Bobby Byrd - Lone Star Noir

The latex hood was twisted. The holes for the nostrils were in the wrong place. Peter’s nose was completely covered.

His hands shaking now, Jared adjusted the hood, moving the holes back to their proper place.

Jared shook Peter’s leg. “Peter. Wake up. Peter.”

There was no response.

Jared shook the whole sling. Peter’s body bounced around, but it lay still when Jared let go of the sling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jared turned to find Leitner regarding him, that cold smile back on his face. “I think he’s dead.”

“I believe you are correct. Sir.” Leitner laughed.

Jared glanced at the German’s hands.

Why was Leitner wearing latex gloves? He hadn’t been wearing them before.

Had he?

Jared shook his head. He was having difficulty remembering. Thinking.

Getting a little hard to breathe.

He reached out toward Leitner.

Stumbled to his knees.

Stared up at the German.

Leitner smiled down at him. “It will end soon. You will go to sleep. Sir.” He held something out to Jared. A bottle.

Though his hand and arm felt too heavy to lift, Jared grasped the bottle.

What was happening to him?

“Thank you. I needed your fingerprints on the pill bottle. You Texans are arrogant, yet you are most helpful. It is quite an amusing paradox.” Leitner laughed, and the sound made Jared want to cry.

Leitner walked away.

Jared tried to crawl after him, but his limbs were too heavy. He passed out on the floor, the bottle still in his hand.

San Antonio

He was fucking scared. No shit. Really scared. Although he was in his mid-thirties, he’d never done such a thing before-picked up a woman at a bar, driven her crosstown to the west side to buy cocaine. Never. Never even done coke himself. But he did what she wanted him to. He was horny. Hadn’t had a girlfriend for over a year now, and had been with the last one for twelve years. And he wasn’t lucky with the ladies, always told his friends, “No, you don’t understand, I have to chat them up first. I have to charm them.”

But that night he didn’t have much of a choice; testosterone had taken over, and although there were slim pickins, he made his move to the end of the bar where she was standing. She had a thumb hooked into the pocket of her jeans, and in her other hand she held a cigarette over the ashtray on the bar. It was late, closing time. The barkeep announced last call. And rather quickly-it had been easier than he’d thought it would be-they left the bar together, and he found himself driving his truck farther and farther away from familiar territory. She asked him to get money for the dope. He drove to the closest bank and withdrew forty bucks, guaranteeing, he thought, he’d get laid.

“Lights off,” she said softly. “Turn your lights off and pull over. Yeah, right there, man. I see him. Ahí esta. Good. We lucked out.”

He coasted to a stop. “Where?”

“Over there. Shhh… I’ll be right back.”

She opened the door, slipped out, then closed it really carefully and walked over to a car parked on the other side of the street, a little behind where they had rolled to a stop. Through the rearview mirror, he saw the car’s door open slowly. A man stepped out, a gun stuck into his pants right above a big silver belt buckle, like a rodeo champion. The revolver sparkled in what little light shone from the moon shrouded in silvery clouds.

The windows fogged up quickly, the air hot with alcohol and adrenaline. Inside the cab of the truck, it smelled like a bedroom after two very drunk people had sex.

He was scared. “And all for pussy, all for pussy,” he whispered, eyes darting from the rearview to the mirror on the driver’s-side door, then ahead of him.

Suddenly she tapped at the window as he zoned, drunk, focusing on what he thought was someone inside a car two vehicles ahead. He twitched, then adjusted his vision, squinted to make out her face through the clouded window, had to double-check; the streetlamp had been shot out. Her earring clinked against the glass.

He rolled down the window. Even in this dark craziness, she looked beautiful, like a movie star, like a young Sophia Loren. Thumb hooked into her jeans pocket again. She had sad eyes, he thought, pleading and lost.

“Give me the money, man.”

“What? How much, how much?”

“Twenty, thirty, whatever. C’mon, man. He’s waiting.”

“Well, I’m a little uncomfortable-”

“Shhh… just gimme the money, man, come on.” She placed her hand on his mouth, pressed down hard like she meant business. It hurt a little. “Shhh… just gimme the money, man. He’s waiting. I gotta give him some money now or he’s gonna get mad at the both of us. C’mon.”

Her teeth clenched tight.

The urgency in her voice scared him. He fumbled through his shirt pocket, into which he had shoved the bills, and pulled out the two twenties, crisp, folded in half, fresh out of the ATM.

I’m gonna die. Dear Jesus, I’m gonna die, he thought, his upper jaw still smarting from her forceful grip.

She quickly counted the money he gave her and went back to the car across the street.

“Thank you, God. Gracias, Jesus Christo Redentor.” She was jonesing, jonesing really bad.

“Here, babe, two big rocks. Smoke ’em, man. Break ’em up a little, then smoke ’em. You’ll get the most mileage that way. It’s good stuff. Promise. Good stuff.”

“Thanks, Johnny Boy. You’re my man. You always got my back. Thanks, man.”

“Hey, Sonia, do me a favor. Don’t bring that dude back here no more.”

“No, Johnny Boy. He’s cool. Promise. He’s cool. He’s all square, man. He works at a bank. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t bring ’im here no more. Okay, mi morenita?”

“Okay, papacito. Love you, man.”

She put two fingers to her lips to flick him a kiss and went back to the truck. He would’ve hurt her if she had come here with no money-not badly, but he would have slapped her a couple of times. She knew it. She’d seen him do it.

But she was beautiful, and this had always helped her.

He acts all nice and all, but he’d hurt me, just like that, she thought as she walked back to the truck.

In one hand she held the dope in a tight fist-tight, tight fist; the thumb of her other hand was hooked into her jeans pocket.

“Thank you, Jesus.” She made the sign of the cross, and at the end, right at the end of the sign of the cross, right when she usually kissed her thumb as if holding the cross hanging at the end of a rosary, just as her mother had taught her to do, she kissed the sweet little plastic pouch and jumped back into the truck.

Once in, she put her face to her shoulder, sniffed her underarm. “Damn, I still smell like fish,” she said. “I gotta quit that job, I swear. Let’s get the hell outta here.” She leaned over, kissed him, slipped him some tongue, let him know she was grateful for the money, for the ride, for bringing her all the way across town, and sat back. The dope was in her hands. She could feel it there. It reassured her. Made her happy.

He put the truck in gear and drove off slowly, didn’t turn the lights on until the end of the block. He’d gotten the picture. He wasn’t stupid.

She checked her underarm again. “Do I smell like fish? You know, fried fish. You know, like my work. Do I smell like Long John Silver’s?”

He wrung the steering wheel. “No, you don’t smell like fish.”

“I told you I work at Long John Silver’s, right?”

He nodded yes, kept his eyes on the road, afraid to get stopped. He thought, Not only am I drunk, but there’s speed in the car now too. Fuck.

He had just wanted to loosen her up. Never thought it would be this dangerous. He could’ve gotten held up, hurt, the truck stolen. But no, had to go along with it, didn’t I? he thought. I gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home.