Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

“It’s gonna work, chica,” Marisol practically yelled, her voice ringing through the interior of Menchie’s frozen yogurt parlor. She used her siren-red manicured fingers to mimic shooting a gun. “Two pops to the head and it’s over!”

The two young women sat in the long, narrow establishment that screamed with hot pinks and lime greens. It echoed with bad pop music, meant to keep up customer spirits. Outside was a sweltering wet heat; inside was comfortable enough for a penguin and his family to enjoy. But the blinding colors and air-conditioning couldn’t keep customers’ minds from the news: there was a serial killer on the hunt.

So far, eight women had been found in nearby parks or wooded areas, each strangled with a piece of clothing they’d been wearing: shirts, bras, panties, even shoelaces. Not raped. Never touched below the neck. It wasn’t about sex. Yessenia said it was about control, winning, or maybe even ending something. She and Marisol knew all the victims — they were all friends, friends of cousins, or former classmates. That was the East Side: more connected than a politician and only half as shady.

“Aren’t you tired of this shit?” Marisol asked, hands gesturing to accentuate every word. “It’s like the freaking Hunger Games . It’s to the point that we’re not sure if our own friends are out to get us.”

“They aren’t. Probably aren’t.” Yessenia tucked a sliver of dirty-brown hair behind her ear, avoiding Marisol’s wildly gleaming eyes.

“Come on, Yessenia.” Marisol’s own hair — curly, wine-red, crunchy with hairspray and gel — shook with her words. “You haven’t left your house in three weeks. Every time I call you, you’re too scared to answer.”

“We have to let the police do their thing, Mari. Just chill.”

“Those bunch of good ol’ boys? They love brown and black extermination. Since Freddie Gray and Sandra Bland, we’re being hunted. And with that dude as president, it’s open season. You heard the latest, right? No? Amber in Channelview. Check this out.”

Marisol whipped out her cell phone in its glittery pink case and tapped the screen, bringing up a video of two deputies aiming guns at two men in a bright-blue mustang. Yessenia recognized the car. She looked away. The gunshots sounded like firecrackers on the phone’s small speakers, reverberating throughout the shop. Marisol identified the wounded, and those names sounded familiar too. Everything was too familiar.

“That went down after finding out about Marissa. Them boys are mad as hell. And after Dejah, the streets are lit. How many more have to die before this fool gets caught?”

“Why us, though? Like, why can’t the homies... ” Yessenia trailed off and wrapped herself tighter in her brown cardigan.

“The homies ain’t about handling any business but their own. Amber had kids, man. I met them. She brought them to the house to pick up a registration sticker. Now they’re orphans — part of the system. It ain’t right.”

The stickers were an old argument between them. For Marisol, selling fake car registration and inspection stickers was a means to an end. Either you hustled, or you got hustled. Sometimes Marisol thought Yessenia considered herself too good for the East Side, with its taco trucks and discount grocery stores. Too good for the oil refineries and the upwind from Pasadena. She couldn’t bear to walk on a street with no sidewalks. Didn’t she know, sometimes folks need to make their own way in the world? That’s what Marisol was doing.

Yessenia stirred her orange yogurt soup in disappointment. Marisol’s fake car stickers were bad enough. She also charged little old ladies to fill out their Lone Star card applications for food stamps. Twenty-five dollars a pop and no guarantees. But they kept coming, because they needed someone who knew how to read and write English. Grandmothers, the disabled, single mothers — Marisol took advantage of everyone equally. She even seemed proud of it.

“I wish you’d stop doing that stuff.”

Marisol rolled her eyes at her best friend. “Ain’t no one worrying about no damn stickers right now, Yessi. We’re being killed, pendeja!”

Nearby, an old woman sitting with her young granddaughter glared at Marisol, who responded with an ugly look of her own, daring her to say something, before continuing her train of thought: “I bet you he’s a cop. They know about killing us and getting away with it.”

“Mari, that’s not fair.”

Yessenia’s phone buzzed. She glanced at its screen, then placed it facedown on the table. “Can we take a break from talking about this?” She pushed away her yogurt and stared out the window, her face flushed as snow.

Marisol leaned over to hug her. “I’m not letting anything happen to you, I promise,” she whispered. “Ain’t no one messing with my girl. Nobody.”

The promise hit Yessenia’s ear in a boom. This was how it was with them: the whispers were never quiet, and the secrets never stayed secret. Usually, there wasn’t anything Yessenia could keep from Marisol. So it surprised her that Marisol hadn’t noticed the new gold bracelet on her wrist or her dangling earrings. She was too caught up in her anger.

“Wet out there, ain’t it?” she says.

Behind the counter and the thick glass, the cashier flips through a magazine and doesn’t acknowledge Marisol. His name is Roscoe, Yessenia found out. It’s obvious he wants nothing to do with his customers. He’s almost forgettable in his bright-blue cotton polo and khakis. Roscoe wears his role like camouflage, Marisol thinks, sizing up his prey without her knowing. She’s just a woman alone, stopping into the store for a drink. Not paying attention to the cabrón about to crush her windpipe. He’s one of those East Side country white boys, cowboy boots and hat like an unwritten uniform. If not the cowboy uniform, then an old trucker hat like every man in his family wore after they went bald. That was years away for Roscoe. He kept his blond hair short on the sides and longer on the top. He wasn’t Marisol’s type, not by a long shot. She preferred her country boys like white noise, in the background and hardly noticeable. But this one, this one looked like he had something to prove.

Even the hunting ground is incognito — just an average convenience store. This one is about the size of a thumb, with bright fluorescent lights flooding every corner. Not one place to hide. A strong smell of bleach punches Marisol’s gut. It’s like a hospital, but filled with snacks. She has to admit, it’s a logical setup. If she were a killer, she might’ve thought of it herself.

“Bathroom?”

Roscoe points to the back of the store where a gray door stands open.

Marisol walks slowly past the rows of candy bars and motor oil, casing the area. No one but her and the guy behind the bulletproof glass.

Fuck! How am I gonna get this fool to come out from behind the counter?

If she can’t do that, the piece at the small of her back is useless. The restroom door scrapes against the floor with a loud noise as she closes it behind her.

“Where are you going to get a gun?”

“I got a cousin,” Marisol said.

“Of course,” Yessenia muttered under her breath. She wrapped herself tighter in her favorite brown cardigan — the one that made her feel safe. She’d put her hair in a messy ponytail, ready for whatever Marisol had planned for the night. Her jeans, however, were new, and had cost enough to fill the truck’s gas tank three times over. They were a gift, and she wanted to show them off, even if only to her best friend. But Marisol was once again distracted.

The Hartz Chicken Buffet parking lot was empty as last call at a funeral home. Marisol watched the employees through the stained windows. They buzzed around in dark aprons, cleaning and serving the final customers of the night.