Phoenix Noir

“Why did my PO call Father?” Big Boy asked.

“I told him Father Leo was as good as your own dad, and better because he’s really taking an interest in you, so he put him down as your mentor. I tell you, God’s blessing us!”

Big Boy trudged to St. Anthony’s that morning to serve 10 a.m. mass, and thought of Father Leo looking through him, reading his thoughts, and now he was talking to Franco.

Walking home after mass, Big Boy decided to go by Nanda’s apartment. He walked past the bakery and El Toro Restaurant to cross Central Avenue and get to Nanda’s, all the while watching out for any of the boys who normally hung around that section of the projects. Maybe one of them would want to challenge him for coming into their territory, then he’d need a good excuse, or he’d have to fight to get out. He saw no one. It was a spring day, the weather warm. He saw kids playing a baseball game at Harmon Park in the distance, and caught sight of the park’s swings, the old rusty merry-go-round, and the bathrooms, the faded walls marked up by gang signs, and he longed for Nanda. He longed to see her one more time, look into her sad eyes, watch her take flight, then catch her in his arms again and fill her with kisses, slowly caressing each breast.

Big Boy noticed the black Oldsmobile parked in front of Nanda’s apartment and peered into the car’s window, this time not spotting the girl’s jacket. He saw boxes in the backseat, luggage and papers strewn around.

“Hey!” yelled a man coming out of Nanda’s apartment. “What do you think you’re doing? Get away from there!” The guy was tall, over six feet, wearing a jacket in spite of the warm day. He had sunglasses on, and wore a beret cocked at an angle.

“I’m not doing anything,” Big Boy answered, “I was just wondering … if you’ve seen Nanda.”

“And who would be wanting to know?” asked the guy, walking leisurely up to Big Boy, lighting a cigarette.

“A friend.”

“She ain’t got no friends … cousins maybe, but friends?”

Big Boy felt his stomach cramp as the guy leaned next to the car, puffing on his cigarette. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth as he rolled up his sleeves to show off his tats, blue webs that climbed up his arms.

Big Boy wanted to walk away, disappear like Nanda had, but now that he was so close to this man who had just walked out of her apartment, he was determined to get some information from him.

“Are you from Las Vegas?”

“Yeah, and who wants to know?”

“Big Boy.”

“You ain’t that big. Nobody’s big, we’re all the same size. Ain’t nobody can outrun a bullet.” Then he laughed as he saw Big Boy’s face turn pale. “Want a cigarette?”

“Nah, that’s okay.”

“Ah, yeah, Nanda. Now, there’s a girl, if you know what I mean. Now, she’s big in all the right places.” He laughed again, gruffly. “Right, Big Boy? Is that what you want? Some action?” The guy sneered, then reached into his pocket to take out his car keys. “I gotta go,” he said. “Ain’t got no time to be talking to big boys who are full of shit. Is Franco your PO?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Been on the streets all my life. Tell that son of a bitch he owes me. He owes Chano, and I ain’t forgot.” Then he climbed into the Olds, and Big Boy stood watching the car creep down the street, thinking how Nanda would have looked sitting next to Chano, smoking a cigarette.

Months went by, the whole summer, and other girls joined the boys at Harmon Park—Ernestina and Yvette and a few others who were loud and bossy and played hard to get, but let themselves be caught in the end. Atalia visited Big Boy and told him to stay away from Harmon unless he wanted to get involved with narcos and floozies who did it with everybody. No matter what she told him, Harmon Park drew Big Boy like a magnet, leering at him with memories of Nanda, soft, fleshy breasts, rich warm places inside her he’d like to get to. Sometimes tears crawled down Big Boy’s face late at night as he thought of Nanda disappearing like a puff of smoke, and everybody moving on with their lives, as if it didn’t matter at all. Maybe she was living in Las Vegas—dancing at a casino. But she was too young for that … or maybe she was dead. When Big Boy said the word dead in his mind, he flinched, as if he had been hit in the face. Dead, her body lying out some-where in the desert. Big Boy closed his eyes tight to block out the thought.

On the anniversary of Nanda’s disappearance, Father Leo called Big Boy into his office.

“Stop moping around about that girl,” he said nonchalantly. “I know you’re trying to figure out where she is. If I were you, I’d drop it. Clean heart, remember? I think you need another confession, you’re way overdue. Confession on Saturday, at 2 p.m. Be there.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Oh, by the way, Franco says you’re almost ready to be released from probation, and I told him you were totally repented—no more shoplifting at Woolworth’s. Right, Big Boy?”

“Right.”

“You don’t want to follow in the footsteps of Chano—you know, the guy who visits Nanda’s family sometimes.”

Big Boy looked up at Father Leo, surprised that he knew anything about Chano. Maybe he had visited him in prison, or heard his confession. Then he saw Father Leo smile broadly, as if he had just caught Big Boy sneaking a sip of wine from the chalice. He pulled open the drawer on his desk and reached in, taking out a silver chain with a small cross. He watched Big Boy closely, saw the fear in his eyes as the boy glimpsed the chain he had given Nanda in Father Leo’s hand.

“I want you to give this to Ernestina,” Father Leo said quietly, leaning close to Big Boy. “You understand, don’t you?” He waited, dangling the chain in midair between them.

Then he sat back as Big Boy took the silver chain from his hand and dropped it in his pocket.

“Confession on Saturday, don’t forget,” Father Leo said.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

MEGAN ABBOTT is the Edgar Award–winning author of Queenpin, The Song Is You, and Die a Little, as well as the non-fiction study, The Street Was Mine: White Masculinity in Hard- boiled Fiction and Film Noir. She is the editor of the collection A Hell of a Woman: An Anthology of Female Noir. Her fourth novel, Bury Me Deep, is loosely based on the Winnie Ruth Judd “Trunk Murderess” case from 1930s Phoenix.

ROBERT ANGLEN is an investigative reporter for the Arizona Republic who has been nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize; in 2005, the Arizona Press Club named him journalist of the year. Born in Los Angeles, he has worked as a skip tracer, bill collector, cab driver, and process server. His stories have appeared in newspapers, magazines, and several anthologies, including Night Terrors and Diablo. He and his wife are parents of triplets.

LEE CHILD, the author of twelve best-selling novels, has been a television director, union organizer, theater technician, and law student. He was born in England but now lives in New York City, and leaves the island of Manhattan only when required to by forces beyond his control.

DAVID CORBETT is the author of three critically acclaimed novels: ThThThe Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime(a New York Times Notable Book), and Blood of Paradise— which was nominated for numerous awards. His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including San Francisco Noir and Las Vegas Noir, and he contributed a chapter to the world’s first serial audio thriller, The Chopin Manuscript. Corbett lives in Vallejo, California.