Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

“I don’t know. I got nothing against you, but you got to get.” Vaughn peered at me hard, sweat pouring off his face. “You been through some things, huh? Well, I don’t know nothing about it, but you look young and smart enough to pull yourself back from that edge. I got to get back.” Vaughn handed me five dollars. “You know how Angus do.”

“Tell him I’m sorry,” I said.

The truck wobbled as Vaughn slipped inside it. The cicadas sounded like buzz saws and I dug a finger in my ear to get rid of them, but that only made the buzzing stronger. After noon, the shadows moved like ships on gray water. The heat held me close. But Angus would come out soon. Angus would come out. I was sure he would, once Vaughn told him I was sorry.

River Oaks

Imagine that thieves move into a house while the owners are away, and the first thing they do is mow the yard, trim the hedges, tend to the landscape — make it seem that they belong while they plunder.

This was Cole’s plan precisely, only the house was Madelyn’s body.

The Criminal Element:

Tariq, who owed Cole.

Herta, who loved Cole.

And Cole, who loved no one.

Why Tariq Owed Cole:

Cole, out of the goodness of his heart (and with the idea that it might be useful to have Tariq in his debt), drove a stolen 1998 Chevy Camaro over Tariq’s friend-turned-snitch Sunny, while Tariq, snugged away in a holding cell, possessed the state of Texas as his alibi.

Why Herta Loved Cole:

He was handsome, decisive, clever, lively, and heartless.

Why Cole Loved No One:

He didn’t know how.

“The girl is the center of the group,” Tariq explained. He bartended at the Azure Lounge, an upscale tavern with divey pretentions on Westheimer just below River Oaks Boulevard. In Houston, River Oaks equaled royalty: money to make Rockefeller envious, mansions to make Gatsby blanch. “They show up three, four times a week — after gym, before dinner, late at night. Rude bastards who tip for shit. Usually three or four of them, sometimes five. Ordinary looking, except they’ve got that sheen that comes from money. You know that sheen?”

Cole had lived in Houston all his life. He knew that sheen.

Herta said, “You can’t spend sheen.” She was not from Houston. She was not from anywhere.

“Not to worry. Madelyn lives with her dad right on River Oaks Boulevard,” Tariq said. He, too, was a native Houstonian, by way of Lahore. “They’re loaded.”

“Money with a pedigree,” Cole said.

“Yeah,” Herta agreed. “Not just any mutt can move onto River Oaks.”

Cole and Herta shared a house two neighborhoods east, in Montrose. They sat at the kitchen table and passed around the covert photos Tariq had taken at the Azure: Madelyn Glancy in tennis gear, in yoga pants, in a gold lamé dress that bunched at her neck.

“That dress fits her body,” Herta said, “the way a newspaper fits a fish.”

Cole fingered the picture, tracing the woman’s head. Madelyn Glancy had a rather long face.

“Don’t say like a horse,” Herta said, reading his mind. “It’s not accurate. People just say that.”

“More like Virginia Woolf,” said Cole.

“I hated To the Lighthouse ,” Tariq put in. “Why do they force that mopey white woman on every English major?”

“Here we go,” said Cole.

“Because she was a genius?” Herta suggested. “Because she was the best writer of her generation?”

“I got a black eye reading that book,” Tariq went on. “Fell asleep and hit my beer with my face.”

“You may get another,” Herta said. “I have a first-edition hardback that’ll crack your skull.”

“Don’t argue with her,” said Cole. “She reads.”

“I gave up reading after college,” Tariq said dismissively. “Even before.”

Cole raised one finger to make them focus. “Let’s see the other photos.”

Tariq speculated that Madelyn was sexual with a boy in the group, a pudgy wide-butt with a hipster haircut. “They don’t seem like a real couple,” he said, “but I think they do the nasty sometimes.”

“I can distract Pork Chop,” Herta said.

“How?” Tariq asked. “They ignore everybody.”

“Use a little personal landscape.”

“Am I supposed to understand that?” Tariq asked.

“I will show him my buttocks,” Herta said. To Cole, she added, “This is why I don’t like adding partners.”

“You can’t show your ass in the Azure,” Tariq said. “It’s a respectable bar.”

“Stand up,” she said.

“Here we go,” said Cole.

Tariq obeyed.

“Good boy,” Herta said, rising but losing her balance, catching herself just before her face hit the floor.

“I didn’t know girls actually wore those,” Tariq said.

“Every woman under forty wears a thong.” Herta righted herself as she spoke. “Haven’t you ever gotten laid?”

“Pakistani girls don’t wear them.”

“Yes they do,” Herta said. “Mormons wear them. Nuns wear them.”

Tariq turned to Cole. “So after Butterball breaks up with Madelyn, you move in? Catch her on the rebound?”

Now it was Cole who glared.

“You guys are so touchy,” Tariq said.

“Look at this picture.” Cole indicated Madelyn. “Elaborate haircut, plucked brows, painted nails. Wearing gym clothes but also makeup and mascara. If she’s screwing fat boy—”

“Pork Chop,” Herta said.

“—that’s good news. Think she’ll hesitate to dump him for me?”

Cole got up from the table to pose. He had a casual, alluring way of standing, as if he were about to tip over backward. A child looking up at him wouldn’t see his head, just the promontory of his chest. Adults would note eyes the color of an overcast day and the delicate purse of the lips, as if he were considering extraordinary things. He was clean-shaven, free of sideburns, and carried the retro odors of Lucky Strikes and Old Spice.

“Here’s the kicker,” Cole went on. “She’s vain enough — and rich enough — to believe I might actually be attracted to her.”

“I think she’s kind of good looking, anyway,” Tariq said.

“That’s only ’cause she’s bitchy to you,” Cole explained.

“Have you even read Mrs. Dalloway ?” Herta demanded.

The Azure Lounge was cool but close, like mentholated smoke. Heavy drapes the color of a bruise shut out the world. Through slits where the curtains failed to overlap, yellow blades pierced the room. Tariq stationed Cole and Herta near the entrance, where the drapes parted a sliver.

“Incoming,” said Cole, and Herta moved into position.

The group arrived boisterously, Madelyn leading, with three boys trailing. Herta, who’d situated herself perfectly, dropped her leather wristlet between the passing of the first lug and the arrival of Pork Chop, permitting only him to see the length of her legs as she bent. Then she jumped up and into him, as if he’d goosed her.

Pork Chop uttered a series of wha, wha, wha sounds, as if suddenly transformed into a helicopter.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, patting his chest and dropping her purse again. “I’m such a klutz!” She started to bend once more, but stopped herself and crouched demurely, offering an exaggerated frowning-smile for Pork Chop alone.

Simultaneously shocked and smitten, the fat boy could manage neither expression nor locomotion until the trailing boy of their group prodded his shoulder, and Pork Chop reluctantly hoofed it to their table.

Herta handed Cole a copy of the Houston Press , taken from the stand by the door — the presumptive reason for her stroll. Wrapped within the tabloid’s pages was Pork Chop’s wallet.