Lone Star Noir

by Bobby Byrd

  A memory from earlier in the week surfaced. “I saw you in the garage here on Monday morning. What were you doing here?”

  “I have rented a flat in this building, sir. Before we met on Friday, of course. I did not know you lived here too, sir, until today.” Leitner smiled. “Purely a coincidence—but perhaps a convenient one.”

  Convenient for me to beat the hell out of your ass again, Jared thought.

  “Why the fuck did you fire me?” Jared had to keep control, show the German who was master here.

  “I regret, sir, I had no choice.” Leitner regarded his host coolly.

  “What does that mean? You fired me because we had sex.”

  Leitner shrugged. “In a way, yes, sir. But it is more complicated than that.”

  “How so?” How could it be more complicated? “Explain it to me, asswipe.”

  “Yes, sir, I will. Your assistant, Peter, he has betrayed you, but I am sure you were not aware of this.”

  “That little cock-sucking queen.” Jared thought for a moment the top of his head would come off. Then he realized he still didn’t quite understand. “Betrayed me? How?”

  “He has a video of the two of us and the time we spent together last weekend.”

  “So he hid a camera in the playroom.” Jared felt stupid. He never should have trusted Peter, let him come into the apartment on his own. “I fucked myself.”

  The German nodded. “It was all rather easy, I gather, sir. He came to me on Thursday with the video. He said he is prepared to send it to the entire board of directors and the CEOs of all the divisional offices.”

  “He wants my job, doesn’t he?” Jared stared hard at his guest.

  “I suppose so, sir. His main intention seemed to be to make you lose your job. He hates you, sir.” Leitner regarded him, his expression blank.

  “He’ll hate me even more when I get through with him,” Jared said.

  “Just so. Sir.” Leitner smiled, and Jared felt a chill along his spine. “I have arranged for Peter to arrive here in about thirty minutes. He thinks that he is going to help me overpower you so that we can take you into your playroom and treat you the way you treat your bottoms. He is quite excited by the thought of this.”

  “But that’s not going to happen.” Jared was going to beat Peter raw and bloody.

  “No, sir, it is not.” Leitner gave that cold smile again. “Peter is the one who will suffer.” He pulled a palm-sized camera from one of his pockets. “I will record it all, and Peter will be neutralized.”

  “Why are you willing to go along with this?”

  “I will submit to men such as you. It is my choice, and I would do it again. But no one blackmails me.” The flat tone was menacing.

  “You think there’s any chance of me getting my job back after all this?” Jared didn’t dare hope, but perhaps Leitner could make it happen with Peter out of the way.

  “We shall see, sir.” Leitner rubbed his crotch while staring right into Jared’s eyes. Jared could see the outline of the German’s cock through his tight jeans. “I am sure you can convince me somehow.”

  Did Leitner expect him to be the bottom next time?

  Fuck that.

  Jared had two more shots of Scotch. Leitner turned down any offer of drink. Jared left him alone in the living room for a few minutes while he changed into his leather gear.

  By the time a smirking Peter arrived shortly after six, Jared felt like he was vibrating with rage. The moment Peter was inside the apartment, Jared grabbed him around the neck and twisted his right arm behind his back. Peter squealed loudly. Then he yelled at Leitner to help him.

  Leitner didn’t respond.

  Jared picked Peter up and carried him, kicking and protesting, into the playroom. Leitner followed.

  Inside the playroom Jared threw Peter on the floor and kicked him twice in the side. Peter screamed and appealed again to Leitner for help.

  Leitner stood over Peter. “You are getting what you deserve, you fucking little cunt.” He reached down and slapped Peter hard across the face.

  Peter stopped making noise. He lay mute, terrified.

  Jared, with Leitner’s help, stripped a now-docile Peter and put him in the sling. They slid restraints on his wrists and ankles, and Jared forced a ball gag into his mouth. A big one that would make it difficult for Peter to do more than grunt. Leitner suggested a hood. Jared found a latex one with holes only for the nostrils. He forced Peter’s head into it.

  Jared stood back and gloated at the sight of his former assistant, now completely helpless. This was going to be one fucking awesome scene. By the time he and Leitner finished with Peter, the little bitch would be lucky if he could crawl out of Jared’s apartment.

  “Be right back,” Jared said in a low voice to Leitner.

  The German nodded. He was doing something with his camera, and Jared left him to it.

  Jared opened a new bottle of Scotch and took it back to the playroom. He also helped himself to a fresh cigar. After three swigs of Scotch, he set the bottle out of the way. He was ready.

  Exhaling smoke, he set to work. Soon he was flying high. The more Peter writhed in pain, grunting like the pig he was, the harder Jared played him.

  Jared was dimly aware that Leitner was always nearby, moving around the room as he filmed. But little else intruded into his concentration on Peter.

  Finally Jared had to take a break. He needed a fresh cigar, for one thing, and water. He had sweat so much he was dehydrated.

  “Back in a minute.”

  Peter lay mute in the sling, one leg twitching a little. Faint moans came through the latex hood.

  Jared stumbled into the kitchen as he came down from the extended high. His hand trembled while he filled a glass with water. He gulped down two of them and felt a little better.

  Back in the playroom he decided he wasn’t ready for another cigar yet. His mouth tasted like ash. Feeling his energy coming back, he wanted to go another round with Peter. He had more to do to him. A lot more.

  But first he wanted another Scotch. Might as well finish off the bottle. Leitner stood by, camera poised and ready.

  Jared grabbed the bottle, about a third full, and chugged it down.

  Tastes a bit odd, he thought. I’ve been smoking too much.

  He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and moved back to the sling. Glancing down at Peter, he realized something was wrong.

  The latex hood was twisted. The holes for the nostrils were in the wrong place. Peter’s nose was completely covered.

  His hands shaking now, Jared adjusted the hood, moving the holes back to their proper place.

  Jared shook Peter’s leg. “Peter. Wake up. Peter.”

  There was no response.

  Jared shook the whole sling. Peter’s body bounced around, but it lay still when Jared let go of the sling.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jared turned to find Leitner regarding him, that cold smile back on his face. “I think he’s dead.”

  “I believe you are correct. Sir.” Leitner laughed.

  Jared glanced at the German’s hands.

  Why was Leitner wearing latex gloves? He hadn’t been wearing them before.

  Had he?

  Jared shook his head. He was having difficulty remembering. Thinking.

  Getting a little hard to breathe.

  He reached out toward Leitner.

  Stumbled to his knees.

  Stared up at the German.

  Leitner smiled down at him. “It will end soon. You will go to sleep. Sir.” He held something out to Jared. A bottle.

  Though his hand and arm felt too heavy to lift, Jared grasped the bottle.

  What was happening to him?

  “Thank you. I needed your fingerprints on the pill bottle. You Texans are arrogant, yet you are most helpful. It is quite an amusing paradox.” Leitner laughed, and the sound made Jared want to cry.

  Leitner walked away.

  Jared tried to crawl after him, but his limbs we
re too heavy. He passed out on the floor, the bottle still in his hand.

  CRANK

  ITO ROMO

  San Antonio

  He was fucking scared. No shit. Really scared. Although he was in his mid-thirties, he’d never done such a thing before—picked up a woman at a bar, driven her crosstown to the west side to buy cocaine. Never. Never even done coke himself. But he did what she wanted him to. He was horny. Hadn’t had a girlfriend for over a year now, and had been with the last one for twelve years. And he wasn’t lucky with the ladies, always told his friends, “No, you don’t understand, I have to chat them up first. I have to charm them.”

  But that night he didn’t have much of a choice; testosterone had taken over, and although there were slim pickins, he made his move to the end of the bar where she was standing. She had a thumb hooked into the pocket of her jeans, and in her other hand she held a cigarette over the ashtray on the bar. It was late, closing time. The barkeep announced last call. And rather quickly—it had been easier than he’d thought it would be—they left the bar together, and he found himself driving his truck farther and farther away from familiar territory. She asked him to get money for the dope. He drove to the closest bank and withdrew forty bucks, guaranteeing, he thought, he’d get laid.

  “Lights off,” she said softly. “Turn your lights off and pull over. Yeah, right there, man. I see him. Ahí esta. Good. We lucked out.”

  He coasted to a stop. “Where?”

  “Over there. Shhh … I’ll be right back.”

  She opened the door, slipped out, then closed it really carefully and walked over to a car parked on the other side of the street, a little behind where they had rolled to a stop. Through the rearview mirror, he saw the car’s door open slowly. A man stepped out, a gun stuck into his pants right above a big silver belt buckle, like a rodeo champion. The revolver sparkled in what little light shone from the moon shrouded in silvery clouds.

  The windows fogged up quickly, the air hot with alcohol and adrenaline. Inside the cab of the truck, it smelled like a bedroom after two very drunk people had sex.

  He was scared. “And all for pussy, all for pussy,” he whispered, eyes darting from the rearview to the mirror on the driver’s-side door, then ahead of him.

  Suddenly she tapped at the window as he zoned, drunk, focusing on what he thought was someone inside a car two vehicles ahead. He twitched, then adjusted his vision, squinted to make out her face through the clouded window, had to double-check; the streetlamp had been shot out. Her earring clinked against the glass.

  He rolled down the window. Even in this dark craziness, she looked beautiful, like a movie star, like a young Sophia Loren. Thumb hooked into her jeans pocket again. She had sad eyes, he thought, pleading and lost.

  “Give me the money, man.”

  “What? How much, how much?”

  “Twenty, thirty, whatever. C’mon, man. He’s waiting.”

  “Well, I’m a little uncomfortable—”

  “Shhh … just gimme the money, man, come on.” She placed her hand on his mouth, pressed down hard like she meant business. It hurt a little. “Shhh … just gimme the money, man. He’s waiting. I gotta give him some money now or he’s gonna get mad at the both of us. C’mon.”

  Her teeth clenched tight.

  The urgency in her voice scared him. He fumbled through his shirt pocket, into which he had shoved the bills, and pulled out the two twenties, crisp, folded in half, fresh out of the ATM.

  I’m gonna die. Dear Jesus, I’m gonna die, he thought, his upper jaw still smarting from her forceful grip.

  She quickly counted the money he gave her and went back to the car across the street.

  “Thank you, God. Gracias, Jesus Christo Redentor.” She was jonesing, jonesing really bad.

  “Here, babe, two big rocks. Smoke ’em, man. Break ’em up a little, then smoke ’em. You’ll get the most mileage that way. It’s good stuff. Promise. Good stuff.”

  “Thanks, Johnny Boy. You’re my man. You always got my back. Thanks, man.”

  “Hey, Sonia, do me a favor. Don’t bring that dude back here no more.”

  “No, Johnny Boy. He’s cool. Promise. He’s cool. He’s all square, man. He works at a bank. Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t bring ’im here no more. Okay, mi morenita?”

  “Okay, papacito. Love you, man.”

  She put two fingers to her lips to flick him a kiss and went back to the truck. He would’ve hurt her if she had come here with no money—not badly, but he would have slapped her a couple of times. She knew it. She’d seen him do it.

  But she was beautiful, and this had always helped her.

  He acts all nice and all, but he’d hurt me, just like that, she thought as she walked back to the truck.

  In one hand she held the dope in a tight fist—tight, tight fist; the thumb of her other hand was hooked into her jeans pocket.

  “Thank you, Jesus.” She made the sign of the cross, and at the end, right at the end of the sign of the cross, right when she usually kissed her thumb as if holding the cross hanging at the end of a rosary, just as her mother had taught her to do, she kissed the sweet little plastic pouch and jumped back into the truck.

  Once in, she put her face to her shoulder, sniffed her underarm. “Damn, I still smell like fish,” she said. “I gotta quit that job, I swear. Let’s get the hell outta here.” She leaned over, kissed him, slipped him some tongue, let him know she was grateful for the money, for the ride, for bringing her all the way across town, and sat back. The dope was in her hands. She could feel it there. It reassured her. Made her happy.

  He put the truck in gear and drove off slowly, didn’t turn the lights on until the end of the block. He’d gotten the picture. He wasn’t stupid.

  She checked her underarm again. “Do I smell like fish? You know, fried fish. You know, like my work. Do I smell like Long John Silver’s?”

  He wrung the steering wheel. “No, you don’t smell like fish.”

  “I told you I work at Long John Silver’s, right?”

  He nodded yes, kept his eyes on the road, afraid to get stopped. He thought, Not only am I drunk, but there’s speed in the car now too. Fuck.

  He had just wanted to loosen her up. Never thought it would be this dangerous. He could’ve gotten held up, hurt, the truck stolen. But no, had to go along with it, didn’t I? he thought. I gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home.

  “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.