Houston Noir Page 16

  The Hartz Chicken Buffet parking lot was empty as last call at a funeral home. Marisol watched the employees through the stained windows. They buzzed around in dark aprons, cleaning and serving the final customers of the night.

  A slow, steady rain made the streets as slick as glass. Cars slithered down Uvalde Road, careful and saint-like. No speeding. No running lights. North Shore had never been this obedient. The most recent murder had been discovered the night before. Bethany Ife, former cheerleader at C.E. King High School in Sheldon. They found her in the wooded area behind a neighborhood off Beltway 8.

  The parking lot lights hummed a dull yellow on cars for sale, cracked pavement, and a long-abandoned ATM decorated with weeds. There was once life here, where a haircut, polished nails, and a good meal were possible. Now those options were gone and an uneasy silence filled every crevice in these neighborhoods. There was a collective holding of breath, a closed eye, the frozen-contortion-before-the-doctor’s-needle type of pause. The East Side sat motionless in thought, waiting, wondering who was next.

  Inside the truck, it had been an hour of off-tune humming and air-conditioned chill. Marisol watched Hartz customers get their fill of the all-you-can-eat chicken and roll themselves into their cars. A scrawny discount rent-a-cop escorted each woman from the restaurant to her car. He looked fresh out of high school and still in puberty. What’s he going to do if real stuff goes down? Marisol wondered.

  “We should add security services,” she said, then mentally added that to her business plan for Marisol & Company Investigations. That meant adding extra people. Yessi, with her scared ass, could stay in the office doing spreadsheets or whatever assistants do. This new hustle would be better than the selling all those stickers or filling out those forms. She could be a legit business owner, calling some shots around here. She’d be important. Everyone would know her.

  “What are you talking about?” said Yessenia.

  “We’re gonna start, like, a detective agency. A chick detective agency. In North Shore. Dope, right?”

  Yessenia wasn’t surprised. Marisol loved money more than herself and she loved attention more than that. Surely she’d name the thing after herself and make Yessenia file papers. It was my idea! she’d say, making herself the hero and Yessenia the lame sidekick.

  Yessenia flicked the air-conditioning vent closed and changed the subject: “Why are we meeting him here?”

  “He likes symbolism, the big pendejo.” Marisol flicked the vent back open. When Yessenia didn’t respond, she sucked her teeth loudly. “Ay, I have to tell you everything? You don’t know about the Channelview cheerleading mom? That white woman who wanted to get her hija on the team, so she sent someone to kill that other girl’s mom? They planned that shit right here.”

  “Mari, you need to reconsider this stupid plan of yours. It’s going to get you killed.”

  “It’s not stupid,” Marisol snapped. “Look—if you want to go back to your house and the little scraps of life you’ve made for yourself, dale. But me? I’m gonna catch this son of a bitch, then ride this gravy train to the end.”

  Yesenia rolled her eyes. “Why does it have to be you?”

  “Because no one else is doing it. No one else is gonna be out here making this cheddar. Can you imagine if I off this guy? Word spreads on the street, and folks come running to the door.”

  “You’re not Batman, you know.”

  “Nah, I’m better. I’m his half sister they don’t talk about, from the barrio.” Marisol winked.

  A female vigilante—why the heck did Marisol think she could be such a thing? Yessenia peered at her friend’s face in the pink light from a flickering neon sign and thought she looked more like the Joker. Which, when she really thought about it . . . why was he a villain, anyway? Maybe he was misunderstood and only trying to make the world a better place. Maybe the Joker was the true hero.

  Suddenly, Yessenia’s phone buzzed in her back pocket, making her jump.

  Marisol laughed, a couple of seconds longer than necessary. “Who is it? Your boyfriend?” Her schoolyard tone rubbed Yessenia like sandpaper.

  “Stop laughing at me.”

  “You’re scared. Like, little-girl scared. When are you gonna put your big-girl panties on? Damn, no wonder . . .”

  “No wonder what?” Yessenia tried to make her words rumble into a growl, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “He’s here.”

  A Dodge Ram, so black it nearly disappeared, rolled into the parking space next to them. The driver’s-side window opened enough for a pair of glaring eyes to survey the scene. Then a man—a beast—emerged from the truck. Marisol’s cousin was six-foot-plus and built like a bull. Short buzzcut. Eyes like the bottoms of bullets. He marched toward the back cab of the truck.

  “Stay here.” Marisol hopped out of the truck and sauntered over to her cousin. He gave her a knowing nod and she nodded back. The exchange was swift. Marisol pointed, the cousin leaned into the darkness of the back cab. She yelled at her cousin and he yelled back. In the end, he handed over a covered bundle and she kissed him on the cheek.

  Yessenia read a text on her phone. She responded, I’ll see you soon, and stuffed the phone into her pocket as Mari opened the door.

  Smiling as if she’d just walked away from an explosion in an action movie, Marisol brandished a gun from the bundle. “Now we ride! And we’re gonna get ’em—soon!”

  * * *

  Marisol’s heart drums like a death march. Inside the bathroom, she feels claustrophobic, the sand-colored walls closing in on her. She grabs the gun, places it on the sink, and punches the hand drier button. She turns the nozzle up to dry her hair. She leans into the heat and closes her eyes, letting the air play with her long curly locks. This is going to be tougher than she thought.

  She can hear Roscoe talking to someone. She cracks the door open, not far enough to repeat its loud squeak, and peeks through. The round-bellied cashier is on his cell phone. Marisol catches shards of conversation.

  “Are . . . sure . . . yourself . . . let you know . . . going to be fine . . . smile . . . chula . . . right.”

  * * *

  The day after Marisol got the gun, Yessenia hoped the downpour would deter her search for the killer. But Marisol showed up at her door dressed in all black: jeans as tight as yoga pants, and black boots with heels so high they could be considered weapons. She looked like a Latina superhero, but without a cape.

  “This is stupid,” Yesenia said as Marisol barged through her doorway. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

  Marisol looked her up and down. “You look like a librarian with the flu. Go get ready. And hurry—we need to pick up something on the way.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?” Yessenia swatted at a loose strand from her messy ponytail and adjusted her dark-rimmed glasses.

  Marisol rolled her eyes and tossed her curls. Hands on her hips, she stared down on Yessenia. “Look, stop being a punk, huh? You act like you didn’t even grow up here. What else you got to do tonight? It’s not like you have a boyfriend. What are you gonna do—play with your cat and watch Netflix?”

  “I was in the middle of—”

  “When did you turn like this?” Marisol waved her hand dismissively. The words were gasoline, and Yessenia knew the match would soon follow. “You’re so weak.”

  Yessenia shuffled toward her room, her house shoes scraping the dusty clay of the Saltillo tile with each reluctant step. Marisol flung herself on the couch, a leg over the armrest and her cell phone between her long fingers. She pounded out social media statuses as she waited for Yessenia. She didn’t notice the new-furniture smell in the living room or the pair of men’s tennis shoes under the couch.

  The drive was filled with Marisol’s off-key singing to the radio’s latest Tejano song and Yessenia’s tense silence.

  “You know I love you, right?” Marisol always started the apologies with a question. “I’m sorry if you thought I was mean. It’s jus
t that, sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes?”

  “You need a push toward what’s good for you. If it were up to you, you’d live in that house and never leave. Just work and home. You even get your groceries delivered.”

  “I don’t get my groceries—”

  “There’s a whole world out there, Yessi. I know North Shore and the East Side ain’t much, but damn, girl. Get with it. Get a hobby. Get laid! Something!”

  “Actually, I just—”

  “This world that you created for yourself ain’t right. You’re like one of those mole people who never comes out the house.”

  “But I was out all day today. In fact—”

  “You gotta interact, girl. There’s a whole world out there for us. Give me a smile? Come on, smile.”

  The station had started its commercial break with one about a new weight-loss tactic to improve your love life. Marisol watched as a slow smile spread across her friend’s face and nodded her approval.

  * * *

  She closes the restroom door again. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, trying to escape through her throat. Her hands are shaking and she can’t stop them, no matter how tight she balls her fists. Closing her eyes, Marisol thinks, Breathe in, breathe out, on repeat until she’s somewhat still. Still enough. “You got this, Mari,” she whispers to herself.

  She grabs the 9mm from the edge of the sink, the sound of the metal on porcelain louder than she intended. Returning it to the small of her back, the piece is like a reassuring hand. With a final shake to take out the last nerves, she opens the squeaky gray door into the store.

  She steps into darkness. The bright hospital lights are off, as are the lights outside. Shit. It will take a minute for her eyes to adjust so she keeps her back on the wall. Don’t call out. He knows I’m not in the bathroom anymore.

  The frosty refrigerators are cold on her back. She remembers there were six coolers along the rear of the store. They end at the coffee machines. In front, the chip aisle is closest to the Cokes. She remembers that from last time.

  Marisol steps deliberately to the right, her heel making a loud click. Quickly, she slips off her boots and leaves them on the floor. Steps left. Then right. Her toes feel the polished, unyielding floor. She reaches back and grips the piece like her cousin showed her.

  “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” His voice rings through the dark and drips with playfulness.

  Marisol’s stomach flips. She doesn’t speak. She’ll let the gunshots be her response.

  “Cat got your tongue? This is the first time you’ve shut up in years.”

  Marisol sees outlines in the shadows. She’s now in front of the chip aisle. To her right is the coffee pot, still hot and full. Next to the pot is a doorway to the back. She aims at that space. Readying herself.

  “You should have noticed something by now. But you only see what you think is important, don’t you?”

  The voice is close, almost close enough to touch. She keeps the gun trained on that space, ready to move fast, to follow his voice.

  “Oh, no? She didn’t notice? Not at all? This will be delicious.”

  * * *

  The first night of patrolling was about as exciting as a trip to the dentist. The duo drove all night, looking for anything suspicious. Yet they didn’t know what, exactly. Old cars? Random men walking down the street? A deranged guy running with scissors? They drove past refineries and grazing fields peppered with horses. They drove past darkened strip malls and abandoned easements sheltering the sleeping homeless. Using the freeways as their personal Grand Prix and the Beltway like a drag race course, they drove past Waffle Houses and libraries, into neighborhoods that had seen better days when better days were more plentiful. Even North Shore’s Walmart, with its normally towering parking lights, was dim and abandoned. Channelview was worse, and Sheldon looked like no one lived there anymore. That was the worst part of searching for the killer: seeing their neighborhood looking like a ghost town and feeling like a slow death.

  On the seventh night of patrolling, with nothing to show for their efforts but sleepless nights and empty gas tanks, Marisol wanted hot Cheetos and a Big Red. The Stop & Shop convenience store called to her like a beacon in a sea of darkness.

  “Maybe we should just go home,” said Yessenia.

  “Don’t be a baby,” Marisol scoffed.

  Inside, the store was bright with whitewashed walls and stung with the strong smell of Clorox.

  “It stinks in here, man!” Marisol yelled to the cashier behind the thick plexiglass as she pushed open the door, Yessenia shuffling behind her and smiling apologetically.

  “That’s the smell of clean,” the attendant replied, looking up from his book, Programming for Dummies, and winking at Yessenia. The fluorescent light bounced off the plastic badge on his chest, illuminating the name Roscoe.

  Marisol rolled her eyes, walked to a refrigerator full of sodas, and saw a familiar face: Demetria Jenkins.

  “Girl, how you be?” Demetria swooped Marisol in a bear hug, her boxer braids falling into her face.

  Yessenia smiled as she watched this scene and prepared for Demetria’s crushing embrace. But Demetria kept talking with Marisol, so Yessenia shuffled to the chip aisle. She peeked at them through the bags of discount Doritos. They giggled and gossiped like they were back in high school, falling into the type of easy banter Yessenia didn’t have with anyone—not even her own best friend. She wondered if Roscoe saw what was happening and guessed how embarrassed she felt. Eventually, she got tired of eavesdropping and walked back to the pair.

  “Oh, where are my manners?” Marisol said when she finally noticed Yessenia had reappeared. “Demetria, you remember Yessenia Perez, right? She went to school with us.”

  Demetria cocked her head to the side and made her eyes into slits for a moment before shaking her head. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

  Marisol and Demetria continued catching up, so Yessenia carried their items to the cash register. Roscoe smiled at her warmly. His grin tickled his earlobes and it made her blush for a second. His too-tight work shirt covered his belly over his belt buckle. As he rang up her purchase, Yessenia noticed the callouses and scrapes on his hands, worker’s hands. They knew what it was like to get at life the hard way.

  “Is there anything else you need?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Let’s hope not.” She gave him a small smile.

  “You know where to come if you do.”

  Yessenia responded with a shy laugh and left the store. It was another fifteen minutes before Marisol joined her in truck.

  “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Demetria. Isn’t she great? We’re gonna get together soon, after all this murder stuff dies down.”

  “She didn’t even remember me,” Yessenia said. “And she used to cheat off my homework.”

  “She’s getting married next month. Invited me to the wedding.” Marisol slid the truck into reverse and then drove into the night.

  Yessenia nibbled on a chip. Her phone buzzed. She occupied herself with its screen as they rode home, with Marisol talking about Demetria all the way.

  Two days later, when a pair of runners found Demetria’s body in Gene Greene Park, Marisol sank into the type of sadness that made her snap at everyone around her. Yessenia received the brunt of it, as she was used to.

  “We should have been able to find this asshole. Pero no—you had plans. If we’d been out searching that night, Demetria would still be alive!”

  “Are you blaming me?”

  “I have to blame someone!”

  “Maybe Demetria said or did something she shouldn’t have.”

  “Demetria was amazing. No one who knew her would want her dead!”

  “No one’s a saint, Marisol.”

  * * *

  Yessenia made a hard right and skidded the Ford F-150 across three lands of the Beltway 8 feeder road. She’d always wanted to drive like that—like she owned the road. In her ca
r, she’d been much closer to the street. In this truck, she could see everything. That was why she’d bought it several months before. It’d proven very useful.

  Marisol was extremely proud of herself for figuring out who the murderer was. She yelled at Yessenia to drive faster, worried that another woman would be attacked before the night’s end. Yessenia did as commanded, as usual.

  The truck rumbled into the parking lot. Marisol glared at Roscoe through the window.

  Yessenia watched her watching him. “What if it isn’t him? I mean, what makes you so sure?” Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, but she ignored it. She wanted to hear Marisol’s answer.

  “It’s totally him. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Plus, look at him. He just looks like a crazy loser. God, why does it have to be raining tonight?”

  “You don’t know anything about him.”

  “He just looks like he hates black and brown women. Plus, he’s, like, forty years old and doesn’t even have a car. Look—there’s no cars in this parking lot except us.”

  Yessenia wanted to argue, but there was no point. Marisol saw what she wanted, never what was in front of her. She handed Marisol the gun. “Here—it’s a full clip,” she said.

  “I mean, we’ll find out for sure. At the very least, I’ll scare the shit out of him and make his ass confess.”

  Yessenia nodded solemnly.

  “Hey, but . . . if this doesn’t work . . .”

  “You know what? You’ve got this. I believe it now.”

  Marisol tried to hide her proud smile and assume a tough look. “After this is done . . . we should take a break. You know, before we start our business?”

  “Sure. Anything you want.”

  Marisol reached over and squeezed her friend’s arm. She’d been too hard on Yessenia—too mean. She’d taken her for granted. After this was all done, she’d tell her so. Buy her something nice, like a dinner or something. Marisol smiled again, to let Yessenia know she wasn’t scared, and slipped out of the truck.

  Yessenia waited until she saw Marisol walk through the store, into the bathroom. She picked up her phone.