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  — Jeez, Stacie exclaims, as they head into the street, Marilyn’s rant still ringing in their ears, — what happened back there?

  — I guess I’m looking for a new job, Kendra says, filling her nostrils with the scent of Toto.

  — Wow, Stacie smiles, thinking about Kendra’s finances and that empty spare room.

  Stephanie pats the dog’s small head. — Chef was doing laundry when he heard the noise coming from the overhead air ducts. He left you a note but you’d gone. We thought you would be round at the restaurant today.

  — I haven’t been back to the apartment … I came straight here from my mom’s …

  — You missed such a feast, Kennie, Stacie sang. — Chef made us a big platter of wild boar. I got a fright when he took us back into the kitchen and made me open up the refrigerator and a big boar’s head was staring at me! He’s a real character!

  — Thank you so much. You two are just the best friends ever! Kendra gushes, as her cellphone goes off. She digs it out of her bag with dexterity, as she’s still holding Toto. — Hi-i-i … she coos into the mouthpiece. — Okay, okay … no … this evening at eleven round yours is fine. Okay. See you.

  Stephanie feels something ominous settling inside her, ready to fall like a lump of lead. She can’t speak. Stacie nonchalantly chirps, — Who was that?

  — Trent. He called me this morning. Says he’s being stalked by some psycho-bitch, Kendra says matter-of-factly. — Apparently he and some loser had a drunken makeout last week and she’s been bombarding him with texts, emails, and phone calls ever since. You know the type, she shrugs. — I’m gonna go round and cheer him up, she smiles, oblivious to the blood draining from Stephanie’s face. — But right now I think I need some quiet time with this little prince, Kendra nods at her dog, then dabs at a few tears which form over her smile, before adding, — alone. Thanks … you two are the greatest!

  Stephanie gasps, feels giddy and weak in the heat, and can hear nothing outside of a ringing in her ears and some traffic noises. She can see Stacie mouthing something at Kendra, who is waving them goodbye as she turns and heads briskly down Clark toward her apartment clutching Toto in her arms, who sits in his exhalted position, imperious in his regard for the other dogs.

  Miss Arizona

  IT’S GOTTEN BEYOND cold and I don’t feel uncomfortable no more. It’s nearly my time and I don’t even care. Why in God’s name should I? I ain’t leavin without her and I sure as hell can’t take her with me.

  It ain’t like I’m feelin anythin; my arms or legs, and I ain’t even sure whether or not my eyes are open. I guess it don’t much matter that all I got is thoughts. They ain’t worth shit but I don’t see them stoppin for a while. The joke is that it’s gonna be the cold that’ll take me away, when outside, beyond those thick stone walls, they got people frying in that heat. Guess we all gotta go sometime. It’s just the circumstance I would never have figured in a thousand years.

  I suppose I paid for my arrogance, just like he did. And yeah, I finally understand that crazy ol drunk now: just another asshole who fell on the sword of his own vanity. You get to thinkin that you’re the man: the ice-cool, shit-talkin, big-dicked artist. Everyone else: why, they’re just your itty-bitty subjects. So then you reckon this means you can just do as you damn well please. That it somehow gives you rights. But it gives you no goddamn rights at all.

  When did it start?

  It started and it ended with Yolanda.

  Miss Arizona.

  She was an ol gal, who looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet. Yep, she said she was Miss Arizona at one time. Well, I was darned if I ever could see it. She sure was one heavy lady; I’d seen gals in Louisiana trailer parks had asses didn’t wobble like the flesh on her arms did when they moved – usually to pick up a drink. Ol Yolanda had the type of red hair that might have been comely at one time, tho I reckon it had long since come outta bottle; piled high and lacquered stiff on that big piggy-eyed head of hers. Her skin was white as your momma’s sweet milk; the sort that don’t take too kindly to the sun, and that’s one thing they got plenty of round here.

  Miss Yolanda mostly kept away from it. If she were outside she’d be in the shade, sometimes sittin on the back porch over-lookin that small rear garden, with its little scrap of grass as brown and dry as the ruined old ranchlands that surrounded her house. The scrubby patch sure did contrast with that beautiful, turquoise swimmin pool. Even though Yolanda often sat in a candy-stripe one-piece swimsuit (usually with a big floppy straw hat sat on her head and a robe over her shoulders, while a big fan blasted her with cool air), she never seemed to get into that pool. Probably didn’t want to mess up that hair of hers. But that damn pool was kept so good I always reckoned it was a crime for it not to be used, specially in these parts. But yeah, skin like that and here she was in this place; right in the middle of the goddamn desert, a good three hours’ drive from downtown Phoenix. She just sat there on that chair under the parasol, with ropes of blue vein runnin out from those pale, flabby thighs, turning coal black as they got down to her skinny calves. Yep, she was Miss Arizona. Reckon right about when that state was counted under Mexico.

  I remember the first time I pulled up outside that big ranch house. I was thinkin that when somebody puts up a house that belongs in cattle country right here in the desert, you know two things right away: first is they got money, the second bein they ain’t lookin for too much in the way of company.

  That’s ol Miss Yolanda. But it strikes me that as this looks like being my last story, it might be time to talk a little bit about myself. My name is Raymond Wilson Butler. I’m thirty-eight years old, divorced, and a native of West Texas. Before I met Yolanda I was livin in a one-thousand-bucks-a-month rented apartment near downtown Phoenix with my girlfriend, Pen. What about her? I could go on forever. But all I can think to say right now is that she sings beautiful songs, when she ain’t working in a bookstore in a city mall. My life changed for the better when I met Pen. She was the best damn thing that ever happened to me.

  But Yolanda was different. She changed everybody’s life. Every single sonofabitch she came into contact with. I started seeing her through my work; every other day I’d drive out to her place. I guess I should tell you how that went.

  To get to Yolanda’s from our apartment, I had to drive west right out of Phoenix. It would never fail to amaze me how the city stopped so suddenly, town-to-desert within the arc of a drunkard’s piss. Then you’d pass one or two subdivisions, mostly completed, some now just bein redeveloped after standin crumblin in the sun: concrete and steel carcasses, for almost twenty years. A lot of people thought land was the primary resource out here and went bust buyin it. Not when you only get around seven inches rainfall a year it ain’t. The buildin only started up again when they finished the canal system, comin down from the Rockies to hook up this region with precious water.

  Then, when the last of the subdivisions passed, you had a long haul through desert before you got out to Yolanda’s. Driving out to see her, I always had a goddamn thirst on me. This kind of terrain didn’t help the likes of me much. Cruisin down that interstate they all had a shot of trying to tempt you to stop for a cold one; Miller’s, Bud, Coors, and even some of the drinkable ones. And damn, was it hot.

  The particular day I’m thinkin of was my second visit to Yolanda’s, the one after I had secured her agreement as to how she could be of service to me. It was midday and the sun was at its cruelest and even an old Texan boy like myself, living in LA till fairly recently, could sometimes forget how fierce it could be. Out there the bastard baked all the freshness out of the air, leaving it feelin like particles of iron in your lungs. As your throat seared your respiratory system started bangin and you sweated like a solitary truck-stop hooker gaspin goodbye as the last lusty buck in that convoy pulled on his dirty ol jeans.

  My first jaunt out to Yolanda’s had reminded me how much I liked to drive that Land Cruiser into the desert. I’d headed off the in
terstate and onto the back roads before goin right off that grimy ol track, just veerin onto what looked like virgin sand but was really more kinda broken shale; tearin through it like a wet cloth across a dusty table. You couldn’t take your ass outside the car for too long, as I learned on that second visit. I had the inclination to step out for five minutes to the sound of that dirt crushin under my boot and the buzzards squawkin in the distance over some roadkill. That was just about all you could hear in this clear empty country, where the sky met the earth unbroken, every direction you turned. I looked northeast and couldn’t even see an indication of the jagged, ridged mountains that were probably only a few miles away.

  Takin in that emptiness and feeling the isolation, you could just about distance everythin. Through this comforting filter of solitude, I’d think about Jill and the terrible mistakes I’d made. Then I’d cheer myself at how I’d been blessed with this second chance with Pen, which I was determined not to blow.

  I distrusted Phoenix, in much the same way as I did all them shabby sunbelt cities with their pop-up business districts, soulless suburban tracts, strip malls, used-car dealerships, and bad homes almost but not quite hidden by palm trees. And then you had the people; drying out like old fruit in the sun, brains too fried by heat and routine to remember why they ever did come here in the first place. And that was just the poor. The wealthy folk you only saw under glass; in their malls and motor cars, breathing in the conditioned air that tasted like weak cough medicine. I was used to heat but this place was so dry the trees were bribin the dogs.

  On this day though, headin to my first proper session at Yolanda’s, after my introductory approach to obtain her agreement with my business proposal, I’d got lost in my thoughts and wandered outside for a little too long. I didn’t realize how that sun had got to me till I looked back at the distance I’d aimlessly strolled from the vehicle and instantly thought I’d better close it fast. The Land Cruiser looked like a mirage in that shimmerin heat; there was no way to determine how near or far it really was. I was panickin some, till my hand suddenly seemed to make contact with the scorching metal of the chassis. I slipped back into the shit-sweet coolin of the vehicle, to find my head throbbin with blood, forcin me to flop down across the passenger seat and max up that air con. It took me a good few minutes before I felt okay bout haulin myself up onto my butt. When I did, I pulled the newspaper from above the dashboard. The terror alert was green and the burn limit stood at sixteen minutes.

  As I recall, that was when my cellphone went off. This registered cause it was my agent in LA, Martha Crossley, who never, ever called me on my cell. Nothin was so urgent or important it couldn’t wait till I got to my landline. — Got some good news, she squealed in that high whine of hers, — you’ve been shortlisted to shoot the Volkswagen commercial!

  — That’s fine. But you know that they’re going to give it to the likes of Taylor or Warburton, I told her. I ain’t normally a glass-is-half-empty sort, but I knew that I was makin up the numbers on that list against the big-dicked assholes with the track records and the contacts.

  — Hey! Buck up, cowboy, ya gotta be in it to win it! I’ll keep you posted, she enthused, — Ciao!

  I put the phone on its cradle and pulled a cold one from the icebox; not beer no more, though that terrible thirst will always be there, just waitin till things get bad. Right now there ain’t no room at Ray’s for that ol slut these days. I wasn’t for fillin my gut with no soda nor cola either; that shit’s drivin us all to a lard-assed hell, clogging arteries and sidewalks both. No, it was cool, clear water going down my hot, raspin throat, always so damn dry, and it felt good. After a while I started up the Cruiser and powered through the shale, back up onto the road.

  Like I did so many times, I turned for a second to the passenger seat to imagine Pen sittin alongside me, shades on, sweet perfume fillin the cab, the painted nails on her fingers as she fiddled with that radio dial till exactly the right tune would fill up the Cruiser. It’s in there somewhere and she can always find it. That’s something I never could do on my own, and I guess that’s cause there ain’t no right tunes without that gal. That night I’d go along and hear her play her fine music and sing her pretty songs. But first I had business with ol Miss Yolanda. Glen Halliday business.

  Glen Halliday, my obsession, was the all-American anti-hero. The legendary filmmaker spent his last reclusive years out here, and he spent them in the company of that woman. Yolanda was his second wife, the first being Mona Ziegler, an ol gal from his hometown of Collins, Texas. It was that town that was the inspiration of many of his films (and in my view the best of them), particularly The Liars of Ditchwater Creek.

  Mona I’d already seen several times last year and talked to her at some length. She’d remarried and now lived in a dull subdivision of Fort Worth. She was polite but cold about her relationship with Glen. Basically Mona reckoned that Glen just worked, and when he wasn’t doin that he drank and hollered. I suppose because Glen Halliday was my hero and my inspiration, I didn’t take too kindly to what I was hearing. I guess I’d put a lot of it down to Mona’s bitterness and I left her to her suburban life. Unfortunately, he didn’t get a better posthumous reception back in Collins. It was a small conservative town and some folks were mighty irked by the way he’d portrayed them. But I came from a similar shithole and reckoned he’d got it just about right, and nothin I heard or saw in that place convinced me of anythin to the contrary.

  The desert abruptly gave way to another walled and gated subdivision, and I was thinking that those places were what Halliday railed against in his films and writings. His overridin concern was how we’d gone wrong; concrete, preachers, emperor television, and the greed of the smilin suits that made a killin from that whole crock of shit. And those raggedy dumbassed baboons that just smiled and rolled over as those jerks shafted them where the sun don’t shine. I met some of those assholes back in Collins, and Glen Halliday’s vision was still touchin their nerves from beyond the grave.

  This subdivision was like interminable others I had passed on the way out here. They all had a huge Old Glory hangin outside in the still desert air, as limp as the dick on one of them ol fellas in the rest homes that lined the route. Then I’m through it, back into more desert land, so complete it was like a mirage recedin to nothin in the rear mirror. So I got to Yolanda’s farm where they now only used the water for the swimmin pool nobody swam in, the land long turned bear-assed brown.

  The house itself was a low stucco dwelling. It was large enough, but nuthin near as spectacular as the surroundin huge, perimeter stone wall, nor them big iron gates, which a wheezy, thirsty ol motor opened up when I rang the intercom. The residence was painted white, with some plants and cacti growin a few feet up its walls.

  As I said, that ol Yolanda gal didn’t get much in the way of company. Only other fella I saw out here was the pool-cleanin boy. That pool was always full and thoroughly maintained. Always struck me as really crazy out here, especially with her not usin it. But I guess you don’t live out there alone in that kinda place without being just a little crazy.

  Drivin past the pool, the boy couldn’t have missed the Land Cruiser, but he didn’t take no notice, just carried right on rakin up the scum from the water’s surface. He had a mean face. His eyes squinted tightly, and his mouth was just as ungenerous: a tight slash under his nose. Yolanda was standin in the doorway to greet me, in that swimsuit. She kissed me on the cheek and I screwed up my nose a little; there was a strange rank odor comin from her that I hadn’t noticed on my first visit. I followed her inside. Her front room was painted white, two big circular fans overhead whirling to the max. But most of the cool seemed to be coming up from the floor. She went to fix me some lemonade and I could hear her talking to herself. — Esmeralda, why are you standing around looking at me like that …

  At first I reckoned that there was somebody else in the house, then I guessed she was talking to this cat or pooch. Then I realized it was a stuffed cat, w
hich was mounted on an old mahogany sideboard. She was a strange ol gal, okay, but in fairness to her, Yolanda, as she insisted I called her, had been generous enough to cooperate with me in my researches on her late husband.

  What I liked about being out here was that it was always so goddamn cool, especially those slate tiles on the floor. When she came back with the drinks, lemonade for me and gin for her, I had slipped off my shoes and my soles were freshinin up real sweet. — This is so good, I told her in appreciation.

  — Underground cooling. There’s a refrigeration system that feeds the water we pump up from the aquifer. It supplies that pool too, once we put it through the filter, but we still get a lot of minerals and deposits. That’s why I need Barry to come by a whole bunch. She pointed outside to where the pool boy was still doin his thing.

  I didn’t know with any great precision what an aquifer was, but the sonofabitch sure as shit must have held a whole bunch of water. I was gonna ask her but I reckoned she was the sort who could go on a little and I had my specific business. – As you know, ma’am, I’m trying to find as much as I can about Glen. He was your fourth husband, right?

  — Check, she smiled, raising a glass of gin to her lips.

  — Would you say you were close? I asked, then realizing how I sounded, quickly apologized. — Sorry, ma’am, I’m soundin like a local DA here. I guess I’m just tryin to understand your relationship.

  She smiled at me, and settled back into the chair like a big cat, content with her drink and her audience of one. — Honey, as you said, he was number four. I’ve married for love, sex, and money but by the time you’re on your fourth your expectations are pretty low.

  — Companionship?

  She flinched a little, then screwed up her face. — God, I hate that word. But it’s probably as good as any, she conceded and in her voice and expression I could, for the first time, sense bitterness toward Glen Halliday.