Friday (Serial) Fiction: Devils Walk Through Galveston, Ch. 10

Christmas is fast approaching.  If you’re looking for a good book to give as a gift, give Devils Walk Through Galveston. (Link to Amazon here).  Here’s the latest serial installment, with the story heating up fast.  Chapter 10 below:

The prologue, Chapter 1 (which introduced the crime and criminal), Chapter 2 (which introduced the police officers), Chapter 3 (the seduction of the initial victim), Chapter 4 (which follows the fleeing killer), and Chapter 5 (police begin tracking the killers),  Chapter 6 (backstory of Eli, one of the key police officers), Chapter 7,(the killers make their way to Galveston), Chapter 8, (Searching through Houston’s underbelly), Chapter 9 (John fleeing Galveston), and now Chapter 10 (leads to the killer).  I hope you enjoy it. Please read it and share (noncommercially).  Go to Amazon and get the book for the rest.

10.  Searching

Eli and Vincent were out, rousting pot dealers, investigating leads on other murders, talking to neighbors, kids in parks when shootings happened.  They worked in questions about someone new to the neighborhood.  Whether they’d heard anything about a murder in Galveston. Someone talking about riding trains around the country.  Nothing.  They sat in on interrogations of armed robbery suspects.  Seeking leads.  Keeping the train car murderer in the back of their minds. 

The Texas Rangers were working this full time, as were Galveston police.  The island was tiny.  There was nothing there. Whoever had come, had left.  Any presumed suspects had alibis, however weak.

They kept working the case in Houston.  The press kept a low simmer of fear in West U and Bellaire, old, nice neighborhoods with train tracks running through and houses with stay-at-home wives and no or low fences.  Reporting on old murders of women who lived near tracks, disappeared from bars, break-ins at houses in Houston, and around the southwest.  Shotguns were selling fast.  People traveled in packs on the Washington Avenue club corridor, the train tracks four blocks north and parallel, coming straight west out of the ship channel and on to San Antonio.  Slow moving trains.  None of the crossings in West University, Bellaire or Washington Avenue announced trains anymore.  No train horns blew to wake the neighbors.  No one knew if this was good or bad. Trains came through five times a night.  No one would sleep.

The news was linking up unsolved murders of women in Mississippi, Tennessee, Texas, Louisiana and New Mexico.  Going back four or five years.  Quietly, the police worried about copycats.  Now anyone could get murdered near train tracks and it would be blamed on the one killer by the press. 

Little in common between the women.  They didn’t even know if the one in Galveston was linked to the others.  Most of the women had been found in the bedroom with bleach or whiskey poured on their skin and the mattresses, the dishes freshly washed.  No traces of fluids from the killer.  No fingerprints anywhere.  But most of the women didn’t look startled.  They died in their beds and there was mostly no sign of struggle.  Never a broken lock.  The murder in Galveston was a break-in or made to look like one, a surprise.  Hell, there was a shotgun by her side.  But it hadn’t been fired.  The throat cut was deep.  Her husband had been out of town for a few days at a trial.  Maybe the man had picked her up and slept with her, or got ready to, then they had a fight.  Maybe he planted the gun and broke the lock on the way out.  None of the neighbors saw anything, heard anything.  Maybe he was just hungry and didn’t think anyone was home.  It was only the same size smooth boot prints and the finger smudges.  They had started to hear reports of hobos found on the side of train tracks, thrown from box cars.  But, this wasn’t new.  No one knew if they fit together. 

If they didn’t put something together soon, the FBI was going to bring in a profiler.  Vincent didn’t think too much of that.  City of five million and one man maybe passing through. What would that get you?  Loner, former mental patient, former prisoner.  If they brought those usual suspects in, they’d be interrogating and following leads for months on one case with unrelated murders happening every day.  The Harris County Jail now the biggest mental health facility in the State.  Vincent said they had to lock down all the train lines and wait for him to flush out.  Keep him here in Houston.  If it was one guy, he liked to roam.  Keep him here a while and he would get restless, show up somewhere they knew someone.  They couldn’t tell this to the press.  It would set off a fury if the local press thought they were purposely keeping a killer in the city by cutting off his way out.  So they told the railroads to be really quiet about adding more security to the yards, inspecting all the boxcars that went out to make sure they were empty of people and locked. This wasn’t too hard.  Most things shipped by container now.  And, those were locked when they got on the ship, much less when they got in port and onto a train.

So, they searched.  Followed leads on other cases, kept this one in their side pockets.

§§

Local defense lawyers were on the news now.  Talking about the rights of the accused. Cautioning against  hysteria.  Just trying to get in front of the cameras.  Quietly asking, quietly talking to their prosecution counterparts about how this could help both their careers. 

There was going to be a trial.  It was going to be a media zoo no matter who the lawyers were.  The right ones and it could take on a life of its own.  They just had to wait for the police to work. They had to work back channels as fast and as hard as they could.

§§

First thing in the morning and Vincent met Eli at the station with a look of mild disgust.  They got in the car quietly.  Vincent started it up, looked ahead and said: “This weekend we’re going shopping.  That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous?”

“Those pants, that shirt. Plain clothes doesn’t mean ‘look like crap.’”

“Jeez, man, tell me how you feel.  Seriously, don’t hold back.  I can take it.”

“Don’t get all butt-hurt.”

“What’s this about, Vincent?”

“It’s about you looking the part.”

“No it’s not. What’s it about?”

“We need to get this motherfucker.  The Galveston guy.  The train guy.  He’s scaring my wife.  She asked about the shotgun today.  Asked if I can take her to the range to show her how to shoot it.  She has pepper spray.  She’s not an afraid type of woman.  But today, she pointed out that we live two blocks from train tracks.  Every time a train goes by, it freaks her out.  This shit has to stop.”

“He could be gone.  He could be in Mexico.”

“Fine.  I have to know.  We have to know he’s not here.”

“What if it’s more than one?”

“Exactly.” 

“Exactly what?”

“We need this to stop. Confirm or deny the rumors, the press.”

Vincent told Eli that the Rangers had nothing.   FBI profilers had nothing.  The Mayor was pissed.  All but the Galveston murder had the same hallmarks.  Most wouldn’t help them.  They couldn’t look for a guy with bleach and a penchant to wash the dishes.  They couldn’t look for a guy with thin fingerprints or no fingerprints without just checking every guy who came in on other charges.  Which they were doing all over.  If he was cutting off his fingerprints, there would be a constant wound on his fingertips, constant band-aids.  That would have gotten noticed somewhere along the way.

They drove down through southeast Houston.  They checked in at the local pawn shops, looking for diamond earrings.  The pawn brokers weren’t keen on talking about purchasing stolen goods. They’d have to give them up.  They didn’t usually show big diamond earrings in the front anyway.  Kept those in back for good customers.  Vincent explained they were looking for a serial killer.  When they found him, he’d be interrogated harder than anyone ever had.  If he sold the earrings to a piece of shit pawn broker who hadn’t given them up, the police would come down hard. 

They leaned. They pushed.  Still, they had nothing.  Eli told them what to look for, what the earrings supposedly looked like, what they thought the guy looked like and to call immediately.  They probably wouldn’t call.  They probably wouldn’t buy from him either, though, forcing him to get desperate.

Noon and lunch had started at the strip club closest to Hobby airport.  A place with Latina dancers.  A low slung concrete building a block from a modeling studio and two hotels that would rent by the hour if you asked.  The club was cheap and nasty.  It had a good buffet.

They got the steak and sat at a table a few rows back from the main stage.  Not the very back.  But they could tell what was behind them.  The dancers were tired already.  The d.j. didn’t give a shit.  The manager wanted the cops gone so the girls could hook in the back after the customers were done with lunch.  Vincent told the douche bag he didn’t care. He didn’t want to see it.  He wouldn’t see it.   The manager wanted to believe him, but didn’t want the trouble, either. 

Vincent asked the manager to send over some girls who had worked split shifts, who had been in at night and during the day in the last week.  Ten minutes later, two girls came over.  Both spoke decent English.  Both had nice asses in tiny skirts.  They sat on Eli and Vincent’s laps, asked if they wanted a dance, that the manager had sent them over.  Vincent knew this was the heart of their money-making day.  He was honest, always.  Told the dancers they were homicide detectives.  Were looking for a guy who came in alone, didn’t have too much money to spend.  Tall and thin with boots on.  Non-descript.  Someone that gave them a bad feeling.  They had nothing to tell.  Vincent got a dance.  Told Eli he didn’t have to.  Eli sat and nursed a cigar given by the manager.  Watched the girls on the stages for twenty minutes.  Vincent came back, told Eli she was serious, they hadn’t seen anything.

§§

Eli and Vincent out amongst ‘em.  Stopping in on medium-sized drug dealers.  Unannounced but for the unmarked Crown Vic with black basic wheels and plexiglas between the rows of seats.  They might as well have been marked.  It would have saved a few seconds for the recognition.  They stopped in on a series of fifteen hundred square-foot bungalows with eight-foot wooden fences.  Coming around the back hollering their presence.  Walking among backyards filled out with weight benches and pit bull kennels.  Chains hanging down from tree limbs with blood soaked towels on the base.  Dogs hanging by their jaws, sucking out the blood from the towels, red rivulets running down their bodies.  

These were dealers with money to buy two-carat diamond earrings from a fence.  Not enough money to buy them at a store.  Men with just enough to lose. 

The last house they stopped at was on the border of Houston and Pasadena, near the start of the ship channel.  These guys were wholesalers.  They had guys on the street. They sidelined in trafficking further north. 

Vincent hit the buzzer.  The door slot opened and he showed a badge, said they weren’t in a hurry, asked if they could come in, have a drink of water.  There was a pause and some mumbles.  They heard things moving in the background, cleaning up.   The door opened to a white guy with a mouth full of gold teeth and full sleeve tattoos.  He had one carat diamonds in his ears.  Vincent walked in first, sat down on the couch when it was offered.  Eli came in behind and stayed standing.  No one objected. 

The dealer pulled a wooden chair over from the kitchen table and sat down.  Offered them whiskey.

Vincent told him, “No thanks. We just saw some strippers. We can’t smell like booze and whores’ perfume.” 

The dealer insulted: “You were serious, you want water?  There’s a gas station down the street.”

“I know.  We wanted your company.”

“Who got murdered?”

“No small talk?”

The dealer leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking, “I don’t have time today.”

“I won’t ask.”

“I appreciate it.  I won’t tell, so it’ll save us time.” 

The dealer pointed toward Eli: “He looks nervous.”

Vincent told him, “He’s not.  He’s still addled from seeing so many tits at lunch.”

“You going to mind if I have a drink?”

“Your house.”

The dealer slow-saying, drawing it out, “Yessir.  It is.” 

One of the dealer’s assistants, a kid in baggy pants with a shaved, tattooed head got a glass and a bottle of single malt Glenmoraingie, 18 year.  Good, not the best.  No ice. Cubes of actual rock to cool it.

Vincent, intrigued: “Where’d you learn about Scotch?”

“You never drink with me.  You’d know this otherwise.  I was serious.  I’ve got about twenty minutes then we have to go.  What’s up? I know I haven’t shot anyone lately.”

“We need to know about earrings.”

“Seriously?  I thought you were homicide.  You get demoted?  I bought these from the jeweler.  I didn’t kill anyone for ‘em.”

“We didn’t think you did.  I’ve seen those on you before.  We’re looking for a guy trying to pawn or sell two-carat ice.”

“That’s pretty fuckin big.  Your average crackhead doesn’t have two carats to sell.” 

Vincent with his elbows on his knees, leaning in, speaking deliberately:  “This is serious.  I’m not playing.  This isn’t a social visit.  We aren’t looking for crackheads or retarded gangbangers.  We have a line on a guy who may be desperate to get rid of some earrings.  We’ve checked a few pawn shops.  They’ve got nothing now. They won’t get anything.  They’ll spread the word.”

“You haven’t checked with any fences?”

“We don’t think this guy’s local.  We doubt he’d know who to go to.  We think he’s a loner.  We shut down the pawn shops.  We think he’s low on money.  He’ll have to sell and start asking around, probably to dealers on the street.  But, you know, fences are on our social calendar.  Same message.  This guy’s not worth fucking with.   At all.” 

“Why should I help?”

“This guy’s bad.  A different breed of bad.  This goes up through the State to the feds.  You want no part of this.  You hear of it, your dealers hear of it, get me a description of the guy, what part of town he’s in.  Keep you and your guys out of it.”  

“What’s in it for me?”

“A slower route to Huntsville.  We get him and find the diamonds on someone he’s sold them to, they’re going down too.  The Rangers will follow the trail and skull-fuck whoever’s on it.  Your guys hear anything on the street, call me.  We’ll take it and leave you out of it.”

The dealer contemplated, rubbed his watch.  Wondered what the angle was.  Deciding there was none.  Decided there was someone in town messing up the order of things, liable to get everything out of balance.  He contemplated this while Vincent sat still and quiet.  Eli watched everyone else in the room.  All the guys kept their hands where everyone else could see them.  Hoping this would soon end with no one knocking on the door to see cops in the room.  Finally, the dealer leaned in.  Agreed, saying, “I’ll let you know.”

Vincent was satisfied:  “Do so.  We’ll be seeing your competition.  Just so you know, we’re not picking on you.  This is equal opportunity.”

“Appreciate that.”

They both got up and turned toward the door.  An assistant looked out the privacy slide and made sure it was clear, let Vincent and then Eli out to the sidewalk where children played under the watchful eye of parents eyeing the street.

When they got in the car and had the air conditioner going, Vincent looked over and said, “God I hate that fucker.”

 “He seemed cordial.”

“He’s pathological.  He’s one small fuckup away from life in prison, which might make him happy.  He’d probably like it inside prison.  If he’s lucky he’ll get in there without any real physical damage.  And, just so you know, his grill is real.  Not fronts.  Not a slip on.  He really got all his teeth removed and replaced with solid gold teeth.”

“That’s got to hurt.”

“I guess it helps him get whatever women he’s into.  No other reason to do it.”

“Takes all kinds.”

“We could do without that kind.”

They rode quietly for a while, back toward Hobby airport.  Vincent asked Eli if he had cash or if they had to stop at an ATM. 

Eli:  “I’m fine.”

How much have you got?

“About two hundred.”

“Good.  You’re going to spend one of them.”

“What do we need?”

Vincent smiled, said, “Pertinent question.”

They were going to a massage parlor.  He told Eli to get naked and get a massage.   Told Eli not to get a happy ending.  To tell her he was a homicide cop at the outset so he would require a towel over his ass.  Ask her gentle questions about the serial killer.  See if she had heard anything and leave a card.  Vincent told Eli he’d likely still enjoy the massage.  They could expense it if they got some information and he didn’t get his cock oiled.

§§

Vincent parked in back of a low cement building with blacked out windows and a perpetual sign that said “Open.”  They walked to the back door and rang the buzzer.  Looked up at the camera.  A few seconds passed and the door clicked open.  Vincent walked in and Eli followed behind.  The man at the counter was white, thin and pasty.  Had a little too much gold on his neck.

The man behind the counter smiled and said, “Vincent, how have you been?”

Vincent, cordial, said, “Good.  I’ve been pretty good.  Working a lot.  Got a lot of stress.”

“Is this visit business or pleasure?”

“Some of both.  This is my new partner, Eli.”

The man turned toward Eli, said “Good afternoon, officer.  I’m Robert. It’s nice to meet you.”

Eli: “It’s a pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

Turning back to Vincent, Robert continued, “What’s going on in your world?”

“We’d like massages.  Separate rooms.”

Robert laughed: “I’ll call down two of the girls.”

“Thank you.  Get Eli here one who’s nice.  I want to talk to you for a minute first.  Can someone cover the desk for a minute?”

Robert picked up a phone.  Spoke in Thai.  A few seconds later a middle aged Thai woman came to the desk and Robert led them to an office behind the desk.  It had a bullet proof window blacked out to the lobby.  He sat behind a tiny desk with a couple of very thin ledgers on the corner.  A safe under a corner, bolted to the floor.  He opened his hands toward Vincent, who stayed standing.  Eli had his back to the door.

Robert waited.  Vincent told him, “We’re looking for someone.  We don’t know much about him except that he isn’t from around here.  White or light skinned Hispanic.  Tall and thin.  Otherwise nondescript.”

“That’s not much.”

“I know.  That’s why there’s the stress.”

“You know anything else?”

He may not have fingerprints, burned hands, something like that.  But nothing else.  He won’t have much cash but likely won’t be pushy.  You seen anyone new around?”

“Always.  We have some regulars.  Some new guys.”

“Anyone stick out?  Give a girl any trouble.”

“No trouble for a little while.” 

“We’re going to brace the two girls.”

“No problem.”  

“But, we’re going to get a massage, too.”

“No problem.”

Vincent continued, “This guy’s serious.  Scary.”

“The guy on the trains?”

“That guy.”

“You don’t have anything?”

“No.  We’re just here to ask. And to tell you to call.”

“No problem.”

A long pause ensued.  Finally, Robert saw two girls come into view in the lobby.  He gestured to the outside.  Said, “The girls are here.  Enjoy.”

Vincent:  “Call if you hear anything.  Tell the girls.” 

“I will.”

Vincent nodded his head toward Eli, who opened the door when he heard the lock click and headed into the lobby.  Two Thai women stood waiting.  Both in short skirts and thin short-sleeved tops.  One who walked up to Vincent and gave him a kiss on the cheek and led him toward and down a hallway.  The other one, younger, walked up to Eli and offered a hand.  Eli took it and held it softly.  She led him silently down the hall, opened the last door on the left, letting him walk in first.  There was a full-sized futon on the floor. She dimmed the lights drastically and gestured for Eli to sit down in a chair, then got on her knees in front of him and took off his boots, unrolled his socks.  She stood up and helped Eli out of his shirt.   This was new to him.  He was embarrassed by the attention.  She felt his tension.  She stood back and let him take off his pants, laying the pants with the gun belt and badge on the chair.  He took off his underwear and lay them on the chair.  He couldn’t help the erection forming.  She paid it no mind.

She spoke softly, in lilting English.  Asked him to lay down on the futon.  She asked if he was shy and held out a towel.  Eli said he would need the towel over him and got on the bed, laying face-down, tucking his erection back as best he could.

She covered his behind with the dish towel.  Eli could hear her take off her skirt and top. She kept on small panties and a halter-bra.  She said her name was Alice, asked if it was his first massage.  Eli told her it wasn’t, but was his first time here.  She asked Eli if it was true that he caught killers.  He said it was true.  That they weren’t vice. Weren’t worried about massage parlors unless she needed help.  There was a pause as she wrapped his feet in hot towels.  She said she was fine.  Didn’t need help.  She came around and kneeled in front of his face.   Said it was true.  Said she didn’t have any trouble with Robert, asked quietly, hesitantly, “So, you aren’t here to arrest us?”

Eli, quite, solemn, “It’s true, as long as I know you’re o.k.”

Alice, looking in Eli’s eyes, relaxing as he looked at her calmly: “I’m fine.  I like it here.  I’ve been here a year.  The money’s good.  Robert treats us well.  Are you here to relax?”

Eli: “Yes.”

“Good.  I will help you relax.”

She went back to his feet, rubbed the hot towels into his soles.  Took the towels off and put lotion on his feet.  She rubbed them deeply.  Worked up his calves to his thighs.   Got almost all the way up, but didn’t go past the towel as she felt Eli tense, told him, “Don’t worry.  I’ll stop there.”

She got on top of him, rested her weight over his butt and started to rub his low back.  Eli’s erection softened.  She lay down across his back and kissed his ear.  Said, “I won’t get us in trouble.”

Eli smiled and relaxed his muscles under her hands.  Then she moved up and put her hands on his shoulders, put her knees on his back and started to run her knees up and down his spine, flexing them out over his muscles, telling him that she’d work out the knots.  That he needed to relax more, to close his eyes. 

Eli did as he was told and she got off of him, came around to his head.  Told him to turn over.  Eli did as he was told.  Kept the towel over his cock.  Alice put her hand under his neck and massaged it for a while, rolling his head under her palms.  Then she lay his head back down and massaged his temples. 

When she was finished, forty-five minutes had passed.  She moved around to lay next to him.  Eli’s erection bulged beneath the towel.  She put a hand across his chest and whispered into his ear, “I can’t touch it.”

            Eli, embarrassed: “I know.”

“But, I’d feel bad if you have  to leave like that.”

“I can’t.  You know it.”

“I can’t touch it.  You can.”

“Don’t mess with me.”

“No.  You do it.  I won’t touch you.  I have tissue.  Don’t pick up the towel.” 

She kissed Eli’s ear.  She took his hand and moved it to the edge of the towel and draped a leg across his leg and continued kissing his ear, bit it gently.  Eli slid his hand under the towel and started to stroke himself.  She whispered and cooed in his ear, said: “Touch it.  I want to feel you cum.”  She kissed and licked the side of Eli’s head as he rubbed his cock.  He got faster, his breath got quicker.  Alice felt his body tense.  She rubbed her hand across his nipples, whispered: “Give it to me.” 

Eli came under the towel and immediately regretted it.  Alice seemed happy to have pleased him.  She got up and gave him wet wipes for his hands and legs.  Threw the towel in the laundry and got another towel to lay over his waist.  She lay down again next to him, put her leg back over his, her head by his ear, said: “We still have half an hour.  We can talk if you want to.”

Eli gathered his senses.  The orgasm was wearing off.  He put his arm around her as she slid closer and hugged his body.  He took a few deep breaths, said thank you.  Alice smiled and hugged him.  She asked why he was so stressed, so tense.

Eli told her that they were looking for a killer.  A man no one knew anything about. 

She was confused, asked: “How can you look if you don’t know anything.”

Eli tried to explain, though it troubled him as well:  “We know a little.  We know he’s probably white.  He’s probably tall, about six feet and thin.  He wears smooth soled cowboy boots, about a size 10 or 11.  And there is one weird thing.  He doesn’t seem to have any fingerprints.”

Alice: “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to explain it really.  He seems to be missing fingerprints.  He has fingers, but no prints on them.  They seem to be smooth.  The rest of the hands, we’re not sure about.”

“Do you know anything else?”

“No.  He seems to look and act relatively normal.  Aside from being a murderer.  We don’t think he has much cash.  We don’t think he’s from around here.”

Alice sat up on one elbow.  Her  voice broke: “Is he a bad man?”

“Yes, very bad.” 

“Who did he kill?”

“We think he killed lots of women.  We don’t know why.  There doesn’t seem to be a reason why.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Just call us. Tell the other girls.” 

“What do I tell them?”

“Tell them to call me or Vincent if a white guy, six feet and thin, with odd hands comes in and doesn’t seem to fit.  Don’t try to do anything to him.  Don’t go home with him.  He won’t do anything to you here.  If you can find out where he lives, tell us.  We’ll stop it.”

“Is he going to come here?”

“Probably not.”

“Will you come back and see me?”

Eli put his right arm around her, pulled her close.  Pulled her chest to his face and said, “Yes.”  Rested in her arms for a while.

§§

They met in the lobby, exactly one and a half hours after they went in, both relaxed.  Both still frustrated.  Eli and Vincent went to the Crown Vic and Vincent drove them to the station. Vincent said they’d have a more productive day tomorrow and set off.  Eli got in his car and drove back to the old East Side of town, through the streets filled with boys on bikes, their fathers drinking beer in the driveway, waiving as he passed.  He could join them.  He probably wouldn’t.

Eli pulled into his driveway and went in through the back door.  He turned on the oven and opened a beer.  Sat at the table he bought to replace the one she took.  Looked over at the empty living room. 

He could see the paint flashes about a foot above the floor all the way around the living room.  The same height as a little boy’s trucks, inadvertently rammed against every wall in the house at the same height.  Hours of penitent drywall repair and repainting still left a shadow of brightness where the new paint overlapped the original.  It still broke his heart. 

Eli put a pizza in the oven and walked around the house.  He didn’t do this often.  He usually stayed out of the far side of the house that had the boy’s old room and the guest room Danielle had treated as her own, especially at the end.  It had held her old mattress and bed, her TV.  Until a month ago when he gave it to St. Vincent du Paul, it had her wedding dress in the closet, where she’d left it. 

He went into the boy’s empty room and looked over the built-in shelves, the fresh paint barely covering crayon marks, remembering the time he fussed at the boy for climbing up to the top shelf.  Eli asked what he was looking for up there.  The boy looked at him like that was a crazy question.  Maybe it was.  He was at the climbing age then.  Eli remembered the time he heard things crashing and came into the boy’s room to find him at the top of his closet, having hoisted himself up the little boy hangar bar and the next two shelves to wedge himself into the top shelf, five feet up, trying to figure out how to get down.  Eli had to spank him then.  Eli had told him not to climb in the house.  He hated to spank him and held the boy after, while he creid.  Told him he still loved him, that he was still a good boy.

Eli traced his fingers over the top shelf as he remembered that afternoon, recalled exactly how the boy’s room looked, the bent curtain anchors where he’d climbed the drapes, the multi-colored plastic toy closet from Home Depot, the low dresser he could get his own clothes from. 

Eli’s hand rubbed against a piece of paper.  He pulled it down to see the boy’s seven year-old writing, a note saying: “Dad, I love you.  I don’t want to go.”

Eli sat down on the floor in the closet and smelled the paper, bringing back memories of his last day with his step-son.  Danielle had moved them out six months before but let the boy come over every other weekend Eli had off, as if they had split custody.  Eli had gotten another bed for him, a futon the boy didn’t want to sleep on.  Then, without warning, Danielle decided to end it.  Said it was the last weekend for them to be together.  Said she was moving to Louisiana for a better job.  They’d come back every once in a while, but the boy was too young to fly Southwest by himself.  That she’d come back at holidays to see her parents and be sure to tell Eli when that was, to let him see his now former step-son.  Eli had offered to keep some of the boy’s stuff at the house for when he would eventually visit. 

That last day, Eli and the boy had walked around the house.  Gathered up his toys, deciding what he wanted to take. What he wanted to keep here.  Both knowing that he might not come back.  Both knowing this was probably the end.  The boy had wanted to leave his favorite toy behind. Eli made him take it.  Knew the little guy would regret it.  Knew a replacement wouldn’t be the same.  Eli held back more tears.  Eli finally let them go as he walked around the outside of the house.  Said he had to check something outside and stopped, hunched over by the side of the house, body convulsing.  Wondering how he’d fucked up so bad.  Asking then, why he was so horrible.  After a minute, he got up.  Turned on the spigot and washed off his face.  Tried to wash his puffy eyes down with the cold tap.

Finally, he went inside.  Found the boy sitting quietly on the couch with his old blanket.  Told Eli he had to keep it here, at the house.  Gave it to Eli who sat down next to him.  Held his head to Eli’s chest.  Let them both take deep breaths as Eli smelled his hair.  As the boy smelled his shirt.

Eli put what was to stay in the boy’s closet and the rest in the trunk of his car for the final ride to Danielle’s parents’ house.  That final walk through the house was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Harder than seeing the boy off at her house.  Harder than the final hug.  Harder than burying his parents.  Almost as hard as burying his grandfather.

He sat on the floor of the closet now with the beer bottle cooling his temple.  Condensate dripping down from the bottle mixing with his tears.  Wondering what the fuck he’d done.  Knowing what it was.

§§

Three hours later, Eli had collected himself and eaten the burned pizza.  He’d switched to bourbon and was on the porch smoking a cigar.

For the first time in weeks, he was lonely.  He’d been alone for six months, and had trouble convincing most people that he wasn’t lonely.  The neighbors on their second marriages understood.

Lonely was being ignored in a house with three people in it.  Now, when he came home to an empty house, he knew it was going to be empty and didn’t worry about when anyone else was coming home, and if they did, whether he’d talk to them.  There was a difference between being lonely and being alone.  He preferred the latter.  He’d prefer neither.

Eli called Mya, the dancer.  Used the number she programmed in his phone.  Ostensibly to see if she had heard anything about a grifter coming into the club, someone with no fingerprints.  But he knew it wouldn’t happen at her club.  It was too high-end.  The one she danced in or the one where she waited tables.  He wanted to talk.  Wanted to hear a woman’s voice talking to him - a woman he wasn’t currently paying - waiting for his nods and smiles.  Knew it might be a bad idea, but called anyway. 

She answered on the third ring.  Eli expected to hear loud music and men in the background.  Thought she’d be at the club working.  Instead it was quiet.  A TV on low in the background.  He could hear a young boy playing.   Her voice was hesitant, not recognizing the number.  It had been a few days.  She hadn’t forgotten him.  Had been hoping he would call.  Hoped this was him, answered quietly:  “Hello…”

Eli said hello. Said they’d met in the club a few nights ago. Said, “You gave me your number and said I could call.”

Mya happy, recognizing his voice.  She asked how he’d been.

“Pretty good.  Tired.  Crazy murder happened down in Galveston.  We’re trying to track it up here.”

This was not the way she had hoped the conversation would go.  So, she answered more quietly: “I don’t know anything about it.”

Eli, knowing he was fucking this up, spoke a little quicker: “I didn’t figure you would.”

“So, why’d you call?”

“I wanted to talk.  Hoped I could see you.”

This was the way she hoped it would go, but she wasn’t sure it would.  She’d only been dancing a few days.  Mya had heard some of the other girls hooked on the side.  Used the club to meet clients and met them later at a hotel.  She hoped he didn’t think she did that.  So she was quiet, trying to figure out what to say.

Eli, for his part, thought he’d fucked up.  He was new to this.  Hadn’t asked Vincent for advice on this part; potentially taking a stripper out to dinner.  Didn’t know how he’d react to the news.  Probably poorly.  Eli remained quiet for a few seconds.  Feeling the silence getting more uncomfortable, he just told the truth:  “I wanted to see you, but not for your work or mine.  I mean, I don’t want to interview you.  I don’t want you to dance for me or to see you in the club right now…  But, I do want to see you.  I’d like to take you to dinner, or just a drink, whatever you’d like.  I really liked meeting you.  I loved the way you danced for me, the way you made me feel.  You were so comfortable to me.  And you made me feel incredible.”

Mya was silent.  Didn’t know what to say.

Eli hesitated, decided to continue.  Decided he couldn’t fuck it up much worse so just kept talking: “I hope I’m not weirding you out.  I hope I didn’t misunderstand you at the club.  I just wanted to see if we could talk again.  But, if you don’t want to see me outside the club, I can come back in there if that’s how you want to do it.  Or, if you don’t want to see me now, I understand, too.”

“No.  No.  I do want to see you.  I’m new at this, too.  I wasn’t lying when I said it was my first week dancing.  There were just so many guys trying to get in my pants.  You seemed different.  I don’t know why I’m telling you this.  No one has ever paid that close attention to me.  Ever.  I’ve got my son with me.  He’s getting restless now, wondering who I’m talking to.  Let me call you back in half an hour when I put him down for bed.  I’ll call back.  Is this a good number to call?”

“It is.  I just got off work.”

They both hesitated a little.  Her son had wandered off in the house.  She said goodbye and hung up.

Eli sat back, sweating now.  He re-lit the cigar.  Got back to reading for a little bit. Watched the phone.

Forty-five minutes later Mya called Eli back.  Said she’d put her son to bed and called a friend who lived close to watch him for a while. She wanted to see Eli, too.  She said he should come by and pick her up. She gave an address on the south side of town.  He was surprised, and smelled of cigar.  He said he’d be there in half an hour.  He quickly put the cigar out and showered.  Got dressed well enough and drove down to a neighborhood near the old Astrodome.  Small ranch houses and apartment buildings dotted by strip malls.  She lived in a little house off Stella Link, walking distance to Braes Bayou.  

Eli pulled up to the curb and saw the curtain part, her face appear and disappear. He decided to get out of the car and walk slowly up the walk.  Before he got to the door, Mya came out and met him with a long hug.  She rested her head on his shoulder and squeezed.  Eli, for his part, turned his head slightly and kissed her cheek. They separated and walked to his car. He opened the door for her, waited for her to get all the way in and settled and closed it.  She leaned across the seat to unlatch his door.  She was chivalrous, too. 

Eli got in and looked over, somewhat hesitant.  He asked where she wanted to go.  She said there was Denny’s off the 610 loop a few minutes away.  They could have a cup of coffee.

Eli, deciding that self-deprecating humor was in order asked, “Do they have donuts?”

Mya laughed a little, said, “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll have to stop on the way back to get my fix.”

“I was going to ask to see your badge, but we can stop.  If they know you, I’ll know it’s for real.”

She asked if she could turn on the radio.  He said she could.  She wanted to check his presets, see what music he liked.  She scrolled through and approved. 

They pulled into the Denny’s and got a booth.  He’d opened the door to the restaurant and let her walk in front of him to the booth.  Eli put his keys on the table. Adjusted in his seat to make his gun fit comfortably.  Neither looked at the menu.  The waitress came and took the order.  She asked if they could share a waffle.  He thought that was a great idea.

The waitress left. They stared at each other for minute. She reached over and started to play with his keys.  Eli watched her patiently. He reached over a hand. She put the keys down, thinking he might be upset. He put his hand on hers and started to stroke her fingers gently.  They didn’t talk.  She reached over her other hand and touched his arm. She was looking outside at the parking lot.  Enjoying the flirtation.  Enjoying the quiet.  Worried about asking. 

She looked back and decided against small talk. Asked, “When did you get divorced?”

He looked down.  Knew this conversation would come.  Knew it would come every time he met a woman from now until he got married again.  Said quietly to the piece of waffle on his fork, “It got finalized about three months ago.  We were separated for six months before that.”

This gave her some pause.  She knew it was best not to get involved with anyone in the first year after their divorce.  Too many issues.  She was here, so decided to ask: “How long were you married?”

“Not long.  Four years.  I guess that’s a while.  What about you?  Have you ever been married?”

She ignored him, asked, “Why did you get divorced?”

He looked up. Looked her in the eye, said, “I could say we grew apart.  That would be a cop-out.  I got too quiet. I wanted to protect her from the filth I dealt with every day.  I didn’t want to tell her about the times I got shot at.  That I had to beat someone when they threw down on me.  I thought it would scare her.  The quiet scared her more.  And I think she missed her friends.  I was stupid.  I got stupid and jealous of our time.  She’d wait at home for me with her son, our boy, mine after he asked me.  When my shift was over, after a long day, I wanted a little quiet.  I wanted order. There’s no order in a house with a four year old boy.  I’d come home and he’d run at me with food in his mouth and I’d get upset because I’d told him not to, that he’d choke.  I’d get to the porch and hear the commotion in the house, the boy crying, her fussing or the TV on too loud and I’d wait outside for a few minutes. Thinking they hadn’t heard me come up.  I was dumb.  She just wanted all of me. She wanted me to talk more than she wanted to listen. I think she got really lonely, so she started going out. More than I wanted.  Going out without me.  That devolved…” 

Eli grew quiet. He looked outside to the parking lot. He looked inside his past, before the going out, before the nights he woke in the spare bedroom and walked the empty house, the boy asleep and the master bedroom empty.  Sitting up with whiskey and silence at 4 a.m. as time stood still.  He looked back to the night he walked in on Danielle in the shower and saw her washing her underarms. Saw the fresh razor cuts on the flesh of her rib cage, under her breast.  Hidden from him.  There to see if he’d looked.  He rushed to her.  He fell with her in his arms. Water soaking into his clothes, kissing the side of her head, grasping at her hair as gently as he could, trying to hold on.  Apologizing, pleading, “I thought that was over.” Her silence.  His tears mixing with the water.  He kissed her face and the water streaming down her cheeks.  He didn’t taste any salt.  He knew it was done.  He knew the damage he’d wrought.  He knew he’d never be free of that moment.  Nor would she.

Mya took in Eli’s silence. She looked back outside for a minute.  She waited until he turned back toward her, told him: “I was married for less time than you were, six months.”

“What happened?

“We’d only been dating for a month, then broke up.  A couple months after that I realized I was pregnant.  At first he denied my son was his.  Then a paternity test showed it was, so he said he was going to do right by me or some such shit and we got married.  It didn’t last.  We didn’t think it would.”

“You have one son?”

“Yes.” 

“Is the father still involved with your son?”

“Some.  Not much.  I don’t know if that’s worse than not being involved at all.  My son’s a wonderful boy.” 

Mya knew the conversation was getting much too deep much too quickly.  She’d loosed something in him.  She was about to loose something inside herself.  So she changed the subject. She started cutting up the waffle.  Started to eat it again.

Then Eli’s cell phone rang.  He looked down at the number and didn’t recognize it.  He excused himself and went outside, answering on the way to the door on the last ring before it went to voicemail.  He heard a small Asian voice.  He knew his date with Mya was over.