Bobby Byrd - Lone Star Noir

“I have a degree, you know. Aha, an associate’s degree in food management. That’s right, from City College on the east side. You know, right? You know St. Philip’s, right?”

“Yes.”

“I graduated in May. My grades weren’t so hot. But I finished, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“What bank you work at?”

He thought up a lie, afraid now of the guy back there in the car, of her ilk.

“I work in real estate at the bank. Don’t really have anything to do with money.”

“Ooh, good. Yeah, me, I’m a home owner. That’s what you mean by real estate, right?”

She pulled a cigarette out of her bag and lit up.

She didn’t even ask me, he thought. He wanted to tell her not to smoke in his truck. Decided not to.

Be careful. Slow down, he thought. They got to a busy intersection. Slow down, slow down, he kept thinking.

“Take 35. Take the expressway,” she said. “I really gotta pee.”

“I can’t get on the expressway right now, like this. I’m drunk. Too many cops. Can you hold it for ten minutes? We’ll be at my house in ten minutes.”

“Can’t you pull over and let me pee? Just over there. Look, it’s dark. Pull over, man. I gotta pee.”

“I promise. We’re five minutes from my house now. Okay? You okay with that?”

“Okay. Okay.”

She really didn’t have to pee, just wanted to get to his house and smoke the crank. He knew it and started getting angry, feeling upset, used. But just then, just as he turned the corner, her purse rolled over and popped open. He saw it in there, clear as day, a knife, a big one, a switchblade. So he shut up.

She looked at him as she grabbed her purse, put it back in order. Leered at him. Hated him for not pulling over. For such a smart man, banker, real-estater, whatever, he’s a fucking idiot, she thought. Look at him, such a sissy, all scared and all. I ain’t gonna hurt you, honey. I just wanna smoke a little of this shit, man. I just wanna get out and smoke a little of this shit. Fuck him. Like he can’t pull over for just a minute? How much longer? How much longer?

“Hey, how much longer?”

“See that white house over there… on the right? That’s my house.” They pulled into the driveway. “Relax, we’re here, we’re here.”

Yeah, shit, you relax with these little candies in your hand, motherfucker, she thought, you fucking relax. She was turning into a fiend, a monster, someone he had not recognized in that dark bar.

She jumped out of the truck and waited for him at the door. “Come on, man, I gotta pee, please hurry.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t make so much noise. It’s late. The neighbors-”

“You wanna fucking commotion? You wanna see what a commotion really is?” she said loudly.

He got the picture, hurried and unlocked the door, switched on the light.

She slipped in. “Where’s your toilet?”

“Straight ahead, straight ahead. You’ll see the door.”

Just take the damn stuff and then I’m going to get you out of here, he thought. I promise, Jesus, get me out of this one and I’ll never do it again, never, promise.

She came out of the bathroom rather quickly. He didn’t even hear the toilet flush. “Do you have foil? Tin foil? I need some foil.”

“What for?”

“To smoke this stuff. Come on. Get the foil.”

“You smoke it? I thought you were supposed to snort that stuff?”

“Can you get the foil, please?”

He went to the kitchen. He wanted to find it, was desperate to find it, take it back to her, let her smoke her damn stuff, then get her the hell out of the house. He grabbed the box of foil and rushed back to the dining room where she was sitting at the table.

“Hey, get me a little plate, okay, like a coffee plate, you know, like for under a cup of coffee.”

He ran back to the kitchen, pulled a saucer out of the dishwasher, ran back to the dining room.

She opened her hand. The little plastic baggie was stuck to her palm. She peeled it off, struggled with the tiny seal, finally opened it, and carefully poured the two crystals onto the plate.

“Give me the foil.”

He handed her the box.

She reached for her purse, which she had set on the chair next to the one she was sitting in. Pulled out the switchblade.

He jumped back.

She giggled. “Hey, man, don’t worry. I’m just gonna break this shit up, man. What’d you think? I was gonna slice you up, man? C’mon, man. You’re silly, silly, real silly.” She stared at him, pressed the button, and the blade switched open. She broke one of the crystals in two- clink .

“Fuck the foil,” she said, and went back into her purse for her pack of cigarettes. She pushed the little piece of crystal that looked like rock salt into the tip of the cigarette. Lit up. Her eyes rolled back into her head. They were solid white for a while, almost pearlescent, almost beautiful.

“Take a hit,” she said. “Let me load it for you. Here. Look…”

“No, not really. Don’t do that. Thanks. You do it all.”

She pressed hard on the second piece to break it up into smaller bits, the blade flat on it this time, and when she did so, a few grains spilled off the plate onto the floor.

“Oh my God! What did I do? How much fell?” She pushed off the table and fell immediately to her hands and knees, touching the ground as if blind. Then she looked up at him suddenly, crazed, and asked, “Is somebody back there? Are the cops back there?”

Damnit, she’s wigging out, he thought. “No, there’s nobody back there. Promise.”

“Let’s go see.”

“Okay.” He took her to the back of the house, past the bathroom. Pulled her into both bedrooms. Showed her the closets. Pulled up the dust ruffle from around each bed. Made her look underneath. “See, no one’s in here. I promise. No one’s in here.”

“What about outside? They’re waiting outside, aren’t they, the police?”

“No,” he said loudly, almost yelling, exasperated. “Come and see for yourself.” He pulled the curtain aside, yanked up the blind. Nothing there. She saw. Just a backyard. Plain backyard. Not even a dog.

Then she looked at him, dazed, stoned, and slurred, “I thought your house was bigger, you know, being a banker and all.”

She turned away from him and started walking, slowly, headed back to the dining room, almost as if she were floating, sat down at the table, but in the chair opposite the one she’d been sitting in.

“So I can look back there,” she said, pointing to the back of the house. “Wanna make sure no one’s back there. You sure no one’s back there?”

He stared at her. Started hating her.

She smoked the rest of the crank. With every hit, her eyes rolled back into her head. Smoked it all except for two crystals still on the saucer.

He started wondering if she’d been casing the house, acting wasted, paranoid, looking for vulnerable places, entries, windows her gun-toting friend could break in through in the middle of the night, kill him. For what? he thought, my TV, my VCR, my computer, my DVD player, my poor, dead mother’s silver? He thought Johnny Boy might even be on his way over already, right now. He trembled, barely, but visibly now, visibly, at least to him-angry, truly afraid for his life. She puffed away.

“Positive,” he said. “You saw yourself. No one’s back there.”

He was now beginning to think that she was going to overdose. She’d smoked so much. It seemed too much. He’d never done it, but he knew what speed could do to a person. He’d seen the movies. Seen the special report on Nightline , “The Meth Crisis.” He imagined her heart pumping faster and faster, harder and harder, then stopping. Just like that. He closed his eyes. Should I call an ambulance? What’ll I do if she ODs? How do I explain it to the police? Jesus, help me, he thought.