Camino and the Caddy by the front door. It’s midmorning, a Tuesday. There should be people working, the guards nearby. Maybe the insurance people went to get coffee and Quint is somewhere with his goon squad.

  A single door on the back wall leads to the inner sanctum, a large office where Quint runs his operation. The office is wood-paneled with a safe behind the desk and a series of televisions mounted where he can monitor various sporting events.

  I stand at the entrance to the office and do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I grab the 9mm from my waistband and push open the door, stepping inside.

  The weapon feels comforting in my hand.

  A heavy odor of coffee and cigarettes fills the inner sanctum.

  Quint is in his late thirties now, a good-looking man, which is how I got into trouble with him in the first place.

  He sits with his back to the door in an oversized leather desk chair, watching a soccer game on the television mounted over his safe.

  He doesn’t move or acknowledge my presence. A power play, typical Quint.

  The choice presents itself like a blinding flash of light. I can kill him, shoot the bastard in the back of the head. Revenge is a tasty drug. Every wrong can be righted, every scrap of damage he’s inflicted, healed.

  But revenge won’t get a doctor for Chloe.

  For a moment, I don’t care. I aim the 9mm at the back of his head, hand trembling.

  The son of a bitch doesn’t move, supreme in his confidence.

  I tighten my finger on the trigger, my breath ragged, chest heaving. The sights line up on the top of his skull, just visible above the back of the chair.

  Then I lower the gun.

  “Quint.” Emotion chokes my voice. “It’s me, Nadine.” A long pause. “I need your help.”

  He grunts but doesn’t speak, another power play. It’s all about control with Quint.

  “My sister. She’s been hurt, bad. I need a doctor.”

  He doesn’t reply, intent on the TV. One of the soccer teams scores a goal, and the crowd cheers.

  “Please, Quint.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I-I-I need you.” The words come from my mouth haltingly. “I, uh, I miss you.”

  Sadly, that’s the truth. I do miss him. Even during the bad times, and there were plenty, he represented safety. And safety, much like power, is sexy.

  I hate myself for admitting this, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

  “What do you want me to say, Quint?” I walk toward him. “That I was wrong for leaving you? That I want you back?”

  No reply.

  “Well, I was.” I reach for his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have left.”

  Quint’s wearing a black guayabera shirt, short sleeve, like a waiter at a Mexican restaurant.

  I grab his arm and pull. The chair turns but he doesn’t, no reaction whatsoever.

  The color of the fabric makes it hard to see the blood, but there’s no mistaking the bullet hole about six inches directly below his throat.

  He’s not dead but real near to it. His eyes are open but unseeing, tiny slits. He grunts again. A bubble of blood forms on his lips.

  I gasp, jump away, hit a box fan sitting on a side table. Drop the 9mm. The fan falls to the floor. I tremble, knees shaking. I steady myself on the desk.

  My hand knocks over an ashtray which lands on top of the 9mm. Ashes and cigarette butts scatter.

  Quint gurgles once more. His eyes go empty, and he dies.

  I stifle a scream. Stare at the bullet hole.

  Every bad decision I’ve ever made ricochets around in my head, louder and louder and louder. A drum solo of stupidity banging in my brain.

  I run, leaving the still-warm corpse of my ex-husband behind.

  I’m halfway to the front door when a man I’ve never seen comes out of the men’s room in the insurance office.

  He’s in his midforties, pudgy, a comb-over so bad it looks like a beaver is dry-humping his scalp.

  I stop, stare at him. No one else is in the room.

  He’s a cop. The cheap, ill-fitting sport coat and Sansabelt pants might as well be a uniform and badge.

  “Who are you?” he says.

  I don’t speak. I realize the 9mm is still on the floor of Quint’s room where I’d dropped it.

  He stares at me. “You work for Quint?”

  I realize what he’s asking—am I one of my ex-husband’s stable of call girls? I should be angry but I’m not. Too scared.

  I shake my head.

  His radio squawks. He t
urns down the volume.

  “This is nothing you want to be involved in.” He looks around the room. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Wh-who are you?”

  “Just walk away.”

  I can’t help myself. I glance back at Quint’s office.

  Bad move.

  He sucks in a mouthful of air, lips pursed.

  Nobody speaks for a few moments.

  “You’ve been in there, haven’t you?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “You shouldn’t a done that.” His tone is soft.

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t—” My breath catches in my throat. “See, I, um, I . . .”

  The cop gets the blank look that police have perfected over the centuries.

  “Quint.” I will myself to be calm. “He’s my ex-husband.”

  The cop arches an eyebrow. He glances at the office and then back at me.

  “I hope he suffered.” I spit the words out.

  His expression changes slightly. A gleam comes into his eyes. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  I lick my lips, try to think of a reply.

  “Here’s the gun you used.” He pulls a battered revolver from underneath his sport coat. The weapon is in a plastic evidence bag.

  I’ve been around cops enough, especially the dirty kind, to know what it is: a throw-down piece, untraceable. Serial numbers filed away.

  He moves closer so that we’re face-to-face.

  My stomach churns. I shake my head, stunned, unable to form words.

  “The ex-wife.” He smiles. “The media will love it.”

  “No.” I shake my head, voice a whisper. “Please. You don’t understand. I have to—”

  “Shut the hell up.” He thumps me on the forehead with his middle finger. “I’m talking.”

  My skull hurts. I rub the spot where his finger connected.

  “My sister, Chloe. She needs a doc—”

  He thumps me again, harder. “Shut. Up.”

  Tears well in my eyes.

  “The talk on the street is that Quint keeps a lot of cash lying around.” He scans the room. “Show me where.”

  My failures, the enormity of who and what I am, settle on me like a barbed-wire blanket. The feeling is familiar but painful.

  This dirty cop is no different than any other man I’ve been around. He’s rotten to the core like all the rest, the common denominator being me.