Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

A slow, steady rain made the streets as slick as glass. Cars slithered down Uvalde Road, careful and saint-like. No speeding. No running lights. North Shore had never been this obedient. The most recent murder had been discovered the night before. Bethany Ife, former cheerleader at C.E. King High School in Sheldon. They found her in the wooded area behind a neighborhood off Beltway 8.

The parking lot lights hummed a dull yellow on cars for sale, cracked pavement, and a long-abandoned ATM decorated with weeds. There was once life here, where a haircut, polished nails, and a good meal were possible. Now those options were gone and an uneasy silence filled every crevice in these neighborhoods. There was a collective holding of breath, a closed eye, the frozen-contortion-before-the-doctor’s-needle type of pause. The East Side sat motionless in thought, waiting, wondering who was next.

Inside the truck, it had been an hour of off-tune humming and air-conditioned chill. Marisol watched Hartz customers get their fill of the all-you-can-eat chicken and roll themselves into their cars. A scrawny discount rent-a-cop escorted each woman from the restaurant to her car. He looked fresh out of high school and still in puberty. What’s he going to do if real stuff goes down? Marisol wondered.

“We should add security services,” she said, then mentally added that to her business plan for Marisol & Company Investigations. That meant adding extra people. Yessi, with her scared ass, could stay in the office doing spreadsheets or whatever assistants do. This new hustle would be better than the selling all those stickers or filling out those forms. She could be a legit business owner, calling some shots around here. She’d be important. Everyone would know her.

“What are you talking about?” said Yessenia.

“We’re gonna start, like, a detective agency. A chick detective agency. In North Shore. Dope, right?”

Yessenia wasn’t surprised. Marisol loved money more than herself and she loved attention more than that. Surely she’d name the thing after herself and make Yessenia file papers. It was my idea! she’d say, making herself the hero and Yessenia the lame sidekick.

Yessenia flicked the air-conditioning vent closed and changed the subject: “Why are we meeting him here?”

“He likes symbolism, the big pendejo.” Marisol flicked the vent back open. When Yessenia didn’t respond, she sucked her teeth loudly. “Ay, I have to tell you everything? You don’t know about the Channelview cheerleading mom? That white woman who wanted to get her hija on the team, so she sent someone to kill that other girl’s mom? They planned that shit right here.”

“Mari, you need to reconsider this stupid plan of yours. It’s going to get you killed.”

“It’s not stupid,” Marisol snapped. “Look — if you want to go back to your house and the little scraps of life you’ve made for yourself, dale. But me? I’m gonna catch this son of a bitch, then ride this gravy train to the end.”

Yesenia rolled her eyes. “Why does it have to be you?”

“Because no one else is doing it. No one else is gonna be out here making this cheddar. Can you imagine if I off this guy? Word spreads on the street, and folks come running to the door.”

“You’re not Batman, you know.”

“Nah, I’m better. I’m his half sister they don’t talk about, from the barrio.” Marisol winked.

A female vigilante — why the heck did Marisol think she could be such a thing? Yessenia peered at her friend’s face in the pink light from a flickering neon sign and thought she looked more like the Joker. Which, when she really thought about it... why was he a villain, anyway? Maybe he was misunderstood and only trying to make the world a better place. Maybe the Joker was the true hero.

Suddenly, Yessenia’s phone buzzed in her back pocket, making her jump.

Marisol laughed, a couple of seconds longer than necessary. “Who is it? Your boyfriend?” Her schoolyard tone rubbed Yessenia like sandpaper.

“Stop laughing at me.”

“You’re scared. Like, little-girl scared. When are you gonna put your big-girl panties on? Damn, no wonder... ”

“No wonder what?” Yessenia tried to make her words rumble into a growl, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“He’s here.”

A Dodge Ram, so black it nearly disappeared, rolled into the parking space next to them. The driver’s-side window opened enough for a pair of glaring eyes to survey the scene. Then a man — a beast — emerged from the truck. Marisol’s cousin was six-foot-plus and built like a bull. Short buzzcut. Eyes like the bottoms of bullets. He marched toward the back cab of the truck.

“Stay here.” Marisol hopped out of the truck and sauntered over to her cousin. He gave her a knowing nod and she nodded back. The exchange was swift. Marisol pointed, the cousin leaned into the darkness of the back cab. She yelled at her cousin and he yelled back. In the end, he handed over a covered bundle and she kissed him on the cheek.

Yessenia read a text on her phone. She responded, I’ll see you soon , and stuffed the phone into her pocket as Mari opened the door.

Smiling as if she’d just walked away from an explosion in an action movie, Marisol brandished a gun from the bundle. “Now we ride! And we’re gonna get ’em — soon!”

Marisol’s heart drums like a death march. Inside the bathroom, she feels claustrophobic, the sand-colored walls closing in on her. She grabs the gun, places it on the sink, and punches the hand drier button. She turns the nozzle up to dry her hair. She leans into the heat and closes her eyes, letting the air play with her long curly locks. This is going to be tougher than she thought.

She can hear Roscoe talking to someone. She cracks the door open, not far enough to repeat its loud squeak, and peeks through. The round-bellied cashier is on his cell phone. Marisol catches shards of conversation.

“Are... sure... yourself... let you know... going to be fine... smile... chula... right.”

The day after Marisol got the gun, Yessenia hoped the downpour would deter her search for the killer. But Marisol showed up at her door dressed in all black: jeans as tight as yoga pants, and black boots with heels so high they could be considered weapons. She looked like a Latina superhero, but without a cape.

“This is stupid,” Yesenia said as Marisol barged through her doorway. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

Marisol looked her up and down. “You look like a librarian with the flu. Go get ready. And hurry — we need to pick up something on the way.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Yessenia swatted at a loose strand from her messy ponytail and adjusted her dark-rimmed glasses.

Marisol rolled her eyes and tossed her curls. Hands on her hips, she stared down on Yessenia. “Look, stop being a punk, huh? You act like you didn’t even grow up here. What else you got to do tonight? It’s not like you have a boyfriend. What are you gonna do — play with your cat and watch Netflix?”

“I was in the middle of—”

“When did you turn like this?” Marisol waved her hand dismissively. The words were gasoline, and Yessenia knew the match would soon follow. “You’re so weak.”

Yessenia shuffled toward her room, her house shoes scraping the dusty clay of the Saltillo tile with each reluctant step. Marisol flung herself on the couch, a leg over the armrest and her cell phone between her long fingers. She pounded out social media statuses as she waited for Yessenia. She didn’t notice the new-furniture smell in the living room or the pair of men’s tennis shoes under the couch.

The drive was filled with Marisol’s off-key singing to the radio’s latest Tejano song and Yessenia’s tense silence.