Chris Holm - The Wrong Goodbye

Here, in this case, was Cuesta Verde Estates, a tidy little development a few minutes north of downtown Las Cruces —or, at least, it would have been a tidy little development, if the project hadn’t been abandoned years back when the market tanked. The ad in the circular promised “ SEVERAL UNITS AVAILABLE! PRICED TO MOVE! FINISH TO SUIT !" —all music to a would-be squatter’s ears. I counted twenty-four homes on the single, winding drive, ranging in state from finished, just inside the charming flagstone sign that marked the entrance of the development, to skeletal frames draped in Tyvek and sheets of plastic as the pavement gave way to fifty feet of dirt track before vanishing into the desert beyond. Only the first three or so looked to be occupied. The rest sat vacant, their many FOR SALE placards swaying gently as one in the warm desert breeze. I checked the clock in the dash. It was barely 2pm. That meant what few people actually lived here were likely all at work or school or wherever.

For now, the neighborhood was ours.

I piloted the Cadillac down the empty street, past the well-tended yards of the occupied houses, and into a stretch marked by heat-cracked earth and overgrown by desert scrub. Here and there, the pavement jutted a couple feet to the left or right of the main drive, and the curb followed suit, curving to accommodate these tiny on-ramps to nowhere. They were no doubt intended to allow for future development should the need arise; I’m sure whoever plotted out Cuesta Verde saw modest taupe houses on every tenth of an acre for miles around, on streets named Mesa and Arroyo and the like. Now those preparations for expansion were nothing more than a painful reminder of headier times too far gone to even hope that they’d return.

“There,” I said, nodding at an unfinished house around the bend from the entrance to the development, obscured from view of the occupied homes by the two that came before it. “That’s the one.”

Gio heaved a sigh that sounded like a balloon deflating. “I still don’t see why we can’t stay at a motel.”

I shot him a look that would’ve made a small child cry. Gio just blinked back at me from amidst a pile of crumpled cellophane wrappers and empty Coke cans —his face full of crumbs, his expression blank. “Well, for starters, I just spent the last of Ethan’s cash on food —food that was supposed to last the three of us at least a day. And I’m sure the cops’ve flagged Ethan’s credit card accounts by now, which means we even try to get a room, they’ll be on us in minutes. Then there’s the matter of the stolen Caddy and the pissedoff Texas oilman in the trunk, which as far as I’m concerned makes parking anyplace where there’s witnesses a pretty crap idea.”

“Hey, it ain’t my fault I ate all that shit —this dude you stuck me in was fuckin’ hungry . ’Sides, Roscoe’s gotta have a little dough on him, right?”

“Not a dime. I checked his wallet —plenty of plastic, but any cash he had went the way of the G-string last night.”

“Figures you’d kidnap the only oil exec on the planet that ain’t carrying a fat wad of bills. So fine, a motel’s out, but that don’t mean we gotta stay in a total shithole —I mean, they’re trying to sell these places, right? Which means they gotta have a model home around here somewhere. You know, with lights and AC, and running water so I could maybe take a shower? I mean, this place ain’t even finished —it’s like a fucking tent with siding.”

“Yeah, but it’s out of sight, and it’s got a garage where we can stash the car. The model home was around front, near the ones where people live, and it didn’t have a garage —you think nobody’s going to notice if we move in?” I shook my head. “I’ll tell you, man —it’s a good thing you had a deal with a demon to fall back on, ’cause on your own you’re kind of lousy at being a criminal.”

“Geez, Sam, didn’t nobody ever tell you words can hurt? Like, imagine for example I said, ’Funny, you talkin’ smack about how I do my job, ’cause from where I’m sitting, it looks like you suck so bad at doing yours that you had to come beg me for help’? That’d kinda sting, wouldn’t it?”

“Cute,” I snapped. “Real cute. Now how about you work off that bag of Funyuns you devoured by getting that garage door open so we can park this boat inside, huh?”

“Wow,” he said, hauling himself up out of the bench seat and trotting up the driveway, “sounds like somebody needs a hug.” Gio’s tone was pissy, but I caught the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he yanked up the garage door and beckoned me in. Despite myself, I wound up grinning back at him. Then he flipped me off.

I drove into the waiting garage, shaking my head as Gio slid the door shut behind me.

God help me, I thought, I’m actually starting to like this guy.

“Looks like we’re clean,” Gio said. “For now, at least. Gotta say, Sam, in my line a work, I’ve swept for bugs a time or two —but before today never the creepy crawly kind.”

I was sitting cross-legged on the bare plywood subfloor of our new squat, reading the copy of the Las Cruces Sun-News I’d picked up on our snack run by the light of the afternoon sun. Or, rather, that’s what I was trying to do. Gio’d barely given me a moment’s peace. Reading near Gio was like reading in the company of a dog —he couldn’t seem to comprehend that what looked like me just sitting there ignoring him was me actually fucking doing something.

I’d kept him busy a few minutes checking the house for Deliverants —but it was a small place, and wide-open on the inside, so it didn’t take him long. The fact there weren’t any was heartening. I guess my buddy the bug-monster figured he’d give me a little latitude to go along with my marching orders.

Not like that latitude was going to do me any good if I couldn’t find five quiet minutes to formulate some kind of workable plan. I’ll tell you, between Gio’s yammering, and Roscoe screaming his fool head off in the bathroom, it was a miracle I didn’t kill them both. I mean sure, I’m not strictly speaking supposed to dispatch folks willy-nilly, but it wasn’t like the water I was in could get any hotter .

Least, that’s what I thought at the time. One of these days I’m going to learn that when I think to myself it really couldn’t get much worse, I am never, ever right. Much worse is sort of hell’s stock in trade, and I’m an idiot for forgetting that, even for a moment.

“You figure this Danny jackass has got a plague of locusts on his tail, too?”

I shook my head. “Crows.”

“Come again?”

“The creatures stalking Danny would be crows.”

Gio snorted. “Gotta tell you, dude: you wound up with the shit end of that stick.”

“You think?” I asked. “Seems to me, I’d rather run into a bunch of pissed-off insects than an equal number of angry crows. Those fuckers are smart, and nasty when pressed.”

Gio fell silent then, for like a whopping ten seconds. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

“So what exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I snapped. “I’ll find it when I see it.”

“This research shit would go a hell of a lot faster if you had an iPhone, you know.”

“Phones should have cords,” I said, “not television screens.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me a woman’s place is in the home, right? I know you’re older than you look, Sam, but you might wanna try gettin’ with the times —it’s a brave new world out there! Besides, everybody says print is dead anyway.”