Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

Cole went into action, aiming himself at Madelyn’s group. He paused on his way to swoop down, pretending to snag the wallet from the floor. The periphery of his vision flashed red, as if a trigger in his head were half-depressed — a sensation he understood as pleasure. “Hi there.” He copped a pose and smiled, eyeing Pork Chop. The group circled a table but were not yet sitting. “When my sister inadvertently tackled you—” he paused to laugh and roll his eyes; he hated eye-rolling, but rich people loved it, “you dropped your billfold.”

The three males self-frisked, dogs with fleas. This was their greatest worry, and they had to lay hands on their money.

Cole handed the wallet to Pork Chop, who riffled through his cards and cash, saying, “She’s your sister?”

Cole and Herta did not look anything like siblings except that each had a cunning nature that lent a cast to their eyes and set their heads at an angle, and these shared traits were easy to mistake for familial bond.

“Thank the man,” Madelyn Glancy told her portly pal. Her eyes never left Cole’s. “Can he buy you a drink? Your whatever — sibling — too. Have I seen you here before?” To Pork Chop, she said, “Put your money away. Where are your manners?” She rolled her eyes for Cole’s benefit.

Cole had rolled his first. He couldn’t hold it against her. He said, “You guys have room for two more?”

Tariq’s First Words to Cole:

“This is supposed to be funny, right?” They’d exited a classroom at the U of Houston, Tariq brandishing The Importance of Being Earnest. “Funny ha-ha?”

“It’s funny,” Cole assured him. “I can tell. Want to help me boost a car?”

“I don’t know ’bout that.”

“From the faculty lot.”

“All right then.”

What Cole Speculated about Tariq:

That he never thought twice about anything, and this was his greatest asset.

Herta’s First Words to Cole:

“Oh, is this yours?” Her hand was on his wallet. His hand held her wrist. Anvil was happy-hour crowded.

He leaned close. “How many billfolds in that purse of yours?”

“I don’t have a bookkeeper,” she replied.

He led her to a booth where, after a few drinks, he discovered that her skills were hard-earned. Her résumé included a six-month stint in Shakopee Women’s Prison in Minnesota, but she’d never been arrested in Texas, and never anywhere under the name Herta Oberheuser.

Cole had no criminal record. His ID was legit, if odd — his whole name was simply Cole . His mother insisted it was all he needed.

“What about your dad?” Herta asked.

“He was in Kuwait when I was born.”

“They still alive?”

“They were the last time I saw them.”

“Which was?”

“Five years ago,” he said. “Maybe six.”

“Where’d they move?”

“Nowhere.” He named the address of his childhood home.

“That’s like a five-minute drive.”

“Without traffic. It can back up there because of the off-ramp.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said.

To which he replied, “Let’s steal something together.”

She counted it as the most romantic moment of her life.

“What’s your actual name?” Cole asked before they left Anvil. “Nobody is really named Herta Oberheuser.”

“It rhymes with something found in nature,” she said.

“Belephant?” was his only guess.

What Cole Speculated about Herta:

That she must have attended college — you couldn’t do anything without a degree these days — but not in Houston, which was the only place he knew.

And that she loved him, which meant she’d be loyal. Up to a point.

What Cole Speculated about Himself:

That his only gifts were his looks and charm. And his ruthlessness, he supposed, but this acknowledgment made him feel immodest.

“Vodka tonic,” said Cole. “Stoli.” To impersonate the wealthy, one had to be picky, but when Tariq returned to say they were out of Stoli, Cole couldn’t think of another brand. “Whatever your house vodka is, I guess.”

“It’s absolutely barbaric,” Madelyn interjected. “From reject potatoes grown in Oklahoma or Kansas. Without the best potatoes, you get inferior vodka. Russia has the best. Or Idaho. Which is why the capital of Idaho is Moscow. Oh, don’t just stand there, Tark, get the man a Cirôc and tonic — and use your best tonic, Fentimans, if you’ve got it, or Schweppes from a bottle. A small bottle, freshly opened, not from that abominable squirter.”

She continued her monologue after Tariq departed, extolling the virtues of several liquors, many of which Cole knew for a fact were indistinguishable from one another, but he listened and nodded, feigning interest.

Well, he was interested, so he was feigning something else.

“This is just what I need,” he told her when she finally paused, “someone to give me a clue.” He showed as many of his teeth as he thought she could handle, then asked if she knew the way to a person’s heart.

“I don’t know the way to anyone’s heart ,” she said, as if it were an unattractive organ like the bladder or rectum. “Most people I know aim a little lower.”

Did that mean they aimed for simple affection? Or the groin? She was hard to read. In any case, she kept talking. Across the table, Herta already had her hand in Pork Chop’s hair. A priest sat in the next booth, drinking whiskey, talking to a woman in a dark dress. She might be a nun. Cole wondered if she wore a thong.

“Get me another of these,” Madelyn told Cole. Tariq was working both the bar and the tables, which made him slow. “And don’t let him forget the lemon peel. I like a good peel, and these guys, you have to watch them or they cheat you.”

By these guys , Cole wondered as he walked to the bar, did she mean workingmen in general or Pakistanis in particular? Whatever else one might say about Cole, he was not racist. He disapproved of all humanity equally.

According to their research, Madelyn Glancy was amply wealthy now but also heir to the family’s money, and her mother had recently kicked. Her father was the only stumbling block, and he was off in Europe — a grieving tour , Madelyn called it. The term would trouble Herta but did not interest Cole.

“You want her drink extra strong?” Tariq asked. “Yours extra weak?”

“Just regular,” said Cole. “You know the priest and nun?”

“The priest, sure, Father Silverman. I don’t think that lady’s a nun.”

“ Silverman ? He’s a Jewish priest?”

“What do I know from Jewish?” Tariq deadpanned. “The woman, take a look when she gets up. She’s got a tattoo on her leg.”

“Still could be a nun.”

“Like it’s a Jesus tattoo?” Tariq set the drinks before him and waved away payment. “Add it to my share.”

Prior to this scam, Cole had only ever worked one rich woman, a good-looking widow in her fifties. She gave him a watch that he hocked for $750, but the real money came from her checkbook. Herta copied the woman’s penmanship perfectly, and they paid off their debts and bar tabs. Cole sent money to a handful of phony businesses that Herta set up online. By the time the woman cut him off, he’d stolen close to twenty thousand dollars. Yet she didn’t have him arrested. She could afford financial loss better than embarrassment.

Tedious Madelyn Glancy was worth a great deal more than the Rolex woman. Cole girded his sensibilities and headed back to the table. His was hard work, but it was the life he’d chosen.

“I want you to take this back,” Madelyn said after a single sip. “Tell him I can taste . I have a discerning tongue and a developed palate. This is not Cirôc. He’s charging you for the good stuff and pouring rotgut.”