Chapter Eight
Kailey and Shinto
By now we had a respectable lineup of empty Lone Stars in front of us. Shinto rapped on the bar and called out. “Dos mas, señor. Por favor.”
“I don’t know, Shinto.”
“Ah, ah. Your turn, Kailey girl. Last I heard, you were married, pregnant, and living the good life in Houston.”
I said. “You’re part right. Eighteen and pregnant. Wahoo. I married Michael. We had Emma. Michael snagged a decent job making sixty grand a year. Life seemed pretty good.” I shook my head, took a long draw on my drink.
“Pictures. I need pictures.”
I dug out photos of my girl.
“God, Kailey. She looks like you, that curly blond hair.”
“Cute, always laughing.” I continued the script I could now recite aloud without emotion.
“Then the economy hit a wall. Michael got let go and couldn’t find work that suited his view of himself. I got a job at a hamburger joint to make ends meet until he could figure out how to land the next big job he felt fit his talents. Which really meant he sat home, watched TV, drank, and smoked pot. Spent our money on any drug he could find.”
“Michael? Girl, I never would have thought that of him. He seemed too, I don’t know, preppy?” Shinto toyed with a tortilla chip.
“I tried to prop him up, tell him how I believed in him, that this was a blip in our journey. I’d come home and Emma would be dirty and hungry, wearing the same diaper I put on her when I left for work. I couldn’t take it.”
Shinto grimaced. “That’s not right.”
“I told him to get a job. I didn’t care what; delivering papers or pizza. Anything. Stop the drugs, or I’d leave. I worked twelve-hour shifts and we were still behind. Our house slipped into foreclosure and our cars hung on the edge of being repossessed.” I shuddered. “We argued every day. I finally told him I was leaving after I ended my shift and got paid.”
Shinto nodded.
I stopped, took a deep breath, and then continued. “I came home that night to my house lit by klieg lights, with reporters, police, and yellow tape everywhere. Michael shot my beautiful two-year-old baby Emma, then turned the gun on himself. The coroner said later the amount of drugs in his system would have killed him if he hadn’t shot himself.” I ripped shreds of napkin from under my beer turned up the new bottle. Shinto stayed quiet.
“I stood by her little white casket alone. Just my baby and me. I’d carried that precious child inside me, her every kick a promise.” The pain broke my calm recitation. I felt raw hatred curl my lip. “I should have been there to protect her. It’s been seven years, and I still want to kill him again and again. Probably will ’til the day comes and I join my baby.” I pounded the bar, drank a gulp. “The police were kind to me.” I felt the tickle of tears, amazed I could still summon them. “After I fell apart I waded through grief therapy, enrolled in the academy, and moved back in with Momma. I wanted to be the kind of cop that helped me in Houston. My life in a nutshell.”
She reached down and squeezed my knee. “I’m so sorry, Kailey. I didn’t know. We lived two separate lives for too long. Me with the MPs in Afghanistan. You trying to keep it together on the home front. But we’re back, okay? Kind of funny how we ended up though, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“I get back and head straight for Fort Worth PD who took me right in. Guess they figured MP overseas counted as academy enough for me. You come at law enforcement from a different angle. Then I transfer to Midland while you were in Dallas filling up your brain. And voila, here we are. The old team back together again, a little battered—”
“A little bent,” I added.
“But damn sure not broken.”
We clinked glasses.
“Here’s to us, two of Midland’s finest.” I raised my beer and drained it.
“I kind of pity Midland, you know? They have no idea what they’re in for.” Shinto laughed.
“Amen to that, sister.”
Chapter Nine
Junior
Bored as crap, I felt like flinging a shoe at the TV. Only so much a guy can stomach sober. I pulled on a shirt I picked off the floor next to my bed, slipped into the canvas shoes they issued me in the joint, and headed out. I needed to score some smoke, something, anything to make the day interesting.
The sun cast a red tint over the horizon, and I stopped to admire it. Colorful sunsets are rare in Midland. Something about not enough moisture in the air. Maybe it’s an omen. Maybe I’ll find some action in this dead-end town.
Across the street from my apartment complex and down a ways an expanse of park more brown dirt than green grass did its job, made some city planner somewhere feel like he’d contributed to the happiness of the populace. The only populace I saw at the moment was a gang of guys and a few chicks lounging around a couple of picnic tables and benches stuck in the middle of nothing. No trees around. Not a single bush. They made their own shade. I headed straight for them. Time to make some contacts.
Two of the girls nudged one another as I approached. Several of the guys stood and puffed out their chests. One made no move other than rest his elbows on the table and watch. He smiled like he couldn’t wait to make my acquaintance. The slightest twitch of his eyebrows said different. A welcoming committee like every other one you’d run into in prison, on the street, anywhere. Establish turf. Claim dominance. Mess with the new guy. Always the same. The soldiers do the dance while Jefe watches, amused.
So, let’s dance.
“I’m Junior Alvarez. I heard this town had some righteous people in it. I’m looking to find them.”
“Where’d you hear that?” said one of the bigger kids. He sported a black tattoo on his forehead, Fuck You, written in script.
“Midland Correctional.” I may as well have waved a red flag in Fuck You’s face.
“Ooo, manos. We got us a genuine prison issue in our midst.”
I remained silent and resisted the urge to tear his throat out.
“So, whaddaya want?” a skinny kid with a white bandana tied around his head asked. They all wore wife-beater T-shirts, baggy khaki pants, and white bandanas tied around some part of their body.
Jefe watching on the bench seemed about my age with shoulder-length jet-black hair. A scar ran from his eyebrow to his lip in the shape of a C to meet a mustache draped around his mouth. His eyes glinted dark and cold. He seemed to be enjoying the show.
I shouldered past his boys to stand in front of him. “I need a job. You have any work that needs to be done?”
His gang laughed and punched each other.
“We got all the help we need, puta madre.” I knew Fuck You forehead kid would be first to comment. Gotta pay if you want to play, right? I shrugged and turned away. The minute he mugged for his homies yanking on his crotch, I turned and punched him hard in the stomach. He went down gasping and pulling up fistfuls of dirt.
He got up. I had to admire that. I swear my fist felt his backbone. He staggered toward me.
Jefe yelled, “Calmate. Relax.” He made a motion like washing his hands. “No need for violence, man.” He pointed to the seat next to him. “Como se llama, vato? What’s your name?”
“They call me Junior.”
“I like a guy who gets to the point.” He smirked at his much less merry little band. “Take a lesson, putos. I’m Miguel, by the way.” He extended a hand, and we shook. “How long were you in and why?”
I stared at him for a beat to let him know I thought his questions were getting personal. “Stuck a knife in a child molester. Did a couple years.”
“Shit, man. You did the world a favor, hombre.”
“Took the system a while to come around to that point of view.” I spread my hands. “There’s worse places than prison. I been to those too.”
“So, you heard from some vatos in our farm team—my term for Midland Correctional—that Los Demonios was good people?”
“I did
.”
Miguel smiled and took a swig of a Dos Equis. “Got to speak with our publicist. Los Demonios is bad people all the way, hey, Freddie?”
“Damn straight.” Fuck You scowled. Apparently his parents named him Fred.
“Tell you what, Junior. You got a style that appeals to me. Come back tomorrow, and I may have some work for you.”
“But, boss—” Freddie complained.
“No, no,” Miguel held up his hand. “I know you and Junior got off to a rocky start but Freddie, I think you and him got a future together. I really do.”
Fuck You looked down and kicked at a piece of dirt.
Miguel fixed his attention on me. “Freddie’s been my boy since grade school. He’s ornery, but he’s loyal. So, mañana.” He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Here’s a little something to be friendly, a taste. See you tomorrow.”
“Hasta mañana,” I said. I smiled and palmed the bag and business cards he slipped me. The walk back to my apartment was slow and pure attitude.
Once inside I shut and locked the door—like that piece of shit lock would stop a ten-year-old with a kitchen knife. I unfurled the baggie of dope and stuck my nose in it. Smelled like green hay, good shit. A pack of papers at the bottom made me smile. I could get to like this Miguel dude.
I rolled a tiny one and sparked it off the burner on the stove. A couple good hits and I copped a little buzz. Ten, fifteen minutes later I sat at my table grinning like an idiot, watching my sexy old lady neighbor through the window once more.
I grabbed the pad I used to make my shopping lists and began doodling. The subject matter stared me in the face. The two globes swaying back and forth on my neighbor’s chest filled me with inspiration and lots more. I let my pencil do its thing and got creative. I ended up with two pendulous breasts topped by large, pointy nipples.
I unzipped my Levi’s and went on my second date with the swinging tata’s.
Chapter Ten
Kailey and Shinto
Shinto’s place is a cute two-bedroom red brick home on Boyd Avenue. I wheeled Mom in through the front door. Johnny Cash sang about prison from a pair of speakers in the front room while people milled around everywhere. Most stayed inside the house, moving room to room. The 103-degree temperature made it way too hot to stand around outside.
“Hey, girl. Wondering when you’d show up.” Shinto greeted us with a beer in each hand. “It’s good to see you, Momma C.” She bent down and gave momma a big hug.
Most of the guests were guys—and a few women—from the department and their spouses. Spouses and I infrequently got along. The thought of a woman cop never quite computed with most of them. Like they were worried I’d snag their civil servant hubbies and give them blow jobs in the backseat while we were on stakeout. Which is such bullshit. I almost never go on stakeouts.
After introductions and so many names I would never remember, I followed Shinto into the kitchen. “I’m bored. Let’s bust some balls.”
“Get a grip, girl.” Shinto laughed.
Some of the wives turned to me and frowned. I smiled back and waved.
Shinto pulled a tinfoil-covered platter from the fridge and handed it to me.
“Here,” she said. “Quit giving the wives heartburn and go make yourself useful. Slap the meat on the grill. Get all hot and sweaty. Thin some of your venom out.” Shinto peeled the foil off a load of steaks, hot dogs, and hamburgers, handed me another ice-cold Lone Star, and shoved me out the back door.
The heat hit me hard. Midland’s dry desert will vaporize the piss right out of you. Shinto was right. I relished the heat and the diversion with the grill. By the time I got all the meat cooked, I felt dehydrated and calm. Another cerveza and air conditioning were calling my name.
“Meat’s ready. Anybody hungry?” I yelled as I kicked open the back door. That got people’s attention, and they moved en masse to grab a seat at the long picnic table Shinto set up in her living room. Kids stopped running and yelling to grab plates and begin whining instead. The radio kept playing country music, which I could hear, now that conversation took a back seat to food.
Shinto sat Momma at one end of the table at the seat of honor. I could have kissed her for that. Momma sat in her wheelchair, smiling at the chaos. I danced a little two-step over to the table and filled a plate with a burger and a dog, beans, and potato salad.
I carried my meal into the kitchen and ate standing up at the counter. It worked for me. No way I could sit in there and make small talk. Plus, I got a chance to watch momma enjoy herself. Enjoy being a part of a family again. Even if it was my loud, raucous work family.
That’s all I have now that Emma—
Jesus, Kailey. Do not frigging go there. You’re at a party. Enjoy it if it kills you.
Chapter Eleven
Junior
“Junior, I’ve been checking over your files.” Mr. Miller moistened his finger and flipped through a tattered manila folder stuffed with my old files.
“Sir, I thought this city got the Internet years ago. What are those? Dinosaur crap? Looks about the same color.” I flopped down in the old wooden chair next to his gunmetal gray desk.
“These are your files from Social Services and Juvenile Hall days,” he said.
“Why you wasting time on that shit?” I leaned back and crossed my new black Doc Martins. New to me, anyway. The Salvation Army on Baird Street had smokin’ deals.
“You’ve been tested and you are very smart, very smart indeed. What are you doing with your life? Why are you wasting it on being bored?”
“How could I be bored in this awesome city?” I gave him my most charming smile. Women melt and men usually change their persuasion when I turn up the wattage.
He didn’t look up. “We talked about college before.”
“You talked. I mostly listened.”
“Take some college classes, Junior. You graduated high school in juvie. Took a couple college classes in jail. Why not give it a shot for real, now that you’re out? You may qualify for a grant if you take something relevant to getting a job.”
I finished studying a framed photo of a stream and trees and said, “How do I do that?”
“Let me worry about it. Go introduce yourself at the registrar’s office, find out how to register, what you’ll need. I’ll help you with the process. You are twenty-two, the right age. You’ll fit in. You’ve had it tough, and maybe you’ve quit trying. Now’s your chance for a life. A real one. You like living jail to jail?”
“It’s all I know.” I rocked back on my chair. College? Seriously? “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I told you. Get a schedule and come back. I’ll help you navigate the process. Deal?”
“What the hell. Okay.” I got up, shook his hand and couldn’t believe I might go. No one in my family ever thought about going to college. Mom and Dad made a career out of beating us kids and getting high. We were always homeless. Never stayed in a place longer than months. Then they gave us to the preacher.
I left Mr. Millers office, walking, thinking. I flashed back to my tenth year, my sister’s twelfth. My folks came under the spell of the preacher who convinced them we were too attractive to be out on the streets and needed to be taught the evil ways of the world. The godly people of Holy Oak Church took over our upbringing. They raped us over and over, raised torture to an art form while they “prepared” us for the world. Our parents played good little parishioners and turned blind and deaf to our programmed hell, showing up only when they needed money. They’d threaten to take us with them. The preacher would always pay.
I need to get home and get high. Take another taste of Miguel’s shit. Who am I to think college is in my future? Screwing and getting high is all I’ve known. I’m pretty good at those things, praise God and the good people of Holy Oak.
***
My red-haired neighbor came down the apartment stairs as I headed up my walkway.
She stopped in front of me. “Getting pretty close
to the first day,” she said.
“I’m sorry?” I had no friggin’ idea what the lady was talking about.
She tapped the catalog under my arm. “Midland Community College.”
“Oh, that. I’ve sort of been thinking about going. I don’t know. I’m not really college material.”
“You should go.” She put her hand on my arm. “It’s a good school. I used to teach there, you know.”
My inner asshole voice said, “How would I know that?” My outside voice asked, “What did you teach?”
“Botany, Plant Genetics and a little Yoga for fun. Right now I’m dabbling, working to create a new hybrid tomato in my apartment.” She must have realized her hand still gripped my arm and jerked it away like my arm burned at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.
“Long as it still fits on a hamburger,” I said.
She smiled politely at my feeble attempt at humor. “What’s your major?” she asked and immediately turned red. “My gosh, I haven’t asked a young man that in dec—well, a very long time.” She patted her hair self-consciously.
“Didn’t know I needed one.” I lifted the pile of papers and the catalog. “All this is new to me.”
“I could help you. I know most of the teachers there. If you have time, I mean. If you’re interested.”
“How about now?” I said.
Her eyes widened.
“Or, we could do it another time.”
“No, no,” she said. “You are a very decisive young man. Let’s do it.”
West Texas Dead: A Kailey and Shinto Mystery Page 3