July exited their lives and August entered, ushering in the dog days of summer when hot air masses called Mexican Plumes settle in over Dallas like mushroom clouds, fending off cool air from the north and rain from the south and trapping the occupants of the land below in an unmerciful mixture of 110 degree temperature and 80 percent humidity, day after day after sweltering day. The winds subside and the air is so still that even the slightest breeze feels like a blue norther. Pollution watches reach level purple, which means just breathing the air can kill you. Sidewalks are vacant of pedestrians, dogs lie all day in the shade, too weary even to engage their tails to swat the flies buzzing about their hindquarters, and TV reporters inevitably fry eggs on the sidewalk as stunts for the evening news. Time seems to slow to a crawl. Women’s hairdos and their prizewinning gardens wilt, car radiators and drivers’ tempers boil over, and incidents of road rage rise dramatically, as do domestic violence calls to 911. The reservoirs supplying Dallas’s drinking water run precipitously low, the city rations lawn watering, the green grass bakes to a crisp brown, and the pest control business picks up as the entire rat population emerges as one from their nests in search of a drink, usually from the family pool. Poor people without air conditioners die.
The only thing Dallas has going for it in August is knowing it’s worse in Houston. Houston’s a goddamned swamp. If the heat and humidity don’t kill you in Houston, mosquitoes the size of small birds will.
“It’s hot,” Scott said.
Life in Dallas in August is lived indoors and in pools. Where Scott Fenney now was, sitting on the steps of the backyard pool in the cool water and wearing sunglasses, a sombrero-style straw hat, and a number 50 sunblock to protect his fair skin from the deadly UV rays. He sucked iced tea through a straw from a big plastic mug like he was siphoning gasoline while Bobby sucked on a cigarette. Boo and Pajamae were playing with a Frisbee in the shallow end of the pool, Louis was sitting in the shade of the patio awning, and out front the FOR SALE BY OWNER sign was slowing traffic on Beverly Drive.
Scott had decided to sell the place himself, without a real-estate agent, an unheard-of transaction in Highland Park. Selling your own house was way too similar in job description to mowing your own grass or washing your own car, manual labor that no Highland Park homeowner with pride, money, and a religious upbringing dared engage in, for to do so called into question the whole concept of divine infallibility: “If the good Lord wanted us to mow our own grass and wash our own cars, then why did He make Mexicans?” Or so the prevailing thought went. Bottom line, if you’re too damn cheap to pay a real-estate commission, then you’re too damn cheap to live in Highland Park. But as he watched his income evaporate before his eyes, Scott had become damn cheap lately.
His asking price was $3.5 million, the market value. But market value didn’t mean squat when the seller was desperate and everyone in the market for a Highland Park home knew it. The best offer to date was $3 million, only $200,000 more than he owed. A broker’s six percent sales commission would take $180,000 and leave Scott only $20,000 in sales proceeds. Once closing costs were deducted, he’d be lucky to break even. After doing the math, Scott drove to the nearest hardware store, purchased the red and white FOR SALE sign, and hammered the son of a bitch into the front lawn.
“How’s Boo handling it?” Bobby asked.
Scott slapped a June bug off the water and wondered why June bugs hung around through August. Rebecca had been gone fifteen days today.
“Okay, I guess. Hell, I think Boo misses Consuela more-she was more of a mother to her than Rebecca.”
“Rudy gonna get her back?”
In spite of Rudy Gutierrez’s best efforts, the INS had deported Consuela de la Rosa to Mexico. She was now living in the four-star Camino Real Hotel in Nuevo Laredo on Scott Fenney’s American Express card and waiting for Rudy to secure her green card so she could return to the Fenney family in Dallas. A week ago, Scott had put Esteban Garcia on a bus south to keep her company.
“She cleared the background checks, I’m sponsoring her for citizenship, guaranteeing her employment…but the INS is slow-balling her green card.” He shook his head. “But I’ll get her back. I promised her. And Boo needs her more than ever now, her mother running off with a goddamned golf pro.”
“I understand Rebecca leaving you”-Bobby shot Scott a smile-“but how could she leave Boo?”
Scott shrugged. “The humiliation, I guess. This is a tough town if your life is less than perfect. Failure is not an option in Highland Park.” Scott paused and looked over at the girls. “Thank God she didn’t take Boo.”
“Maybe she just changed.”
“Maybe. Maybe I never really knew her. Back then, we were exactly the same, that’s why I married her. We were young and ambitious, two poor kids on the block trying to make it big in Dallas. When we stood in that church and said ‘for better or for worse,’ we weren’t thinking for worse. Things were good and getting better fast. I never figured on things getting worse.”
He shook his head.
“It’s just like football. You never really know your teammates until you start losing.”
“One problem with that, Scotty.”
“What’s that?”
“She started up with that guy while you were still winning.”
Scott nodded. “So the home, the cars, the clothes, none of it made her happy.” He looked over at Bobby. “What the hell do women want?”
Bobby chuckled. “Like I would know? Shit, Scotty, two women have walked out on me.”
“The last seven months, she didn’t want to have sex.”
Bobby caught an errant Frisbee flung by Boo and said, “My wives didn’t want to have sex on our wedding night.”
“I’ll probably never have sex again,” Scott said.
Bobby flipped the Frisbee back to Boo and said, “ You? Shit, Scotty, half the married men in Highland Park are worrying their wives are gonna want a second shot at you. It’s me who’s never gonna have sex again. Been almost three years.” Bobby took a drag on his cigarette. “Course, I can crush an armadillo with my right hand.”
“That’s going to kill you one day, Bobby.”
“Nah, it’ll only make you go blind.”
“Not that. Smoking.”
“Oh. One can only hope.”
“Don’t start that depressed crap with me, Bobby. I’m the one who’s lost everything.”
Bobby exhaled smoke and said, “Yeah, but at least you had everything for a while. At least you know what it feels like.”
Scott sucked his tea and said, “You loved her back then, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but mostly I loved your life.”
“Me, too. Right up until two months ago. If Buford had called anyone but me, my life would still be perfect.”
“It wasn’t perfect, Scotty. You just didn’t know it.”
Scott felt the emotion building inside him again and the tears forming and thought he would burst out crying as he had each night in the shower until Bobby said, “You think he’ll make it?”
His tone was that of asking whether a patient would survive a life-threatening operation.
“Who make what?”
“Her golf pro-you think he’ll make it on the tour? It’s pretty tough out there.”
Bobby maintained his deadpan expression until Scott jumped on him and dunked him, Bobby holding one arm aloft to keep his cigarette dry. Scott released him when Boo yelled, “Oh, boys-we’ve got company!”
Over by the entrance to the motor court stood a burly man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a cap turned backward, his greasy hair and black T-shirt stained with sweat, his huge belly lapping over his waist like a lava flow over a cliff. He was looking around at the Fenney estate like a kid at Disneyland.
The repo man.
He was here to take away Scott’s beloved $200,000 Ferrari. Two days ago, knowing this moment would come, Scott had cashed out his 401(k) and purchased a replacement vehicle: a $20,000 Volkswagen Jetta.
Scott walked over to the motor court. Two more tow trucks were idling at the curb, here for the Range Rover and Rebecca’s Mercedes-Benz. The repo man held out a clipboard and said, “Nice hat.” Scott signed the document acknowledging the repossessions on this date and watched as the red Ferrari 360 Modena two-seater with Connolly leather interior and an engine capable of hitting 180 miles per hour was hoisted onto the flatbed by a wench and secured in place. Even though he knew he was losing something he never really had, it still hurt like hell to see his perfect life being dismantled and carted off piece by piece.
An hour later, Scott, still hurting, was stretched out on the chaise lounge by the pool.
“Mr. Fenney,” Louis said.
Scott looked over at Louis, who nodded his head in the direction of the motor court. Scott twisted around and saw a young couple standing there. The man was slim, in his early thirties, and dressed in a starched, long-sleeve, button-down blue shirt, khaki slacks, and black loafers. His hair was dark and curly, his skin pale and pasty. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He seemed vaguely familiar.
The man said, “We had an appointment to see the house at three. We rang the doorbell, but no one answered.”
Scott checked his watch and climbed out of the chair.
“Sorry, I lost track of time.”
Scott walked over in his swim trunks, bare-chested and barefooted, and held out his hand.
“Scott Fenney.”
“Jeffrey Birnbaum. And my wife, Penny.”
Standing next to him was a pretty young Highland Park Junior League wife, perfectly made up and wearing a red sundress and red sandals. Her hair was jet black, her legs were bare and tanned, her body trim, and her lips matched her dress. Jeffrey had married up in looks, way up.
Penny said, “You’re famous.”
“Infamous is more like it.”
She smiled, that flirtatious smile so familiar to Scott Fenney, and he immediately knew Penny, because he had dated so many Pennys during high school and college: a nice Highland Park girl who had taken a walk on the wild side and was now ready to settle down with a nice Highland Park boy who could provide a nice Highland Park mansion. Scott motioned around at the motor court, garage, and backyard.
“Four-car garage, heated and air-conditioned, pool and spa, one-bedroom, one-bath cabana, all on one acre in the heart of Highland Park. Come on, I’ll show you the place.”
Scott led Mr. and Mrs. Birnbaum through his house, starting with the commercial-grade kitchen with the Italian tile floor, the mural of a French bakery scene on one wall, hand-painted on hundreds of six-inch tiles, and the walk-in freezer big enough to hold a side of beef. He proceeded through the butler’s pantry, the formal living and dining rooms, the den, and then down to the basement for the wine cellar, the home theater, the game room, and the exercise room with the framed blowup of himself running the ball against Texas, the one that had hung in his office for eleven years, leaning against the far wall.
“You’re a legend,” Penny said. “Did you really get a hundred ninety-three yards against Texas, like the paper said?”
“Sure did. You a big football fan?”
“Oh, I love football,” Penny said.
Jeffrey glanced at the exercise machines with indifference and walked out. Penny lingered behind, and as she squeezed past Scott at the door, she gave him a look and whispered, “But I love football players more.”
They found Jeffrey in the game room rolling billiard balls across the pool table, then they proceeded upstairs to each of the six bedrooms and six baths. The tour ended in the master suite with the stone fireplace separating the bedroom and the bathroom, the steam shower suitable for three adults, the Jacuzzi tub, and the sitting area overlooking the pool. Jeffrey was proving himself a royal pain in the ass, complaining about something minor in every room of the house and acting as if he could take it or leave it. But he wasn’t fooling Scott; Scott saw it in his eyes. This was the house Jeffrey had dreamed of owning his entire life. Scott knew because he had seen the same look in his own eyes three years ago, in the mirror of this same master bathroom. Jeffrey asked for the third time if the theater in the basement had Dolby Surround sound. Scott assured him it did, but Jeffrey said he was going downstairs to make sure.
Jeffrey departed and Penny said, “He likes to watch action movies,” then went into the master bathroom. Shortly, he heard Penny’s voice again: “Scott, what’s this, in the steam shower?”
Scott walked into the bathroom and over to the shower. The door was open; Penny was inside, sitting on the built-in bench.
“What?”
“This.”
Scott stepped inside to look, and without another word, Penny grabbed his swim trunks, yanked them down, and took him in her mouth like she knew what she was doing. She did. He was wrong about Penny: she hadn’t finished her walk on the wild side. Scott had not had sex in more than seven months and had been too depressed to masturbate since Rebecca left, so he did not last long.
“Jesus!”
Scott’s face was now plastered to the tile wall and he felt like a nap but-
“Penny!”
Jeffrey was back. Scott pulled up his trunks and Penny wiped her red lips with her hanky just as Jeffrey stuck his head in the steam shower and said with a big grin, “Wow, you do have Dolby down there!”
Scott stepped out of the shower, followed closely by Penny, who squeezed his butt as she passed. Fifteen minutes later, they were all standing at the front door.
Jeffrey said, “You don’t remember me, do you, Scott?”
Scott said, “No. Should I?”
“We worked a real-estate deal a few years ago. You were representing Dibrell, a garden office project in North Dallas.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re with Dewey Cheatham and Howe.”
“Dewey Chatham and Howe.”
“Oh, right.”
“You were pretty tough on us. But I learned a lot about negotiating from watching you in action.”
“I’ll send you a bill.” Jeffrey smiled and Scott said, “Just business. Nothing personal.”
“Then you won’t take my offer personally.”
“What’s your offer?”
“Three million one hundred thousand.”
“No, I won’t take it personally, Jeffrey, because I won’t take it.”
Jeffrey smirked. “Come on, Scott, your life story’s been in the paper. Everyone knows you’ve got to sell. You can’t expect top dollar.”
Scott reached over to the entry table and picked up a big brown envelope that contained his final bill from the country club for the last month, during which Rebecca had run up over $4,000 in charges. Scott held the envelope up to Jeffrey.
“I’ve already got an offer for three-point-three million.”
Jeffrey’s smirk vanished. “You’re kidding?”
Scott put on his most sincere look and said, “Nope.”
Jeffrey glanced at Penny. She gave him that pouty face mastered by Highland Park girls by middle school, a face that walked a fine line between obnoxiously whiny and incredibly sexy, between making her man want to slap her into next week or rip her clothes off and ravage her. Penny was very good. And Scott knew Jeffrey would find the extra money to make Penny a happy Highland Park wife.
“Three million three hundred ten thousand.”
Scott smiled. “Jeffrey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of if you can’t afford this place.”
Scott had learned years ago, when he was the poor kid on the block, that you could insult a Highland Park boy’s mother, his sister, his girlfriend, his athletic ability, and even the size of his dick without getting a rise, but question his financial standing in the community, and the fight was on. Jeffrey’s face was getting redder by the second, and not just from Scott’s needling; Penny was squeezing his forearm like she was checking his blood pressure.
“Can’t afford? I can afford this place! Three million four!”
Jeffrey should’ve paid closer attention to Scott during those negotiations because the boy obviously hadn’t learned much. First rule of negotiating, don’t bring your ego to the bargaining table. Second rule, don’t bring your wife. Jeffrey had violated both rules; now he would pay dearly. Scott stuck his hand out.
“You just bought yourself a house.”
Jeffrey said, “I want the appliances, the window treatments, and the black man.”
“What?”
“The appliances-”
“You can have the appliances, Jeffrey. What do you mean, you want the black man?”
“Doesn’t he come with the house? He’s your help, right?”
“No, he’s my friend. And he doesn’t go with the house. Slavery ended a few years back, maybe you read about it.”
Jeffrey frowned, but Penny smiled and said, “I’ll have to measure for furniture, maybe Monday morning? Will you be available, Scott? I’d really like to come.”
“I can’t believe none of Clark’s other victims have come forward,” Scott said.
It was after dinner. The girls were upstairs, Scott and Bobby were sitting on the kitchen floor drinking a beer, and the trial was only two weeks away.
“They’re scared,” Bobby said. “They’ve seen what McCall did to you.”
“Our whole case rests on Hannah.”
“And my briefs,” Bobby said. “You read them yet?”
“Yeah. You’re a good writer, Bobby.”
“That’s the only thing about the law I really like doing.”
“Why do you stay in it?”
Bobby shrugged. “Too late to do something else. And debts-I can’t afford to quit. And, dumb as it sounds, I care about my clients, probably because no one else does.”
“You were always taking in stray dogs.”
“I was at that.”
“I remember that brown and white mutt, you called him Shitface. What ever happened to him?”
“Got run over by a delivery truck.”
“Ouch.”
“I liked that dog.” They sat in silence, and then Bobby said, “When this is over, maybe you should get out of Dallas.”
“McCall’s not running me out of town. I’m staying.”
“Good.” Bobby drank his beer, then said, “Let’s subpoena Dan Ford, make him give up the names of the six other girls he paid off for McCall.”
Scott shook his head. “No way he gives them up. And the judge won’t bust through the attorney-client privilege. I’ve hidden enough damaging evidence about my clients behind the privilege to know.”
“Then Hannah’s our only witness, other than Shawanda.”
“Did you tell Carl to check into Delroy Lund?”
“Oh, yeah. Way into Delroy.”
“What about the prosecution witnesses?”
“I got Ray’s list, shows how the trial’s gonna go.”
“And how’s that?”
“It’s a circumstantial case, most cases are. Ray’ll first put on the Dallas cops who found Clark’s car and called it in. Then he’ll put on the Highland Park cops who went over to the McCall mansion and found Clark. Next, the FBI agents who processed the crime scene and took the photos, which he’ll put up on the big screen. Then the Dallas County medical examiner will testify as to cause of death and time of death. And last up will be the crime lab guys who lifted Shawanda’s prints from the gun and the car, test-fired the gun, and matched the ballistics, and a forensics expert to give his opinion as to how the crime was committed. Scotty, by the time Ray’s through, the jury’s gonna believe she did it for sure.”
“And then we’ll put Shawanda on, a heroin-addicted hooker.”
“She has to testify, Scotty. Fifth Amendment sounds great, but juries expect an innocent person to take the oath, look them in the eye, and swear she’s innocent.”
“She looks like hell.”
“You would too, Scotty, if you were injecting Mexican black tar heroin three times a day.”
Four miles due south, Shawanda Jones withdrew the needle from her right arm, leaned back on her cot in her cell, and waited for the heroin to enter her bloodstream, travel to her brain, cross the blood-brain barrier, and bind itself to the opioid receptors on her brain’s nerve cells. When the heroin hit the receptors, it triggered a euphoric rush that swept over her slim body like an orgasm, only better. Then the rush dissolved and she drifted off into a peaceful little dream world.
She thought of her short life. She had turned her first trick at twelve. Unless you counted her uncle, who fingered her when she was six, then gave her fifty cents for a snow cone. She was using cocaine regularly at fourteen, pregnant at fifteen, and hooked on heroin at sixteen. Twelve years a prostitute, eight years a smack addict.
The only time she felt good about herself was times like this. When she was on the stuff, she felt like a little girl again, all happy and light and clean. She wasn’t poor or a white man’s whore. She was young again and didn’t know anything about drugs or hooking on Harry Hines or white men wanting black girls. She was just a happy little girl like Pajamae.
And thinking of her baby made her cry. She cried because she pictured her Pajamae shooting smack into her arm and lying down for money and never being loved for anything else. She wanted her baby to have better than she’d had. She wanted her to have a good life, marry a good man, and live in a good home. She wanted someone to love her Pajamae as much as she did. The only thing Shawanda Jones loved more in life than heroin was her daughter.