St. Louis Noir

by Scott Phillips

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Introduction by Scott Phillips

  PART I: THE CITY

  Abandoned Places

  by S.L. Coney

  Dogtown

  Deserted Cities of the Heart

  by Paul D. Marks

  Gateway Arch

  Blues for the River City

  by Colleen J. McElroy

  The Ville

  Fool's Luck

  by LaVelle Wilkins-Chinn

  Central West End

  Attrition

  by Calvin Wilson

  Downtown Newsroom

  Tracks

  by Jason Makansi

  The Hill

  PART II: A POETIC INTERLUDE

  Four St. Louis Poems

  by Michael Castro

  Gaslight Square

  PART III: THE COUNTY

  A Paler Shade of Death

  by Laura Benedict

  Glendale

  Have You Seen Me?

  by Jedidiah Ayres

  Frontenac

  A St. Louis Christmas

  by Umar Lee

  North County

  The Pillbox

  by Chris Barsanti

  Maplewood

  The Brick Wall

  by John Lutz

  Interstate 64

  PART IV: ACROSS THE RIVER

  Tell Them Your Name Is Barbara

  by L.J. Smith

  East St. Louis, IL

  One Little Goddamn Thing

  by Scott Phillips

  Sauget, IL

  About the Contributors

  Bonus Materials

  Excerpt from USA NOIR edited by Johnny Temple

  Also in Akashic Noir Series

  Akashic Noir Series Awards & Recognition

  About Akashic Books

  Copyrights & Credits

  Introduction

  High and Low Collide

  The St. Louis region has had a rough time over the past few years. A number of our school districts are unaccredited. A large section of a North St. Louis County landfill is burning uncontrolled––yes, it’s on fire––and said fire is only yards away from a World War II–era radioactive waste dump. There’s the matter of the region’s de facto segregation, a persistent pox on the city and county decades after the explicit, institutional variety became illegal. A number of our suburban municipalities have lately been exposed in the act of strong-arming their poorest citizens, running what amount to debtors’ prisons. In recent years one of those cities, Ferguson, has become a national synonym for police misconduct and institutional racism. At the same time we are preparing to build a billion-dollar football stadium (40 percent of that sum taxpayer-funded) in an attempt to try and hold on to our hapless and unloved Rams, who may have already decamped for Los Angeles by the time you read these lines.

  The region can seem closed off to outsiders. The inevitable question locals ask upon meeting a stranger is, “Where’d you go to high school?” It took me years to understand the geographical, ethnic, and religious subtexts hidden in that question, but I realized early on that responding “Wichita, Kansas” was a quick way to lose my interlocutor’s sympathy and attention. Side streets tend to be haphazardly marked, so much so that my wife and I used to joke that this grew out of a stubborn philosophy that if you’re not from here, you don’t need to know. This was proven a few years back when the federal government demanded that the route to Lambert–St. Louis International Airport be better indicated on area freeways. The classic response in the media from the spokesman for the local agency responsible for the missing airport signage was something along the lines of: “We just figured everybody knew where the airport was.”

  Amid all this is a rich, multicultural history of art and literature both high and low, stemming from conflict and passions running hot. The ballads “Stagger Lee” and “Frankie and Johnny” are each based on actual murder cases from St. Louis in the 1890s, a far cry from the wholesome turn-of-the-century version depicted in Meet Me in St. Louis. But the highbrow and low meeting head-on are part and parcel of the St. Louis experience. Tennessee Williams got his ass out of here as soon as he was able, but Chuck Berry still lives down the road in Wentzville, and until he turned eighty-eight in 2014 he still played a monthly gig at Blueberry Hill in the Delmar Loop.

  Maybe the quintessential yin/yang St. Louisan in the arts was Lee Falk, who created the comic strips The Phantom and Mandrake the Magician (both of which still run today); in a loftier vein he was also a theatrical director who worked with Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, and Basil Rathbone on the New York stage.

  This collection strives for some of that same energy that the collision of high and low can produce. From L.J. Smith’s smoky ballad “Tell Them Your Name Is Barbara” to S.L. Coney’s brutal “Abandoned Places,” these writers have staked out the far ends of the noir spectrum and hit most of the key points between them. The first story I requested for the anthology was “Fool’s Luck” by LaVelle Wilkins-Chinn. I’d read an early draft of the story and loved it, but when I asked if she’d be willing to include it here she wasn’t sure it qualified as noir, since, though its central character is certainly criminal, it isn’t a crime story in the most obvious sense. But one of the definitions of noir (and I hesitate to open that particular debate here, so please don’t write to tell me the proper definition) is that it traffics in fatality and doom and bad luck and characters who persistently, knowingly, act against their own best interests. And that’s what “Fool’s Luck” is all about.

  Some of the writers included here will be new to you, at least in this context, though you may be familiar with them from their day jobs. Umar Lee is a prominent local activist and has become a fixture in the national media since the tragic death of Michael Brown in Ferguson. Jason Makansi wears many hats but I first knew him as a publisher; we have not one but two accomplished film critics providing stories: Calvin Wilson (who is also a jazz deejay) and Chris Barsanti.

  Some of the other writers in the book are well known nationally. Laura Benedict and John Lutz, both of whom produced fine stories with good humor, need no introduction here. I hadn’t realized, though, that Colleen J. McElroy had lived in St. Louis until Akashic Books publisher Johnny Temple suggested we approach her about submitting. Jedidiah Ayres is recognized by aficionados of noir fiction as one of the originators (along with Peter Rozovsky and my own bad self) of the now-ubiquitous reading series Noir at the Bar. Paul D. Marks is fast becoming a major force in crime fiction. And I’m very proud to be able to include four poems by St. Louis’s Poet Laureate, Michael Castro.

  All these writers come at their work with different perspectives and styles but all with a connection to and a passion for our troubled city and its surroundings. I am immensely pleased to have been able to collect them in this volume.

  Scott Phillips

  St. Louis, Missouri

  May 2016

  PART I

  THE CITY

  Abandoned Places

  by S.L. Coney

  Dogtown

  “Your dad’s a bastard, kid. You should be mad. Hell, you should be madder than me. The fucker ran off and left you with someone you hardly know. You know what I think?”

  He knew what Vickie thought. He’d heard it over and over the past couple of days. Tuning her out, he pressed his forehead into the window, the dust along the edge tickling his nose as he watched the cars pass through, hoping to catch a glimpse of curly blond hair and his dad’s wide, wide smile; the one he called his “fuck me” smile. He’d never seen it fail to bring a girl to her knees. Sometimes he locked himself in the bathroom and practiced that smile, trying to make it reach his eyes so they crinkled at the corners and blue shined.

>   She slammed the door on the washer, the vibration tugging at him through his hip. He turned, studying her short black hair spiked like porcupine quills, her eyes squinted against the cigarette smoke as she flapped one of her shirts. He didn’t understand why she bothered to wash them. They stank like smoke before they even made it to the closet.

  Vickie was only seven years older than Ian and had been married to his dad for two. She hadn’t been thrilled with him before his dad left; now he kept waiting for her to call social services and have him taken to a home.

  “Everybody needs a vice. Val could’ve had the decency to leave me some damn money.” Dropping her cigarette to the concrete floor, she ground it under her heel, hand digging her pack out of her pocket. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t call her ma’am because that usually pissed her off.

  She paused long enough to light her new cigarette, cheeks hollowing as she sucked against the filter. “I saw that look you gave me.”

  He turned back to the window, staring through the grime to the world outside, wondering how it could keep functioning when everything in his life had turned upside down.

  Vickie stopped hiding her smoking the day Valentine left, moving from behind the shed to lighting up inside the house, and every day since then she kept accusing Ian of giving her looks. Maybe she just felt guilty for ruining her lungs, but every time he saw her light up, the pit in his stomach opened just a little wider. Either she’d stopped caring if his dad found out, or she knew he wasn’t coming back.

  “I take good care of you. I feed you, make sure you’re clean. Fuck, I’m damn good to you, considering you’re not my kid.”

  Ian supposed she was right; she did feed him, and so far she hadn’t called anyone about him, but he wished she’d stop making him feel like he owed her something for being there.

  “I need a vice, and mine left, walked right out the door while you were at school. Didn’t even tell me where he was going.”

  Ian bunched his hands in the sleeves of his shirt, the back of his head tight. He knew this part of the story too. She kept repeating the same things over and over, until the more she said the less he believed her. Vickie reminded him of Sandy Robinson, the girl at school who kept saying Justin Bieber was her brother. She kept repeating it as if it would make it true, as if they’d start believing if she said it enough. Even he was a better liar than Vickie was, and she had seven years on him. It was a little shameful.

  “It’s such fucking bullshit. At first I was sort of relieved. No offense, kid, but do you know how much foundation I was using to cover the bruises from your daddy’s fists? There’s vice and then there’s vice. Shit, it’s sick. I know it’s sick.” She paused to take a draw off her cigarette, the tip of her tongue poking out between her lips as she picked off a stray piece of tobacco. “It’s odd what you can get used to. When I look in the mirror, my face seems empty without the occasional black eye.”

  He wondered if she stood in front of that mirror and rehearsed the things she said. It was like seeing the same play over and over again. That was one thing about lying: you never wanted it to sound rehearsed.

  She stood, pulling an armful of clothes from the dryer and dropping them in the basket. He couldn’t tell if she was using any less makeup. It still looked like a painted mask, the edge of it not quite meeting her hairline. Sometimes he thought about seeing if he could peel it back to reveal what lay underneath.

  “Mean fists or not, the bed gets lonely without someone in it. Shit, I haven’t been alone in bed since your daddy came and I crawled out my window.” She dumped ash on the floor before sticking the cigarette back into her mouth, one side clenched down around the filter, making her face uneven, like old Mrs. Ashworth after she’d had her stroke. “I didn’t know I was trading one bad man for another, but at least your daddy was better in bed than mine.”

  He didn’t want to hear this. Rolling his eyes, he pushed off the washer and started up the stairs, palm skimming the handrail.

  “Hey, runt, you’re supposed to be helping me. Get your ass back down here.”

  Ignoring her, he yanked his dad’s old union jacket from the chifforobe in the entryway and pulled it over his shoulders, the sleeves hanging to his fingertips, shoulders still too wide. He closed the door on her—“Ungrateful bastard”—and loped off the porch, body all right angles, his joints loose as if he wasn’t securely put together yet. The wind blew up the street, ruffling his hair as he stared at the redbrick duplexes across Tamm Avenue, satellite dishes sticking out like malignancies. He kept his eyes trained on Cindy McClellan’s upstairs window, hoping to catch sight of her moving behind the glass. At night he sat in the dark, watching as she changed without pulling the blinds. He liked it best when she raised her arms, her breasts jutting out in small peaks, her nipples perfect exclamation points. One of these days he was going to try out his “fuck me” smile on her.

  The sun was just starting to go down, highlighting the tower on the old Forest Park Hospital along the east side of the neighborhood. Soon they would gut it, tearing it down to build another parking lot. It was what happened to abandoned places.

  He walked past green, white, and orange, the Irish flag painted on the curb and flying high, down past the faded shamrocks on Tamm Avenue. Concentrating on taking deep, burning breaths, he walked through the fog of each exhale, pretending it made everything new.

  There were still kids climbing on the giant stone turtles poised midcrawl over Turtle Playground, arms out as they walked along the back of the long stone snake, moms and dads watching, laughing. The constant hum of traffic on 64 edging Dogtown followed him as he turned from their laughter and made his way up to the swings at the end of the park. At this time of day it was mostly grown-ups in this part of the park. It was his favorite time to swing. With them here he didn’t feel too old to be playing. Maybe growing up wouldn’t be so bad if he could still swing.

  He closed his eyes, pumping his legs and thinking about his dad as he listened to the squeak of the chain. It wasn’t unusual for Val to leave on business, but he always said goodbye, and he always let Ian know when he was coming back. Ian knew better than to think his dad was a saint. He’d overheard Mrs. Donovan say Valentine had a quick smile and an even quicker zipper. He’d never knocked Ian around, but he knew his dad had quick fists as well. He was loud and boisterous, and life seemed to bend itself to his will.

  The thought of going back to a house filled with Vickie’s practiced monologue and the choking haze of cigarette smoke twisted his stomach up. Pulling his dad’s coat closer around himself, he watched as the sun set, the children’s laughter disappearing as they made their way home.

  * * *

  That night he could hear Vickie laughing through the wall, her high, fragile cackle scattered by a deeper rumble. For all she talked about her bed being lonely, she hadn’t spent much time alone since his dad disappeared. Ian couldn’t figure out if she thought he was deaf or just stupid.

  He curled up on his side, listening to the squeak of the bed and her grunting moans, his stomach tight, face hot. Tension coiled in his belly, cock hard whether he wanted it or not. Reaching down into his pajamas, he touched himself, the warnings of Sister Theresa running through his head. He didn’t want to think of Vickie, of her makeup mask and ashtray stench, so he turned his thoughts to Cindy. Cindy McClellan’s tits, Vickie’s moans, and his hand, and he was coming over his fingers, eyes closed against the tears, the heat in his stomach burning to ash as he pressed his face against the pillow to soothe the sharp sting in his eyes.

  * * *

  Benny had violin practice on Tuesdays so Ian was walking home alone. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his dad’s jacket as he walked, the smell of fried food following him down Tamm. It was a straight shot from St. James the Greater once he crested the small hill. He could see Vickie sitting out on the stoop, her long legs stretched out until the tops of her shoes lit up in the sun. The cafeteria macaroni and c
heese turned to a hard lump in his stomach. Staring at her was like looking at a black hole.

  Letting his pack slip to the ground, he sat down on the bench outside the Happy Medium Barbershop and focused on the people walking back and forth. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood as he tried to find the familiarity in its daily routine. The traffic hummed along 64 and the radio droned from the patio behind Seamus McDaniel’s farther up the avenue. It was the same as every other day, except it felt empty, a vital piece of Dogtown missing.

  “Your daddy is still gone, huh?”

  Mr. Allen settled on the bench next to him, cane propped between his legs, wrinkled face hidden under the brim of his hat. Ian glanced at the squashed slope of his driving cap and away, staring up the street toward the gazebo. “Yes sir.”

  “It was bound to happen.” He tapped his cane on the sidewalk, snorting and then spitting into the flowerpot by the bench. “You can’t run with the types of people he did and not get into trouble.” Mr. Allen glanced at him and then down the road toward the house. Ian wondered if he was staring at Vickie’s long legs. “She taking good care of you? You’re looking a little peaked.”

  “Yes sir.” He’d found it was best to stick to yes and no when you weren’t sure what to say. Glancing at the rheumy paleness of his eyes, Ian wondered what Mr. Allen would say if he told him how he woke up in the middle of the night, sure the world had ended because the house felt so empty. What if he told him he sometimes thought Vickie had killed his dad? He opened his mouth, unsure of what was about to pour out, and then caught Vickie with her head turned, watching him.

  Swallowing the grit in his mouth, he dropped his gaze. “She feeds me, does the laundry, sometimes she cleans.”

  “She feeds you, huh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Guess you can’t ask for much more than that.” He patted Ian across the back and stood, pulling himself up by his cane and walking back into the barbershop.

  Someone drove by in a golf cart and Ian settled into the seat to wait Vickie out. Closing his eyes, he listened to Mr. Allen’s voice through the open door of the shop.