Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

“You know I love you, right?” Marisol always started the apologies with a question. “I’m sorry if you thought I was mean. It’s just that, sometimes... ”

“Sometimes?”

“You need a push toward what’s good for you. If it were up to you, you’d live in that house and never leave. Just work and home. You even get your groceries delivered.”

“I don’t get my groceries—”

“There’s a whole world out there, Yessi. I know North Shore and the East Side ain’t much, but damn, girl. Get with it. Get a hobby. Get laid! Something!”

“Actually, I just—”

“This world that you created for yourself ain’t right. You’re like one of those mole people who never comes out the house.”

“But I was out all day today. In fact—”

“You gotta interact, girl. There’s a whole world out there for us. Give me a smile? Come on, smile.”

The station had started its commercial break with one about a new weight-loss tactic to improve your love life. Marisol watched as a slow smile spread across her friend’s face and nodded her approval.

She closes the restroom door again. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, trying to escape through her throat. Her hands are shaking and she can’t stop them, no matter how tight she balls her fists. Closing her eyes, Marisol thinks, Breathe in, breathe out, on repeat until she’s somewhat still. Still enough. “You got this, Mari,” she whispers to herself.

She grabs the 9mm from the edge of the sink, the sound of the metal on porcelain louder than she intended. Returning it to the small of her back, the piece is like a reassuring hand. With a final shake to take out the last nerves, she opens the squeaky gray door into the store.

She steps into darkness. The bright hospital lights are off, as are the lights outside. Shit. It will take a minute for her eyes to adjust so she keeps her back on the wall. Don’t call out. He knows I’m not in the bathroom anymore.

The frosty refrigerators are cold on her back. She remembers there were six coolers along the rear of the store. They end at the coffee machines. In front, the chip aisle is closest to the Cokes. She remembers that from last time.

Marisol steps deliberately to the right, her heel making a loud click. Quickly, she slips off her boots and leaves them on the floor. Steps left. Then right. Her toes feel the polished, unyielding floor. She reaches back and grips the piece like her cousin showed her.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” His voice rings through the dark and drips with playfulness.

Marisol’s stomach flips. She doesn’t speak. She’ll let the gunshots be her response.

“Cat got your tongue? This is the first time you’ve shut up in years.”

Marisol sees outlines in the shadows. She’s now in front of the chip aisle. To her right is the coffee pot, still hot and full. Next to the pot is a doorway to the back. She aims at that space. Readying herself.

“You should have noticed something by now. But you only see what you think is important, don’t you?”

The voice is close, almost close enough to touch. She keeps the gun trained on that space, ready to move fast, to follow his voice.

“Oh, no? She didn’t notice? Not at all? This will be delicious.”

The first night of patrolling was about as exciting as a trip to the dentist. The duo drove all night, looking for anything suspicious. Yet they didn’t know what, exactly. Old cars? Random men walking down the street? A deranged guy running with scissors? They drove past refineries and grazing fields peppered with horses. They drove past darkened strip malls and abandoned easements sheltering the sleeping homeless. Using the freeways as their personal Grand Prix and the Beltway like a drag race course, they drove past Waffle Houses and libraries, into neighborhoods that had seen better days when better days were more plentiful. Even North Shore’s Walmart, with its normally towering parking lights, was dim and abandoned. Channelview was worse, and Sheldon looked like no one lived there anymore. That was the worst part of searching for the killer: seeing their neighborhood looking like a ghost town and feeling like a slow death.

On the seventh night of patrolling, with nothing to show for their efforts but sleepless nights and empty gas tanks, Marisol wanted hot Cheetos and a Big Red. The Stop & Shop convenience store called to her like a beacon in a sea of darkness.

“Maybe we should just go home,” said Yessenia.

“Don’t be a baby,” Marisol scoffed.

Inside, the store was bright with whitewashed walls and stung with the strong smell of Clorox.

“It stinks in here, man!” Marisol yelled to the cashier behind the thick plexiglass as she pushed open the door, Yessenia shuffling behind her and smiling apologetically.

“That’s the smell of clean,” the attendant replied, looking up from his book, Programming for Dummies , and winking at Yessenia. The fluorescent light bounced off the plastic badge on his chest, illuminating the name Roscoe .

Marisol rolled her eyes, walked to a refrigerator full of sodas, and saw a familiar face: Demetria Jenkins.

“Girl, how you be?” Demetria swooped Marisol in a bear hug, her boxer braids falling into her face.

Yessenia smiled as she watched this scene and prepared for Demetria’s crushing embrace. But Demetria kept talking with Marisol, so Yessenia shuffled to the chip aisle. She peeked at them through the bags of discount Doritos. They giggled and gossiped like they were back in high school, falling into the type of easy banter Yessenia didn’t have with anyone — not even her own best friend. She wondered if Roscoe saw what was happening and guessed how embarrassed she felt. Eventually, she got tired of eavesdropping and walked back to the pair.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Marisol said when she finally noticed Yessenia had reappeared. “Demetria, you remember Yessenia Perez, right? She went to school with us.”

Demetria cocked her head to the side and made her eyes into slits for a moment before shaking her head. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

Marisol and Demetria continued catching up, so Yessenia carried their items to the cash register. Roscoe smiled at her warmly. His grin tickled his earlobes and it made her blush for a second. His too-tight work shirt covered his belly over his belt buckle. As he rang up her purchase, Yessenia noticed the callouses and scrapes on his hands, worker’s hands. They knew what it was like to get at life the hard way.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asked in a low voice.

“Let’s hope not.” She gave him a small smile.

“You know where to come if you do.”

Yessenia responded with a shy laugh and left the store. It was another fifteen minutes before Marisol joined her in truck.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Demetria. Isn’t she great? We’re gonna get together soon, after all this murder stuff dies down.”

“She didn’t even remember me,” Yessenia said. “And she used to cheat off my homework.”

“She’s getting married next month. Invited me to the wedding.” Marisol slid the truck into reverse and then drove into the night.

Yessenia nibbled on a chip. Her phone buzzed. She occupied herself with its screen as they rode home, with Marisol talking about Demetria all the way.

Two days later, when a pair of runners found Demetria’s body in Gene Greene Park, Marisol sank into the type of sadness that made her snap at everyone around her. Yessenia received the brunt of it, as she was used to.

“We should have been able to find this asshole. Pero no — you had plans. If we’d been out searching that night, Demetria would still be alive!”