Bobby Byrd - Lone Star Noir

“My girlfriend and I went there,” said Willet. “We loved the place. But you might as well forget all about it, Carney.”

“Why?”

“Because with this kind of backlog and the hiring freeze, we’re still gonna be wading through cases by the time hurricane season hits. We’ll be working like dogs till we’re wrinkled and gray, like old Rickstein.”

“Frankly, Willet,” said Carney, “I’d rather burst into flames.”

They howled and giggled for several minutes. As they passed around the crime scene photos of the incinerated executive, their mirth gradually faded. Finally, Lamont put the photos back in the file and they quieted down and the color began to leave their inflamed cheeks and they went back to work.

They worked quietly and semidiligently until deep in the night. Even when Willet accidentally set the timer on the microwave oven for two extra minutes and the bag of popcorn burned until the stench stung their noses, no one said anything.

Dallas

Jared Lakewood opened the door to his new walk-in humidor and smiled. He had maxed out his last two credit cards and cratered his savings account to have it built and to stock it properly, but his holiday bonus would probably cover it all. Two months to sweat out the payments, and then he’d be clear.

He surveyed the shelves of cigars. Twelve hundred, numerous varieties, minus the five he had smoked over the past couple of days. At the rate he smoked-usually five a day-he would burn through them in less than a year. He would restock long before he reached that point though.

He selected one of his favorites, a La Gloria Cubana Serie R No. 7 Maduro, and took it with him back into the living room. He clipped and lighted the cigar before pouring a double shot of Talisker single malt. The contents of his liquor cabinet were another hefty expense, but worth it, he reflected as he sipped the Talisker and smoked his cigar.

Jared went to the window and gazed down Turtle Creek Boulevard at nighttime. He loved the view of Dallas from here, and he was only a few blocks from work.

He thought about his father. Today would have been the old man’s sixty-fifth birthday. He had died seven years ago while Jared was in college, working two jobs to pay his own way through school.

Jared raised the glass of Scotch at the window. “Hope you’re still roasting in hell, you bastard.” He took another drink before drawing on his cigar. He watched smoke swirl into the air.

The old man would shit his pants if he could see his only son now. Andrew Lakewood had barely scratched out a living on his Georgia farm. His disowned faggot son brought down more money a year than Andrew probably had made in twenty years of backbreaking, soul-destroying labor.

Living well was the best revenge, Jared thought. If his dad were alive, he’d rub the asshole’s face in it. Especially if the old man needed money. Jared could laugh at him and tell him to fuck off.

Thoughts of his father invariably brought back the memories he wished he could erase. The beatings started when he was seven. They didn’t stop until Jared, at seventeen, told his father he was gay. After that Andrew wouldn’t touch him, afraid of the blood.

He had no contact with his parents once he left for college in Houston. His father never wanted to see him again. His mother was too worn down to object.

Jared’s head throbbed. The images burned into his brain, taunted him until he wanted to smash his hand through the glass of the window before him.

Instead he gulped down the rest of the Scotch in his glass and went back to the liquor cabinet for a refill.

Sometime later, thanks to the liquor and the cigar, Jared would feel calmer. Now, however, his thoughts turned to sex. He had no time for hookups during the week, but on Friday night he was more than ready to find a partner for the evening.

He changed into his leathers, feeling his adrenaline surge a bit. Tall, muscular, handsome, he always had plenty of guys hitting on him. In the elevator, he frowned at a young couple who got on a couple of floors after him. They eyed his leathers and didn’t look too thrilled to be cooped up with him.

Fuck you , he thought. He didn’t apologize to anyone about being gay. Nor about liking his sex rough. Fuck them if they can’t handle it.

Down in the garage he slid into his Porsche Boxster. Only ten payments to go, and it was all his. He guided the Boxster out of the garage and down the street. Destination: the Eagle, his favorite leather bar.

When he awoke around one on Saturday afternoon, Jared smiled. He felt great. Sessions like the five-hour one last night always put him in a good mood. The guy he brought home from the bar-Marcus? No, Martin, funny accent, maybe German?-had been an amazing bottom, willing to take all the pain Jared could inflict. He’d like to get his hands on Martin for another round, but the pig would need some time to heal before he could play like that again.

After some lunch he fired up a cigar, poured a little Scotch, and sat down to look over his bills. By the time he finished, he had a roaring headache. Dealing with his finances always affected him this way. In a couple more months, though, he could ease things up with his bonus. No sweat.

On Monday morning as Jared drove through the garage to the street exit, he glanced over at the elevator where a tall man was stepping out. The glimpse he had was only a brief one, but Jared could have sworn the guy was Martin, his trick from Friday night.

He had to be seeing things. He’d kept the guy blindfolded on the drive home, until they were safely inside his apartment. Same procedure when he drove the guy back to the bar afterward. There was no way the trick could have figured out where he lived. Jared shrugged. Couldn’t be the same guy.

He pulled into the street and drove the few blocks to work. He could have walked, but he took the car whenever he could.

He exited the elevator on his floor at work at eight-thirty. As he passed the break room on the way to his office, he glanced inside. Peter was there, chatting away with Amy Conover, executive assistant to the CEO.

Jared shook his head. He never had to indulge in gossip himself to find out what was going on in the firm. Peter always did it for him.

A few minutes later, Jared looked up from his computer to see Peter advancing with a cup of coffee. His assistant set it down on the desk in front of him before taking a seat nearby.

Jared sipped at the coffee while Peter launched into the day’s schedule. Peter was efficient; Jared had to give him that. Hardworking too, though inclined to whine a bit when Jared asked him to do personal errands for him. But Peter didn’t dare refuse outright. He knew Jared would find a way to make him pay for it if he did.

The schedule finished, Peter sat there staring at Jared, obviously bursting with gossip.

“Okay, what’s the big news?” Jared leaned back in his chair and drank his coffee. If he didn’t let Peter yammer away about whatever it was, he’d be sulky all day long.

“Some guy from the European division is here. Big corporate honcho, some kind of troubleshooter,” Peter said, eyebrows arching. “They’re saying that McCallister”-the CEO of the Dallas division of the energy company-“brought him in especially to shake things up. Amy says the board isn’t happy with the Dallas office, and there are going to be some changes.”

“Big whoop,” Jared replied, unimpressed. “They’re always complaining about something.” He was one of the top performers in his division. And one of the youngest. They’d be making him an executive VP soon, he figured.

“I don’t know,” Peter said with the know-it-all grin that irritated the fuck out of Jared. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”