“Endless water. Into the infinite,” Roger said.
“Don’t say that. That’s not funny.”
“Sam, take it easy,” Bella said. “I was just talking.”
“I’m okay,” she said, downing her vodka tonic and signaling for another. “Let’s…let’s talk about the caper. What can I do?”
Three days later, at 9 a.m., at the corner of 57th and 5th, Aqua-Bella and her matching, hooded Bells jumped out of the Aqua Van and filed into Darwish’s Jewelry Exchange. Roger waited in the van, nervously tapping the steering wheel.
As the workers looked up, Aqua-Bella nodded to Juniper Jiminez.
“Mesdames and messieurs,” Juniper said through her mask, “Please welcome…Aqua-Bella and her Diving Bells!”
Bella winked at her and took center stage, “Good morning all and welcome to a wonderful robbery! Before you do anything, please be aware that I have already kiboshed all of your surveillance equipment as well as all of your phones. You’ll have to get new ones, sorry, my dears, but think of the stories you’ll have to tell and posts you’ll be able to post after this. You’ll get so many Likes! Now if you’ll all cooperate, we’ll all be able to go back to our morning lattes and enjoy the lovely summer day.”
The jewelry store workers were instructed to toss money and wallets and jewelry into the sacks that Juniper Jiminez and the four other Bells held open. Juniper was filled with shame, not just for what she was doing, but also for what she planned to do later: somehow, as soon as she found an opportunity, hijack the van and bring the loot to Hector. It would all be over quickly, she told herself, and she could finally live the life she wanted.
“So where are you from?” Bella asked the manager.
“Albuquerque,” he mumbled.
“Albuquerque! How nice! I hear it’s so hot in Albuquerque, the chickens lay hard-boiled eggs! That’s a lovely tie, sir! How about you, young lady?”
As Bella went from person to person, the sack Juniper held got heavier. Everything was going smoothly—until a piercing banshee song crashed through the front doors of the store.
It was Sonic Sistah. With a voice that boomed like a diety, she said, “Put the bags down and your hands up!”
Juniper’s heart beat wildly. How was she going to explain this?
She turned and saw all the water in the store, all the liquid that had been clogging the cameras and alarms and phones, suck back into Aqua-Bella, who with a wave from her hand sent a fountain of water right into Sonic Sistah’s mouth, knocking her down and encasing her. Nikki struggled to get up, but the water overwhelmed her.
Juniper cried out: “You’re killing her!’”
“I can’t be stopped this time. No more screw-ups! No more cheap hauls!”
Sonic Sista held her hands to her throat. She was drowning.
“Stop!” Juniper held her hand up—heat began to rise, from the core through her chest, and rocketing up her arm and out of her palm shot a flame, and it hit Bella dead on, sizzling.
Bella looked at Juniper, surprised, betrayed.
The flame continued to shoot from La Volcana’s hand. Bella began to steam, which would have been enough to weaken her, to make her give up. But Juniper was unable to stop the flame flowing from her.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Not like this.” Her power had come back, uncorked and unstoppable. If she moved the flow of fire away from Bella, it would kill anyone else in the store. The only person she could focus on, the only person who could possibly withstand it was Bella.
The archvillain’s body began to shrink, and soon she could no longer control any of her molecules. She wasn’t just turning to steam. Every part of her was disintegrating. Her eyes saddened—but then as she began to disappear, her mouth opened to laugh. But there was no sound. And then she was gone.
And suddenly as it came out, Juniper’s first burst ceased, and the air in the store was dry and crisp.
“Bella! My Bella!” It was Roger. He turned to her. “What have you done?”
Sonic Sistah knocked him out with a high C. She rushed over to Juniper Jiminez. “Junie, I knew it was you.”
She nodded. “I—”
“Please. Thank you for saving me. I’m so sorry I busted in. I didn’t know you were doing undercover work. Great idea!”
“But—”
“Your mother would be so proud.”
Sonic Sistah took Juniper’s hand and raised it in the air and in a voice that echoed for miles, that was recorded and downloaded and commented on and even earned a trending hashtag, she said, “All hail La Volcana, superhero of the day. Superhero of the city! Superhero forever!”
Under her Bell hood, tears as hot as a star streamed down Juniper’s face.
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SOUTHSIDE VALENTINE
Detective Almodovar, half Polish, half Puerto Rican, sits in the playground at the corner of Borinquen Plaza and Rodney Street. Snow dandruffs the monkey bars, but except for Almodovar it’s empty on a February morning. He sits on a metal seat and his ass is as cold as his coffee.
This will be an easy collar, the kind they turn into schlocky 20/20 episodes. All this woman had to do was say the four magic words: “Please kill my husband.”
The park is located at a traffic-busy corner, long chains of vans and cars and semi-trucks heading onto or avoiding the BQE. Diagonally across is a glass and concrete castle for the rich, one of those corpse-looking new construction buildings that scrape against all the good old stuff in the neighborhood, all the good stuff he remembers from when he lived here, just blocks away.
And right across the street is the artsy-fartsy P.S. 414—“Arbor School”—which used to be the great P.S. 19, where he used to daydream about a sweet-faced girl named Brunhilda Rodriguez, who sat in front of him and made his chest swell and his tighty whities tighter.
A half hour passes and Almodovar figures Señora X, as she called herself online, has chickened out, until he sees a woman in flip-flops and trotting straight for him across Rodney Street, from the direction of the tenements that still line South 3rd. She takes a seat across from him at a concrete checkerboard table.
She says, “You him? I gotta get back upstairs in fifteen minutes. I got food on the stove. This is crazy.” She smells of cilantro and milk and ajo and menthol but right away he sees it’s Brunhilda, twenty years older but what other Latina in Los Sures has such freckles starred across a flat button nose, such golden eyes, such red-brown waves. No one that he ever cared to see. Something was mixed in her, which he loved because that made her just like him.
As she lights a cigarette and looks around, distrustful, he wonders at the curves under the oversized hoodie. He’s moved on in his heart, of course. What does your heart know when you’re twelve years old? He’s married now and has three boys all practicing to be MMA fighters on the furniture and each other’s heads.
“Shit, it’s cold,” she says, then she goes through the expected litany. The husband cheats. Beats the kids. Disrespects her family. Doesn’t work. Drinks too much. Kicks the chihuahua.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she says, “and I know where he’s going to be from 6 o’clock to 9 o’clock. I know where his girlfriend lives, so all you have to do is wait for him there.”
And what? She has to say it, so he can pull out the cuffs and call in the officers laced all around the park.
He looks at her eyes, and he thinks maybe there is recognition there. But why would she remember him, the stuttering little geeky crusher who sat behind her for three grades? He’d filled out, a lot, and was free of the mop of hair he insisted in hiding behind.
She reaches into her hoodie and he sees a fat envelope and he knows this is it when they hear “Bitch! Who is this motherfucker now? I knew it! I knew it!”
A man in a parka stands across the street, pointing at Almodovar and yelling at her. The man steps off the curb at a run, not even looking.
Almodovar remembers later, in
the report he writes up, that the van was one of those prepared meal kit delivery vans you see all over the neighborhood now.
The woman’s husband bounces off the front of the van and twenty feet away his body gets wrapped around a fire hydrant.
There is a pause.
Almodovar stands up to do something, he’s not sure what. He turns to the woman, who is zipping up her hoodie, attempting to erase the existence of the envelope. He could still bring her in, could still make trouble for her.
For a moment she looks at him and smiles a quick smile, or is it a plea for mercy? He can’t quite read it. Then the moment is gone.
“Never mind, mister,” she mumbles, already turning. Then she runs, screaming her husband’s name. “You’re not going to visit that bitch tonight now. Shit, and I still got rice on the stove.”
Almodovar hears chatter on his earpiece, and he knows someone has already called for an ambulance.
Before he throws out his empty coffee cup, he makes a mental note to remember to pick up flowers for Migdalia and to get a new game for the boys to keep them busy.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“La Volcana” first appeared as “Volcano Girl” in A Thousand Faces (November 2010); “Old Pendejo” first appeared in Tales of the Zombie War (July 2010); “Good Fences” first appeared in Powder Burn Flash (May 2011); “Meet Me at the Clock” first appeared in Grand Central Noir (June 2013); “How to Kill a Brown Girl (Or Black, White, or Halfsie)” first appeared in Shotgun Honey (March 2014); “Pale Yellow Sun” first appeared in Sunshine Noir (September 2016); “Merry Xmas from Orchard Beach” first appeared in Spinetingler (December 2016); “Southside Valentine” first appeared as part of Akashic Books Mondays Are Murder series (February 2019); “Withhold the Dawn” first appeared in Tiny Crimes: Very Short Tales of Mystery and Murder (June 2018); “Bobo” first appeared in Pa’que Tu Lo Sepas! Stories to Benefit the People of Puerto Rico (October 2019); “Blackout” first appeared in Mystery Tribune (Nov./Dec. 2019).
Big thanks to all the editors and publishers who gave these stories homes. Those of you who read them when they were originally published may note many differences from their original forms. That’s because I am one of those writers who cannot leave well enough alone. In deciding to put this volume together, I knew I wanted to revise. So I took an unusual step (for me) and sent one to two pieces to friends and fellow authors whose work I respect and I asked them for feedback. Having their extra eyes on these stories proved invaluable, and not only did their insight improve the work, but also in several cases they helped me come up with much better endings. So, deep, sincere, tremendous thanks to Peter R. Emshwiller, Graham Everett, Juliet Fletcher, Matthew David Goodwin, Jennifer Kitses, Dustin Michael, Erica Obey, and Radha Vatsal. Thanks to the Down & Out team of Eric Campbell and Lance Wright. And thanks as always to my wife Denise for her love and support.
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Richie Narvaez is the author of Hipster Death Rattle, Holly Hernandez and the Death of Disco, and Roachkiller and Other Stories, which won the Spinetingler Award for Best Anthology/Short Story Collection. His work has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Latinx Rising: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy, Indian Country Noir, Mississippi Review, Pilgrimage, and Tiny Crimes: Very Short Tales of Mystery and Murder, among others. He served as president of the Mystery Writers of America, New York Chapter, as Bronx Council on the Arts Artist in Residence, and as a judge for the 2019 PEN America’s Open Book Awards. He teaches at the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan and lives in the Bronx.
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BOOKS BY RICHIE NARVAEZ
Hipster Death Rattle
Holly Hernandez and the Death of Disco
Roachkiller and Other Stories
Noiryorican
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Here is a preview from Deep Red Cover, the third book in the Deep Cover thriller series by Joel W. Barrows.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
CHAPTER 1
7:35 p.m., Tuesday, December 17, Stedman Farm, just west of Poplar Bluff, Missouri
Tommy Rutledge stepped out of the barn and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He tapped out a smoke and raised it to his lips. His other hand went for the lighter. It was a practiced movement, one repeated many thousands of times already in his life. When did it start? He remembered: thirteen years old, the woods a half mile from school. They had skipped Ms. Cutler’s English class. Troy Keller had offered it. Troy was cool, and that was mostly what mattered. The first one made him feel sick, but he held it in, desperate not to lose his lunch in front of his new friends. It became a regular thing, their little smoke break. That’s when it started. And that’s when he began to feel like he fit in somewhere.
Now, he felt that way again, even more so. He understood these people, and they understood him. They were family. No, that wasn’t quite right. They were more than that. There was a shared purpose, shared beliefs. They understood what had gone wrong in America, the forces that sought to take away the rights of her citizens, rights guaranteed in the Constitution. They saw how foreign interests now pulled the strings in Washington, and how our so-called leaders had ceded control to the New World Order. Most importantly, they knew how to take those rights back, how to take America back, how to make this country great again. He smiled at the thought, happy to have found this purpose in life. He knew his calling now. He was a patriot.
Rutledge dropped his cigarette to the gravel and snuffed it out with his boot. He found himself reaching for another but thought better of it. He needed to get back inside. The meeting was in full swing and he was expected to be there. As Sergeant-at-Arms he was charged with keeping order, a sometimes challenging job. Ironically, his duties included keeping people from wandering outside while they were in session. He wasn’t sure why, but that had been made very clear to him. Nobody leaves. Rutledge checked his sidearm and prepared to go back in, pausing to take one last look at the vast expanse of the Mark Twain National Forest that spread across the northern horizon. It was near total darkness. There were no lights except those from the few distant houses in this remote section of Butler County. He sucked in a lungful of the fresh, forest air and turned toward the door. It was then that he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye: headlights, where none should be.
Rutledge tensed up; his hand drifted to his weapon. There was no reason for a vehicle to be in that part of the forest. It was heavily wooded, impenetrable, save for one little-known route in. He could tell this was no ATV. It was a full-size vehicle, a truck or SUV, almost certainly four-wheel drive. He estimated the distance at a quarter mile off, near a small clearing not far from the county line. Then, just as it slowed to a halt, another set of headlights flashed quickly and went out, like a signal. Rutledge wondered if he should alert the other members of the militia. They all knew that someday the feds would come for them. Was this it, was it finally happening? Maybe he was being paranoid. It was probably just hunters meeting up at the end of the day. Still, it was pretty late for that. He decided to do some quick reconnaissance before alarming anyone.
The trick was to see without being seen. Finding his way in the woods without any night vision equipment would be difficult. Rutledge had a flashlight but couldn’t risk using it. Fortunately, he had become quite familiar with the terrain, both while hunting and through the militia’s defense maneuvers. As a group, they were more than ready to repel the invaders when they came. The farm had a secure perimeter. In fact, much of it was booby-trapped. But Rutledge was sure he could avoid all of that, even in the dark. He started to move toward where he had last seen headlights. There was a narrow footpath that started at the farm’s edge and went north. He followed that for a while before veering into the trees to cover his approach. A recent snow had melted, uncovering a muddy forest floor littered with branc
hes and leaves. It was difficult, slippery footing. But that was the least of his concerns. It was that chance snap of a twig that made his pulse pound. Rutledge had to assume that these people were on high alert. The slightest sound could give him away. He moved slowly, trying his best to avoid making any noise as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
As he approached the clearing, Rutledge could hear voices. The conversation was limited, hushed. It seemed purposeful, but why? He drew close to the tree line and stopped. Two pickup trucks were parked side by side. Both had caps covering their rear beds. The cap door and tailgate were open on the vehicle nearest to him. He could see what appeared to be a large wooden crate inside, and another on the ground just behind it. Three men, all in dark clothing, stood behind the trucks. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of negotiation. Rutledge couldn’t make out what they were saying. He strained to listen. It sounded almost like…
Rutledge sensed the presence behind him, but too late. The hand yanked his head back as the blade slashed across his throat. He slumped to the ground, clutching, gurgling, as the world turned black.
CHAPTER 2
8:12 a.m., Friday, January 10, Lake Wappapello State Park, Williamsville, Missouri
Sean Stroud took a sip of coffee to warm himself against the morning chill. The temperature display in his truck showed thirty-four degrees. That was a little above average for this time of year, but for a Louisiana native it was just damn cold. After fifteen years as a Missouri State Park Ranger you’d have thought he’d be used to it. He wasn’t.
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