Phoenix Noir

He tore through the boy’s pod, his clothes, books, finally fingering the three-by-five picture under the mattress. Eddie hated the boy. He was a pampered puss, a crybaby. One of those kids who didn’t think he belonged in juvie, no matter his crime.

The picture proved it. Family Vacation 101. Silly smiles backdropped by Arizona red rock, the boy front and center, arms draped around a bored little sister and brainiac brother. Mom and Dad flashed peace signs over their heads.

The boy treated the picture like a piece of magic, rubbing it through his pocket, peeking glances and talking to it when he thought no one was watching. It only made Eddie hate him more. It confirmed that whatever the boy had done, it would eventually be forgotten. Not so for Eddie. The picture people knew it. Their smiles ridiculed him.

Eddie dropped the picture on the floor between his feet. He unbuttoned his pants and began jacking off.

The old man came out of Eddie’s bedroom wagging a pipe and baggie. He was dressed in his police uniform and he put the weight of the badge behind his voice.

“You’re a walking felony, Eddie. Guess it’ll be Christmas in Durango for you,” he said. “I’ll process you through intake myself.”

Eddie held the old man’s eyes. Kept quiet even as his father shoved him bodily into the back of the patrol car. What could he say? The pipe wasn’t his. Neither was the dope.

“Go ahead, Eddie. Cry entrapment. Tell them how I planted the evidence. Nobody’s going to hear anything you say.” The old man cranked his head back and laughed through the metal cage. “Done you same as we do the niggers. Nobody hears them either.”

Desert twilight crept like a sepia claw toward the end of the hallway where Eddie cowered outside of his parents’ bedroom. He strained to hear the voices on the other side of the door, primed for violence.

He knows. Eddie screwed his mind down on the thought, rejecting it. Impossible.

Then the door opened and the old man loomed over him in the shadows. Eddie tried to look past him to where his mother waited in the room. Surely she would defend him. He was just twelve. How could it be his fault? “Mom?”

She averted her gaze, giving him up to the old man.

“Shhh, boy.” His father’s face cracked into an indecipherable jigsaw of emotions. Eddie could see anger, fear, and hate clamoring to escape. “She can’t talk to you.”

Slowly, the old man raised his fist, showing Eddie the torn and frayed lamp cord coiled around it like a whip. “This is going to hurt you a whole lot more than it will me.”

The old man let it out then, a shrieking fit of laughter that grew louder with each successive crack of the cord, until even Eddie’s screeches were lost to it.

“I’ll protect you. I swear.”

“Just hold me.”

“Like that?”

“Put your hands down. Lower.”

“Here?”

“Lower. Oh, that’s nice.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please. How does that feel?”

“It tickles, kinda.”

“Now?”

“You’re soft.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Why are you crying?”

“Because you make me feel beautiful.”

“You are beautiful.”

“And you won’t ever hate me, Eddie?”

“Never.”

“And you promise you won’t ever leave me?”

“No. I love you, Mom.”

Eddie crouched beside a yucca, unable to pull his eyes from the girl’s window. He’d imagined squalor and Third World filth, a ghetto repackaged into an East Mesa ranch house. But the girl’s room shined pastel princess beneath decorative fixtures, all canopy, ruffles, and lace.

It looked, well, normal. They lived better than Eddie. Not like niggers at all.

The girl, whose name was Rhonda and shared Eddie’s sixth-grade class, glided through the pink and white fairy tale, her face a caramel question mark beneath a frizz of black hair. Eddie resented the fluttery feeling she gave him. He wished she were white. He’d followed her home to prove to himself that she wasn’t worthy of his affection, to see the urban decay her kind would bring to his neighborhood, the way his father always said.

Voices charged him in the darkness. “Peeping mother-fucker! Get him!” Eddie was lifted off his feet and thrown into the yucca’s spiny fronds. He could see faces in front of him. Black faces. “Whatcha doing perving on my little sister?”

Eddie’s heart hammered with the old man’s warnings. The niggers were flesh eaters. Savages. They had tricked him with their pretty house, pretty girl. But he could smell their violence, the blood and mud from where they spawned. He struggled to break away and a voice growled, “Keep doing that and we’ll fuck you up more, white boy.”

Eddie started crying. “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

The blond skank jitterbugged in the spotlight.

“Vampire,” Ed Keane, Sr. said, chasing her with the beam. “Turn to ash if she don’t suck pipe before sunup.”

Eddie cringed at the palsied ghoul-whore. But he was excited too. “Shouldn’t you arrest her or something?”

“What for? She’s no threat. Except to your dick.”