Dallas Noir

by David Hale Smith (ed)

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Danny asked, lifting an egg from the bowl.

  “Blow on the egg,” she commanded. He complied, and she removed the other egg from the bowl and cupped it in her hand. “Now crack it—into the bowl.”

  He hit the egg on the bowl’s rim and pried apart the two halves. Blood poured out into the bowl. “What the hell?”

  “Now I will tell you why you are here.” She pointed to the card at the center of the cross. “This is you.” The card depicted a man hanging upside down. “You have been cursed.”

  Suspicion welled inside him. “Listen, lady, I’ve heard about tricks like this. You put the blood in that egg somehow. It wouldn’t have mattered which one I picked.”

  Silently, she handed him the other egg. He cracked it. It was a regular egg. The golden yolk rested on the pool of blood in the bowl. It stared up at him like an eye.

  “Help me,” he said.

  “You have come into possession of a sum of money?” she said, telling more than asking, her slender fingers floating above the cards like a cursor, pointing to one diabolic image and then another. “This money is cursed. You must bring it to me, or bury it yourself in a cemetery, over the grave of a recently deceased loved one. This is the only way to lift the curse.”

  He was sweating. “Wait. I didn’t come here to talk about my money. It’s a curse. Sure. But it’s got nothing to do with my money. It’s a bird. An owl. It’s called La Lechuza.”

  She laughed. “Oh yes. I’m familiar with La Lechuza. But the curse does stem from the money. Think. Did you see La Lechuza before you . . . inherited this money?”

  “No,” he replied, shuffling the puzzle pieces in his head until they made a picture. He hadn’t seen La Lechuza until he’d taken the money. “You say if I bury it the curse will be lifted?”

  “Oh yes, guaranteed. But it must be over the grave of a loved one.” She covered his hand with hers. “Someone recently deceased. I know this can be difficult. You could bring the money to me. I could take care of it for you.”

  Danny pulled his hand away. “No. I’ll take care of it. Tonight. What do I owe you?”

  “You owe me nothing,” she said. “But donations are gratefully accepted.”

  Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out the roll of cash. He peeled off five bills and placed them on the table. “That enough?”

  “Perfect,” she said, examining the money.

  * * *

  Danny knew he’d been followed from Madame Zora’s. He saw the black Tahoe in the traffic, sometimes right behind him, other times a few car lengths back. But it was there, just like the owl, whispering his name. At home, Danny did more crystal and drank the last of his vodka. It looked like money would be tight again. He might even lose the Rolex. Fuck it. He didn’t care anymore. If burying the money meant he’d never see La Lechuza again, that would have to be okay. He still had the crystal he’d murdered two men for—no, not murder. Just an accident. He picked up a length of Thai stick from the ashtray and lit it. It was working. He was glowing again. They could have been murderers too, he decided, relaxing into the fog of the smoke and the magic of the meth. Maybe he’d done a public service. That’s how he was going to look at it.

  The hours passed, as he fortified himself on meth and Thai stick. He was glowing so brightly he imagined he might burst into flames. His senses were heightened to the point that he felt he had become one with both the natural and supernatural worlds. The approach of muffled wing beats and the whistle of his name on the wind told him it was so, and that the time had come. He dressed himself, and at ten thirty he left for the cemetery. He’d rehearsed it over and over in his mind. Drive to the cemetery, hop the fence with the briefcase and the shovel he’d bought on his way home from Oak Cliff. He knew his mother’s grave was next to his grandmother’s.

  He brought the roach from the Thai stick along for the drive to Grove Hill Cemetery. Pleasant Grove—a place where nothing good ever happened, he thought, remembering visits to distant cousins in that part of town. They even called themselves Grove-rats. There was the Tahoe. He spotted it several times in traffic, and he could see the shadow of the owl following along, even though it was dark, as he exited off I-30. He was close now, but for some reason he wasn’t frightened anymore. He parked across the street from the cemetery, threw the shovel and briefcase over the fence, and vaulted it like a pro—You still got it, Danny-boy. As he walked through the dark maze of trees and tombstones, he could hear the downy beating of wings above his head. Above the trees. The sound was soft, almost powdery. Dan-ny, the breeze whispered. Just a little further.

  At the grave, he fell to his knees, carrying the briefcase in one hand and the shovel in the other. He held his arms out and released a racking, anguished sob. He knelt that way for several moments, as the tree branches rustled their approval near the grave. When he glanced up, a pair of glowing orbs met his gaze. He stood, placed the briefcase on the mound of the grave, and whispered, “Forgive me.” He took the shovel in both hands and pulled it back to strike at the soft earth. Before he could complete the motion, he heard someone quietly call his name. He dropped the shovel and turned. It was Madame Zora. She was pointing a gun. Her silver hair and the gun’s silver barrel glinted in the light of the full moon, and he was drawn to their luminosity. It seemed as if the graveyard was flooded with light. He couldn’t remember a full moon that had lasted this long, or one that had pulsated more invitingly.

  “So this is how it goes,” he said. “The money’s in the briefcase, but I spent some.”

  “I know,” Madame Zora said, pulling a bill from her pocket, holding it up for him to see.

  “But how?” he asked. This was too complicated. He needed some crystal. He needed some clarity.

  “What if I told you the money had a mark. A shaved corner. Didn’t you notice?”

  “So this is all about the money? Just take it, I won’t go to the police.”

  “It was never all about the money,” she said. “One of the men you killed worked for me. He was my nephew.”

  Danny was trying to make sense of the pieces when the moon went behind the clouds. He didn’t like the graveyard in the dark. He was grateful for the sparks that shot from the gun when she pulled the trigger. They were like fireworks. He’d always liked fireworks. He fell back onto his mother’s grave, next to the briefcase. He felt for the leather of the handle and clutched it. She’ll have to pry it out of my hand. Maybe I can overpower her if she tries, he thought. As he looked up at the sky, he felt cold, but then something warm and wet began to envelope him, and he settled into its embrace.

  The clouds were parting now to reveal the full moon again. It was just what he’d wanted most at this moment. Luminosity. He heard something hard strike the grave. It was the gun. She’d dropped it, but his limbs felt useless. He rolled his eyes to watch her when she knelt beside him. Felt a tickling sensation when she pried the handle of the briefcase from his grip. As their eyes met, he knew that this was the part he’d been waiting for.

  The change happened right there in front of him. So that’s how it’s done. It was so much simpler than he’d imagined it would be. La Lechuza flew onto his mother’s headstone and stared down at him with molten eyes. “Dan-ny,” the owl cried. Then it flew away into the tree line.

  * * *

  Time had become irrelevant, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there on the grave. He’d been admiring the moon though. She’d said it hadn’t all been about the money, and he was starting to believe her. He listened closely. Could just make out the downy flutter of wings, beating like a pulse in his brain—powdery soft. He watched as the sky faded, and the giant owl pumped its wings, becoming smaller as it flew higher. The shadow of its silhouette traversed the face of the full moon.

  LIKE KISSING YOUR SISTER

  BY JAMES HIME

  Irving

  As they pulled into the parking lot of the tittie bar out by the new Texas Stadium, Capt
ain Jeremiah Spur could no longer refrain from commenting on the weather. “I’d be inclined to say it’s rainin’ like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock,” he said as he took a drag on his Camel, “but in my experience cows always piss straight down. This here wind has the weather all sideways.”

  The uniformed officer who was at the wheel of the patrol car, a man by the name of White, nodded at the Texas Ranger. “Weatherman said we was in for a toad strangler.”

  “How come they’re always correct when they predict it’ll turn out miserable? Sure ’nough gonna make for a muddy track over at the Cotton Bowl.”

  “Who you like in that game?”

  Jeremiah took a last drag on his cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray. “I’m an Aggies fan. When Texas and OU play, I mostly cheer for injuries. That was a joke. I think the crime scene is around back of the place.”

  It was still morning. The parking lot outside the joint, the Silver Garter, was empty. Jeremiah knew that it was a front for the Dallas Mafia, which was run by Joe Campagnolo out of the Egyptian Lounge over on Mockingbird.

  Jeremiah had spent the last year and a half trying to take down the Campagnolo gang, but he didn’t have much to show for it so far.

  Maybe this morning would represent a turning point. But he was loath to get his hopes up.

  They pulled around back and were greeted by crime scene tape, a van from the ME’s office, a few police cruisers, and a couple of civilian rides. The tape cordoned off an area around a cream-colored 1984 Oldsmobile 88.

  “Nice car,” said the driver as he pulled to a stop. “I hadn’t seen the new model yet.”

  “I doubt the man has had it long enough to make the first payment. Guess we better get on with it.”

  As he stepped out into the monsoon, Jeremiah pulled his slicker to and fastened it. His Stetson all but got away from him in the wind and he had to clutch it to his head. He had covered it in a plastic shell, the better to keep it from being ruined by the rain.

  He was not by nature a man much given to vanity, but he set considerable store by his hat.

  Jeremiah ducked under the crime scene tape. He made his way around the front of the car to the driver’s side, Officer White at his heels. The big Ranger peered in the vehicle at the body lying slumped over the steering wheel. Blood and brain matter smeared the windshield glass from the inside. He eyed it for a few minutes and then straightened up.

  “Could have been the work of Joe’s boys. Shot at close range behind the right ear. That’s about their style. You say he managed this place?” His chin jerked toward the strip joint.

  “That’s right.”

  Jeremiah grunted. “Wouldn’t have thought they’d left the body here, though. Dumping a vic in an East Texas pasture for some farmer to find—that’s more Joe’s speed. Who found it?”

  “Guy named Paul O’Brien. He works the bar here. Stumbled on it when he came in to open up this morning.”

  “Where’s he at now?”

  “Inside.”

  Jeremiah told White to stay where he was, and he made for the door.

  Strip joints tend to be windowless affairs and the Silver Garter was no exception. Most of the illumination came from beer signs hanging behind the bar, and that’s where he found O’Brien, sipping coffee.

  Jeremiah pulled off his slicker as he crossed the room, and shook the water onto the floor. The barman watched his progress and kept sipping. Jeremiah planted one hip on a stool and set his slicker down on the bar. Pulling an ashtray within easy reach, he helped himself to a book of matches with the joint’s name embossed on it in raised gold letters. He lit a cigarette and shook the match out and dropped it in the ashtray. The matchbook he pocketed.

  He sat smoking and studying the bartender. The man was young, in his early thirties, with longish black hair, a mustache, pronounced sideburns. He apparently had not let the passage into history of the 1970s influence his grooming style.

  “I hear you found the body. What was his name?”

  “Larry Karcher.”

  “Known him long?”

  “About a year. That’s when I hired on.”

  “Got any clue who might have wanted to see him dead?”

  The man sipped his coffee. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for me to speculate about that.”

  “On account of how come?”

  “On account of, I might end up like Larry.”

  Jeremiah pushed his Stetson back on his head and scratched at a spot in his hairline. “But that would only happen if I was to betray your confidence. I been in law enforcement many a year, and that is one thing I ain’t never done.”

  O’Brien dropped his hands into his lap and hung his head for a few moments. When he looked up, he said, “You ever heard of a man named Victor Pirano?”

  Jeremiah tapped ash and nodded. “Joe Campagnolo brought him in from New York a few years back, after he’d done a stretch in Sing Sing for manslaughter. Rough customer, despite his fondness for dapper attire. Generally keeps the troops on the west side in line.”

  O’Brien nodded. “He come in here a couple weeks back, to see Larry. The two of them went in Larry’s office and closed the door. I was on my way to get a couple bottles of whiskey from the storeroom in back when I heard ’em goin’ at one another. The two of them was screamin’ and shoutin’ to beat the band.”

  “What about?”

  O’Brien shook his head. “I don’t know, and Larry never said. What I do know is that after Victor left, I saw Larry, and he was shakin’ like a leaf. The man was pure-D scared out of his mind.”

  “Pirano been around here since that time?”

  “Not till last night.”

  “You saw him last night?”

  “Yeah. We were crazy busy, what with all the college boys in town for the game. He may have been in here somewhere. Taking in the show, for all I know. But I didn’t see him till late, when I was leaving for the night. Around two in the morning.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Out back, in the employee parking area. Leaning up against Larry’s new 88. I don’t know if anyone but me saw him, okay, so if you tell him he was spotted back there, he’s likely to figure I’m the one who told you. And that would not be good, man.”

  Beads of sweat had popped out on O’Brien’s upper lip. He was a study in paranoia.

  Jeremiah gave a short nod. He made no reply. Instead, he consulted his watch.

  Coming up on lunchtime.

  Would Victor Pirano really make the rookie mistake of letting himself get noticed right where a body would be found some hours later? Jeremiah had his substantial doubts. But he could think of no reason not to go brace the man while he waited for the forensics to come in.

  He stood to go. “If you think of anything else . . .” He produced a business card from the breast pocket of his shirt and handed it to the barman.

  The guy looked it over, then set it down on the bar before him. “Texas Ranger, huh?”

  Jeremiah made no reply. He shrugged on his slicker and headed back outside where he told Officer White to take him back to his office so he could get his own vehicle.

  He figured to follow this case the rest of the way himself. Didn’t really need a uniform hanging around, watching his every move. After all, Joe Campagnolo’s boys were said to be wired in tight with the DPD.

  Vic Pirano was known to be a frequent customer at Dunston’s steak house over on Harry Hines. Jeremiah found him there, sitting alone in a booth and fingering a martini that was about half gone. Even though it was Saturday, he was attired as if he had an appointment with his banker—blue French-cuff shirt with white collar, gold cuff links and collar pin, gray pin-striped suit, red tie. Hair slicked back, nails manicured.

  Jeremiah hung his slicker and Stetson on a hook that protruded from the side of the booth and slid onto the bench opposite the mobster.

  “Captain Spur,” the man said, in an accent that was pure Brooklyn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

/>   Pirano took a sip while Jeremiah fished out his cigarettes and lit one from the book of matches he’d taken at the tittie bar. Then he slid the matchbook across the table to Pirano. “I’m guessin’ you know this here establishment.”

  Pirano glanced at the matchbook but made no effort to pick it up. “Of course. It sells overpriced drinks to men while entertaining them with shows featuring scantily clad females. I find it surprising, and oddly reassuring, that a morally upright man such as yourself would patronize the place.”

  “I was over there this morning, all right. But not for the drinks, nor the girls. Last night somebody shot the manager, name of Karcher. The DPD found his body at the wheel of his 88. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

  A waiter arrived at tableside with an enormous Caesar salad in hand. He served Pirano and offered him a couple twists of a pepper mill, then retreated. Pirano tucked his napkin in his shirt collar and took a fork to the salad. Jeremiah smoked and watched.

  Pirano sat back and chewed and peered around the mostly empty restaurant. He brought a corner of the napkin up to his lips and swallowed.

  “Knowing what I do about you and your methods, I am going to surmise that your question is based on more than mere guesswork.”

  “I have a witness who claims you were recently on the premises over yonder, engaged in a heated quarrel with the vic.”

  “Ah. That.” Pirano drank his martini dry, then caught the eye of the waiter. He made a circular motion over the glass with his finger. The waiter nodded and walked off. “I was asked by the owners of the Silver Garter to have a word with Mr. Karcher about his management practices as relates to the dancing staff. Mr. Karcher had taken upon himself certain liberties where they were concerned. Liberties that were proving to be bad for business.”

  “You’re sayin’ he couldn’t keep his hands off the exotic dancers?”

  “His hands were not the problem. The problem was his dick. He knocked two of them up in just the last year. This sort of thing has adverse implications for profit margins. It reduces the talent pool. Causes morale problems. The second girl, Rosemary Evans, went so far as to complain to Mr. C. Confronted him personally, at the Egyptian. Said Karcher had promised to marry her, then reneged. Just like a dumb-ass tittie dancer to buy that line. Anyway, the man needed to be spoken to.”