Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

“I think I’m gonna go,” she said, standing up.

Dan leaped up and cut her off from the door to the apartment. “You haven’t found another meeting. I’m gonna help you. Let me get you some water.”

“It’s okay, I really need to go. I forgot that I have to feed a friend’s cat. I actually haven’t been there in days. Could you text me about the meeting?”

She knew she wouldn’t be getting out. The front window’s blinds were drawn. She thought of screaming, but her voice was suddenly gone. It really was like in her nightmares, when she tried to scream and nothing came out.

“Sit down,” Dan said.

“Please let me out,” she croaked.

“Sit down.”

“I’ll scream.”

“Lots of screaming here all the time. It’s a perfect place for screamers to scream all they want. Nobody’s going to do anything. They’re all afraid of the law here.”

He approached her slowly, and she felt like she would faint. Just then, she heard a raucous banging against the apartment door.

“Open up!” a voice yelled. “Police! We’ve got you surrounded!”

Dan bolted toward the back of the apartment, and the door busted open. It seemed like twenty cops stormed into room, but it was probably only five. They had Dan down on the bed, a knee grinding into his back, before Jules could find her legs and turn toward the door.

One of the cops had her in cuffs within moments. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere,” he barked. “Some help!” she heard him call before the room turned to static, and she passed out.

“I never liked that guy,” Kelly said. “What’d I tell you? A total faker.”

Jules had stayed away from the club for two weeks, but now she was back. She hadn’t drank or used, but she hadn’t been able to stomach a meeting, nor could she go back to work. Her sponsor stayed with her for the first week, until her seventy-three-year-old mom could fly in from California to help her for an undetermined amount of time — until Jules could manage being alone again, whenever that may be. Her mom had driven her to the meeting in the Malibu, and she would be back twenty minutes after it was over to pick her up and drive her home, then cook enchiladas for her and sit next to her on the couch watching Netflix for hours. Knowing that the rooms of AA were filled with sociopaths and criminals made it hard for Jules to return, but she was aware that staying away for too long meant she would probably drink, and to drink again meant she would probably die. The meetings had helped her stop suffering — pare de sufrir, indeed. She knew she needed to continue to make them. Meeting makers make it , one of the sayings went.

Plus, Kelly was here.

“Now you know what feet of clay are,” he said. “You really know, and like the Promises promise, No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others! You’re facing your fears, girl. Not fucking everything and running.”

She and Kelly were sitting on one of the picnic benches after the noon meeting. A whole gang of fellows surrounded them, some leaning against the wall of the courtyard, some spilling out into the parking lot under the blinding, relentless sunshine. Most of them chatting, laughing. They knew what had happened to her. She’d shared it in the meeting. She’d had to do it. “We’re only as sick as our secrets,” her sponsor had said. She was seeing a counselor now, too, who agreed that going back to the meetings was a good idea — just not to the 2:30.

“You gotta stay in the middle, girl,” Kelly was saying. “Don’t let the fuckers out on the edges get you. You survived. Your experience is gonna help some other person. Now you got one fucking hell of a story! Believe me.” He smiled at her through his yellow-brown teeth.

By some act of grace, he’d been at the Shell station, waiting for his sister to pick him up, and had looked up to see Jules on the third-floor walkway at the Falls of Westpark. He’d seen Dan lead her through the apartment door, the blinds drawn.

“You’re sorta hard to miss,” he said. “Even though that place is full of Mexicans, just like you, you stood out like a sore thumb.” He smiled broader. “I just knew that some seriously bad shit was going down. I called that 1-800-TIPS number — you know, that Crime Stoppers number? Told them I had information on the perp who dumped those gals in the bin and ditch, and that I was pretty sure another dumping was about to take place pronto. I’m amazed how fast they showed up.”

“You gonna get the $5,000?” Johnny asked.

“I’m not telling you if I do!” Kelly laughed.

Jules looked at her watch: 1:20 p.m. A few seconds later, she heard her mom honk the horn of the Malibu. She stubbed out her cigarette and stood. “I gotta go.”

“You gonna be here tomorrow?” Kelly asked.

“Probably.” She was taking it one day at a time, for reals.

“Keep coming back,” Johnny said.

Jules smiled at him.

“You gonna be all right?” Kelly asked.

When she turned to look at him, he was staring at her boobs. She slung her purse over her shoulder, reached her hands behind her waist, and thrust out her chest, as if to crack her back. “I think so,” she said. She waited for Kelly to look her in her eyes again before she dropped her arms. Then she turned and headed into the merciless glare of the parking lot.

Lawndale

Holding my ping-pong paddle — or table tennis, as I referred to the game — I served the ball and tossed a question to Sanjay: “Want to help me track the Raincoat Hombre?”

Sanjay missed the serve. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s follow the hombre!”

I slammed another serve that Sanjay missed. Our fingertips touched as we stooped to pick up the orange ball. Electricity rippled through my body. Leaning forward, I placed my lips on his. Sanjay responded by thrusting his tongue into my mouth. Two men playing a few tables away stopped their game to watch us. We broke apart.

Collecting our belongings, we drove away from the university rec center. Sanjay followed me to my house, where I uncorked a bottle of wine. After a few moments of watching the news, which showed protests against the upcoming presidential inauguration, I turned off the TV and used my phone to play Bollywood music from a wireless speaker. Sitting close to each other, we hummed tunes until the freight train’s whistle cut through the music. I turned off the sound.

On cue, the man I had dubbed Raincoat Hombre appeared in my window, walking down Jefferson Street. Once he dropped out of sight, Sanjay and I slipped out of the back door and into my car.

I drove half a block to the stop sign, where we glimpsed the man below another streetlight. He disappeared into the dark, and I rolled my car forward.

The road curved, and the Raincoat Hombre turned and looked directly toward us, his face a flash of white. Sanjay gasped.

I swung my car onto Hackney Street. Three minutes later, we were back in my living room. I poured more wine.

“It’s hard to hide in a neighborhood where no one walks,” I commented.

We clinked our glasses and found ourselves six inches apart. Sex on my handwoven carpet from Karachi was more satisfying than on my luxury king mattress.

Sanjay and I had met through mutual friends at the University of Houston and bonded over weekly table tennis games, which were followed by drinks, and often more. With my braids and jeans, I could pass as a college undergrad. Sanjay looked older, even though he wore track pants and a baseball cap. His narrow frame stretched a few inches taller than mine, but arm muscles bulged beneath his shirt. He was as zealous about working out as I was about reposing on my sofa.