by Jack Kinsley
"Strike one," he replied.
"Does he take care of himself?"
"Strike two."
"Does he know how to treat a lady?"
"Home run!" Dallas slapped his knee and howled up into the sky.
She couldn't help but laugh. "Just the signature," she told him and handed him a pen. "I'm privy to the kind of habits you keep."
He held his heart as if a dagger had just pierced it. "Just know, you ain't ever gonna stop a fool from dreamin'." He signed the printout and then formally draped it over one of his Popeye forearms as if presenting her with an honorable gift.
Travis would be damned if she didn't do another little curtsy. It was loud and clear she felt the power of her own sexuality — it was like Mae West and a member of the Mensa club had fist pounded each other and cried out 'Wonder Twin Powers... Activate!... Form of...sexy Sarah.'
The two men watched her walk back to the house. Before she slipped out of sight, Dallas shouted, "Just as beautiful going."
His comment annoyed Travis. "Let's keep it professional," he told Dallas with a smile, but couldn't entirely mask his irritation.
Dallas recognized the tone. "Just stayin' in practice, boss. No harm, no foul. Won't happen again." He leaned back and casually opened his newspaper.
Not only did Dallas have a way with women, but he also had a gift for quickly diffusing any conflict that arose in conversation. He had a calm, blasé demeanor about him that hid his own personality while mimicking those around him. People easily dropped their guard with him, but Travis knew there was a beast inside the oversized chameleon.
Travis sat back down and looked at Dallas reading his USA Today. His powerful arms held the delicate newspaper out in front of him and it pressed a large square of shade onto his chest, leaving only his shaved red head in a blast of sun. He watched Dallas's eyes squint up and down the headlines, but not land anywhere specific. He was sure the man was waiting for Travis to continue their conversation.
"Any stories about divorce and murder in there?" Travis asked point blank.
Dallas casually folded his paper and set it on his lap. "Now that's one way of startin' a conversation." He laughed a little, but there was no humor in it.
Travis realized he had spoken too quickly and back-pedaled. He turned the spotlight back on Dallas. "What really happened in Mexico? I believe you gave me the edited version."
The giant lay still for a moment and then used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from the slate of granite above his eyes. His entire body morphed into a rigid slab; it appeared as if some internal, reverse magnet began to repel the tanning oil from his skin. He sat up and squared off with Travis. They sat a foot apart now, face to face and knee to knee. Travis could see the light in his eyes turn to dusk and blackness wash over the usual tint of green. His pupils were dilated and fierce.
"Why you want to know?"
"Let's say, for now, my very life may depend on it."
Dallas measured him — curious, but not convinced. "Sometimes, details best be left to imaginations."
"And sometimes imagination isn't enough."
"What kind of trouble you in, Mr. Martin?"
"The kind of love you would kill for."
Dallas nodded, remembering the conversation they'd had about true love when he'd first arrived at Crystal Heights. "Let me guess...we gonna talk for real now? I'm gonna tell you some things and then you're gonna tell me some things. And we're gonna have some things on each other. That the deal we be makin' today?"
"That's the deal, Mr. Vallero."
Dallas took in a deep breath that seemed to steal all the oxygen between them. When he exhaled, there was a long sound of deep satisfaction being released — as if the giant would somehow benefit, or even selfishly enjoy, reciting the story. Travis could almost feel the cold blood running through the psychopath's veins, like the rivers that flow from the peak of an ice-capped mountain.
"Let me start by tellin' you I lied to you. Not all of it, but some. A man will remember what he wants to remember, but he still know just the same." He didn't blink or rest his eyes anywhere in the yard, but instead stared at Travis, drilling deeper into him with every spoken word. "I told you I was goin' to rescue Melinda — the errant knight savin' her from family — but that was a damn lie. A lie I told myself. There was truth I didn't want believin'. The fact bein' was she didn't want me in no how or no way. I was only some wild animal she'd saved, because she learned damn quick the devil lives in me." He tapped heavily at his chest with his fingers, making a series of dull, solid thuds. "And her prayin' wasn't ever gonna change that. She screamed and threatened to kill her own self for saving me — the Diablo she call me. Come right out and tell me, should've let me die, done the world a favor."
He paused and broke eye contact for the first time since he'd started his story. He flicked his gaze out into the void across the yard, but kept his massive head stationary. Travis imagined everything outside the giant's vision was out of focus, but all the detail and horror inside him, of what was coming, was crystal clear.
"Told myself, ain't no bitch gonna save me, tell me she love me, give a man hope he never had before — only to turn round and tell him he should have died like some fuckin' dog. Whether I is or ain't, there never been a call for treatin' someone like that." He fisted his enormous hands in his lap; the anger seemed ready to boil over. Travis tried to scoot back in his a chair without it being too noticeable.
"So, I found out where she was hidin'." Dallas nodded contently, appearing to regain some self-control again — as if speaking about his revenge was the same kind of catharsis Travis experienced when reliving Devon's shit kicking. "She thought them brothers of hers would keep her safe. But I waited a long stretch out front her house and thought about what I was gonna do. One brother was set outside, watchin' the door, and I must have slit his throat a thousand times before I made my move. Vizualization, I believe they call it." He chuckled. "I thought about what he might do. How he might fight back. And every time, I saw my knife open his throat and him pourin' out like a goddamn fire hose, me paintin' the doorway and the concrete walls with him. And when I did make my move...it was like it'd already happened. He kicked and gurgled for a lot longer than I thought he would — had nearly half his head off by the time he lay still."
Travis would have normally run for the hills at this point, but he was transfixed by the atrocity, like a driver slowing down at a traffic accident. What was even more captivating, while appalling, was the way Dallas spoke about it: completely devoid of emotion, flat-lined, staring at Travis with empty, vacuous eyes — his cerebral transfers jumping his corpus callosum at lightning speed.
"For fuck's sake, Dallas," was all Travis could say, feeling the need to at least say something.
The giant barely acknowledged that he'd spoken, quickly falling back into the memory. "So it was one down...and no idea how many more be waitin'. That's when I pulled out the 9mm. Close-quarter combat time — use nothin' less in a tight spot; thirteen-round magazine, hard to miss anything... User-fucking friendly, I tell you." He smiled at his own description and there was a spark inside his black eyes, like a single bloom of firework that lit the night before darkness descended once more.
"There was only two more dumbshits inside the house. They was sittin' on the couch watchin' TV in their boxers. One of the sons of bitches jumped up and made a run for his gun on a table. I took him down like a metal duck at a carnival shootin' gallery — ding, motherfucker gone. And the other just sat there stupid-like, pissin' himself, not knowing what to do. And out of—"
Then, to both their irritation, Dr. Haycock opened the front gate and came into the yard. He was wearing his phony grin and a stethoscope around his neck; Travis wanted to strangle him with it. He visited Betsy daily now, sure to charge for his doctor visits until her dying day. He waved to the two of them but kept a steady stride toward the front door.
"I'll come see you after Betsy," he told Dallas.
"Go fuck yourself," Dallas barked back.
It surprised the doc as well as Travis, but the doc simply cupped a hand to his ear like he didn't catch it. "Okay, see you in a bit." He waved a second time before disappearing into the house.
"I know you don't like that guy," Dallas told Travis.
"He's not bad at what he does, but it's the greed I can't stand. He gives the noble profession a bad smell." Frankly, Travis didn't care about the doc right now; he wanted to know how Dallas's story was going to end. "And?" he prodded him.
A cold, invisible curtain came over Dallas and he locked eyes with Travis again. "So dumbshit number two is just sittin' there, lookin' at me lookin' at him, and Melinda runs in from the kitchen wearin' an apron — all fired up and screamin' her head purple. She must've been rollin' some dough — her hands all white, some on her cheeks — probably makin' another batch of them goddamn tortillas. She starts cursin' me in Spanish, and I know some of them words. I tell her quiet, and if she moves an inch, he's gonna get it. Of course, she never did pay me no mind. So I put two slugs into her brother's chest. It was just like punchin' holes into a jelly donut. He didn't even move, sat there dead, but like he was still watchin' TV. And I didn't like the look of him, sittin' the way he was, so I shot him a third time and that put him down on his side. Then I could think again."
Dallas paused. He looked up at the sun traveling a clear runway of blue sky, and yanked the sun towel out from under him. He used it to wipe the sweat and oil that poured from his bald head. He seemed to be having an internal debate as to whether he'd continue.
"What happened with Melinda?" Travis asked.
It was a while before Dallas returned from some great distance and carried on.
"So I told Melinda to get in the kitchen. That we was going to roll some dough together. Her and her church-goin' ways weren't gonna save her now. There ain't nothin' worse than a woman pretendin' to be God fearin' and preachin' the good word, when all she was doin' was tryin' to buy her own ticket to heaven. The bitch was just washin' my balls in her Catholic hogwash for her own sake. And I was gonna give her that last taste of hell before sending her through them pearly gates."
Travis mentally hit the brakes with both feet and straight legs; he didn't want to hear anymore. The depravity was making him sick. He was afraid if he did hear the rest, he'd be guilty simply by association — the man upstairs would damn him for merely having knowledge of the homicidal acts.
Travis put his hands up to Dallas, to tell him it was enough, but the psychopath ignored him completely; they were on a runaway freight train that was only accelerating.
"When we was in the kitchen, I seen her big bowl of flour and that was perfect; bitch was always actin' like she was better than most — turnin' her nose up at everyone, thinkin' she was even better than white folk. So I bent her over that counter and cleaned her clothes off her with my knife. She starts hollerin' all over again, so I hit her upside the head with my nine to settle her a bit and shoved a dish rag in that pie hole of hers. Then I covered her all in flour. Like they says, rollin' a hog in flour to find the wet spot, only I wasn't lookin' for that one. I turned that brown eye of hers red — gave it to her real good, no mercy. And before I finish, I put a slug right through the back of her head. Shot my load after she was gone. One in the trunk after her light went out."
Travis wished he had thrown himself from the freight train. It was worse than he could have ever imagined. He wanted to run from life itself. One in the trunk after her light went out, he repeated to himself. It would be forever etched in his memory, like a record skipping on that one phrase. It would haunt him to the day he died.
Dallas could see the revulsion in his face.
"I know that ain't no bedtime story," he said. "But you asked and I told. Nothin' but the truth will set you free, my friend. Not that I mean to be free; never will be from the things I done."
"Yeah," Travis said and exhaled every bit of air he could.
A strong wind came into the yard and picked up Dallas's USA Today. It blew it open and sent a few interior sheets cartwheeling across the pool deck and into the rippled blue water. Travis retrieved them, barely in time before they sailed into the middle. He shaped them into a soaking ball, chucked it on the lawn, then pinned the rest of the dry sheets under the leg of his chair. He sat in front of Dallas again. They didn't talk for some time.
"Now I believe you've got somethin' you want to share with me." The giant was growing impatient. "It's okay. Sometimes killin' ain't always done by our own hands, you know."
Travis was shocked, thinking Dallas already knew what he was going to propose to him. But how could he know?
But then Dallas said, "Sometimes a person might die without us wantin' them too, but do because of us anyways."
Travis was lost, but assumed Dallas was saying he felt forced to kill Melinda; loved her, but she had given him no choice treating him the way she had — something like that.
"It's time for you to even them scales, Mr. Martin... Like my momma used to say: time to come clean, son."
Travis considered his options again, vacillated, and then finally made the jump. "Okay, I'll tell you everything." And he did tell him everything — except why Ana had thrown him out of the house. There was no need for Dallas to know Travis was popping pills; it could only put sympathy in Ana's corner. But Travis made sure to exaggerate the financial hardships Crystal Heights had been experiencing, and made it clear it was during this time that Dallas was extended credit. The giant listened intently, seeming to understand the financial risk taken for him. When Travis finished and had laid everything out, Dallas continued to wait, as if he expected the story to continue. When nothing else followed, the giant leaned back onto the lounger, closed his eyes, and said, "Not the story I was expectin'."
Travis couldn't read him too well, other than some form of general disappointment, but he hadn't exactly asked Dallas to help him yet. And he wasn't sure now if he would.
"What do you mean?"
Dallas wiped the sweat from his face with the towel and then lay still with his eyes shut. His body seemed to turn to granite again; Travis could sense a tornado gaining strength inside him. He began to wish he hadn't shared anything.
Then the giant sat up and asked, "You tellin' me she can pull the rug from this place just like that?" He snapped his fingers.
"Yes, just like that." Travis nodded, and then reluctantly gave him further insight.
Ana had the goods on Travis and Crystal Heights. It hadn't been an easy launch for the rehab, and had teetered on near disaster within its first few months. The construction of Crystal Heights had been completed five months behind schedule (Travis had allotted for three), and the bank was already placing a tremendous amount of pressure on the new business to perform. There had been serious delays in receiving the initial Drug Medi-Cal certification from the state, stuck somewhere in the nightmare of California's bureaucratic system, and the license was needed before they could perform any detoxes at the facility. The detox service was the backbone of the business — the real attraction that would bring in the kind of high-end clientele they needed to succeed. Once they had that, Travis had known it would immediately provide the desperately needed cash flow.
The house was finished and ready, and Travis had two choices: either let it sit empty, leaving it in peril while waiting for the paperwork, or start bringing in clients and conduct illegal detoxes. It was a choice made out of necessity, and with some crafty cooking of the books and concealing the true nature of the client's services, Crystal Heights had pulled it off. It became legally compliant within the first six months, and had wobbled its way to success within the first two years, but there was a paper trail of damning evidence — mostly medical records — that could prove Crystal Heights had deceived the state during its infancy. Travis had shared this with Ana on several occasions during their Skype nights, and she easily had access to the files when she had worked at Crystal Heights. Travis knew she wasn't blu
ffing, and he wondered now if she'd had the foresight to protect herself in a marriage to an ex-addict by collecting this evidence as her personal insurance policy if things went south.
Even though the indiscretions happened years ago, the state wouldn't show any mercy for Crystal Heights — not since a multitude of half-ass rehabs had recently infiltrated the market and spoiled the legitimacy of the business. There had been televised community protests and the state was under intense public scrutiny for allowing such facilities to exist. No, there wouldn't be any leniency. Instead, they would make Crystal Heights a prime example of the state's new hard-line policies. Travis would never work in the field again.
Dallas had a few menial questions to fill in some details, but Travis could see a big one waiting inside the giant's thick skull. He decided to wait; let Dallas drive the conversation, see where it went, and hopefully follow the path Travis intended.
Dallas squinted at him. They were locked almost knee to knee again. "Now, I reckon I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed, but I don't see a man sharing' that kind of story without wantin' somethin'. Time to stop beatin' the bush and shoot me straight. What you askin', Mr. Martin?"
This was the delicate part of his delivery, and he wasn't sure how Dallas would react — even though the man had just admitted to the murder of three people and a brief act of necrophilia.
"Well, I think we can appreciate that both of us are in our own unique predicaments. And sometimes when we can't help ourselves, it remains possible to help each other."
The slab of stone above Dallas's eyes dropped until only two hot slits remained. He clearly understood what Travis was saying — and it was clearly not going to be entertained. The giant looked like he was going to wring Travis's neck.
Travis had beaten his own body with so many pills that he'd lost all sense of himself. He was dried out, physically and mentally — morally wasted. How could he have thought of trying to negotiate such a proposition?
"Look," Travis said, "I've obviously upset you and I apologize." He stood. "I hope we can just for—"