Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

“Sorry,” Cole said, “I didn’t think to track that.”

“They’re always looking to cheat you,” she went on without pause. “Especially to cheat me . They think I can afford it, and, big whoop, I can afford it, but I don’t let it happen. My eyes are like an elephant’s memory: they never forget.”

That makes no fucking sense , Cole thought, rising, smiling.

“She says this isn’t Cirôc.”

“She’s a piece of work,” Tariq replied.

“Pour it into a different glass. Add a dollop of the cheapest shit you’ve got,” Cole said. “Vodka’s vodka.”

“There you go.” Tariq nodded to a departing couple, the priest and woman. The tail of a dragon descended her leg, its body vanishing under her skirt. “Lucky dragon,” he added.

“They have forked tongues,” Cole replied. “In the Chinese tradition, at least.”

“You’re a fount all right.” Tariq slid papers onto the bar.

“What’s this?” Cole asked.

“The report you fucking made me write. I know you can’t take it now, but tell Herta.”

Cole examined the pages: Virginia Woolf’s Use of Landscape in Mrs. Dalloway. He shrugged apologetically. “It was the only way to shut her up.”

“I want a full third.”

“It’s three pages.”

“Single-spaced.”

“Fine, Christ, give me the drink. Wait, did you get this off the Internet?”

“Fuck you. I was an English major.”

“She’ll know, and she’ll have your balls.”

Without looking down, Tariq wadded the papers and threw them away. “I still want a third,” he said, delivering the drink.

“Then do your work,” said Cole.

The party moved to River Oaks. Madelyn’s house was not big by neighborhood standards — barely the size of an ocean liner. White columns divvied up the front. Sycamores and live oaks shadowed either side. The living room was roughly the size of a Walmart. Not a Walmart Supercenter, Cole noted, just the ordinary store. They aimed themselves at a cow-colored leather couch as long as a limo.

“A whole herd of Holsteins committed hari-kari to be this family’s sofa,” Herta said.

“The wealthy have that effect on cattle,” Cole replied. “It’s why they’re forever running for office.”

Cocaine on a silver tray passed from lap to lap. “We have different dads,” Herta was saying. “I’m an Oberheuser, he’s a Cole.”

“Herta Oberheuser?” one of them said. “Wasn’t there a Nazi with that name?”

“Probably,” Herta said. “Our family has long history of betting on the wrong nag.” She changed the subject: “Isn’t it funny we say lose our virginity?” When in doubt, talk sex. Boys loved girls who talked sex. “Like it’s a rowdy dog that got off its leash? Should’ve kept that damn virginity in a kennel.”

“How else could we say it?” Madelyn pressed.

“Whopped my virginity upside the head,” Herta said.

“Poisoned it,” suggested Cole. “Murdered that twit.”

Pork Chop’s face reddened at the grinding of wheels inside his thick head.

Herta adopted an accent. “Give me virginity da boot, I did.”

“Hanged it from a mighty oak,” offered Cole.

“I let someone else have it!” Madelyn said, thrilled to contribute. “I let him or her have it!”

Herta smiled and leaned to whisper in Cole’s ear. “This is like filching marbles from first-graders.”

“Yeah,” said Cole. “Fun.”

“Did I tell you what happened at Affirm today?” Madelyn asked. Affirm was her gym. She described the day’s activities in excruciating detail, a saga that lasted nearly twenty minutes. Summary: she exercised.

They waited until one a.m., then drugged everybody.

Herta helped Cole carry Madelyn upstairs, her arms looped around the girl’s knees. They dropped her onto a wide bed in a girly room with Madelyn’s name spelled on the wall in seashells.

“Jesus,” Herta said, tugging on Madelyn’s skirt. “What a narcissist.”

“Not narcissism,” said Cole. “Egomania.” He unbuttoned Madelyn’s blouse. Tariq was right: Madelyn was long in the face but attractive nonetheless. Especially unconscious. Not that it mattered. Cole recognized beauty but could not comprehend what it was supposed to do for him.

“Self-absorption is a classic symptom of narcissism,” Herta argued. She tossed the skirt aside and tugged on the woman’s panties.

“Narcissists have a delusional sense of grandeur,” said Cole. Her bra was the type that hooked between the cups. He unhooked it and pulled one cup free. “Egomaniacs operate from a deep sense of self-doubt and anxiety. She blares her horn so people won’t examine what’s under the hood.”

“Ooh,” Herta said, “I like that.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the underwear.”

“Granny panties,” Herta acknowledged. “Don’t tell Tariq. It’ll undercut my authority.” She crossed her arms and studied. “Leaving the bra on is a nice touch. Maybe I’ll have Pork Chop’s boxers hanging from one ankle.”

“That’s cliché,” Cole said. “It’s beneath you.”

Herta poked at the woman’s exposed breast to measure the wobble. “Enhanced, but nicely done. Top-notch work.”

“You can tell by the angle of the nipples,” said Cole. “They aim too insistently up. No need to touch.”

Downstairs, they separated Pork Chop from the other unconscious saps and lugged him out the door in the direction of the car that answered his key’s beep — a Mercedes the blue of an unobstructed night sky.

“I hope we never drop the term horsepower ,” Herta said. She had Pork Chop’s feet. “Have you ever wondered how people who live in countries without horses make sense of it?”

“This fat bastard is heavy as a horse.” Cole’s arms were wrapped around Pork Chop’s chest. He had to waddle to carry the lump. Cole did not like waddling. “There aren’t any countries without horses.”

“Ethiopia, maybe. The Sudan,” she said. “Do they have a conversion to wildebeest power ?”

“I don’t think wildebeests are found that far north,” said Cole. “More likely to encounter a horse than a wildebeest in the Sudan.”

“You’re being intentionally pedantic to squelch my conversational gambit,” she said.

“Tariq will want to drag Pork Chop across the yard to your bed,” said Cole. “Don’t let him do it. Make him lift. Mr. Chop’s got to think he walked into your bedroom on his own. He can’t have gravel in his sneakers.” Pork Chop’s sneakers looked to be made from the pelts of endangered animals.

“I can handle Tariq,” she said. “Don’t you fret.”

Headlights appeared up the boulevard, a couple of cars approaching slowly. Cole and Herta ducked beneath the hedge. Sour sweat from Pork Chop’s underarms reminded Cole that humans were merely stinking animals, which led him to think about meat. “She really should have provided snacks.”

“Tacky,” Herta agreed. The headlights of the first car swept past. “I think we enjoy this — even though it involves tasks like toting this human tuba — because our shady intentions darken the things we do, and that darkness lends them weight. Which is to say—”

“Here we go,” said Cole.

“Our objectives mascara the activities.”

“Too girly,” said Cole.

“You wear mascara.”

“Only when I’m working.”

“I’m talking about work,” she said. “I’d like to hear you do better.”

Cole sighed. “Each of the stupid things we do with these rich turds is bearable because the promise of money cuts through the odor of shit.”

“That’s bad in so many ways, I can’t count them all,” she said. “It’s vulgar without being funny. And you can’t literally smell money.”