Intro

City Lady Country Killer

The weather vane screamed, twisting in the summer wind. Beneath it was a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, a living area, and me, holding a glass of whiskeyed ice.

There was no rain yet outside. Lighting seared. I could see across road to the field. My only neighbors were corn.

I listened to the twisting rooster. I bet I could grease the bastard before the storm.

I put on my coat. I opened the door.

A face stood beyond it.

The rain hit then. Lightning illuminated the face. Wisps of blonde hair and eyes of deep-water blue.

“Samuel LaFen?” the woman yelled. Her voice struggled to lift over the wind.

I held the door. She came in, smelling of pesticide.

I shut the door. I turned on the lamp. The couch against the wall. The coffee table. I hung up my coat.

She unzipped.

“Nice place,” the woman said. Her voice was butter. She handed her coat at me. She was a city girl, all lank and sinew beneath a long shirt that fell over black pants. Her hair was wheat-gold and velvet-thick.

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I was referred.”

“Your name?”

“Rita York. Lalli Ramone referred you. You know Lalli?”

“Lalli Nowhich?”

“She married Ramone. She said you’d help.”

“Who’s Ramone?”

“Mexican. Utility contractor in Georgia. Makes enough that the in-laws forget his race.”

I worked for Lalli five years before. Her cousin who nabbed her daughter.

“My car died.”

I could see money in her teeth. In the vacation tan. In the of two large phones pressing against the pockets of her pants. In the ring on her finger.

She was late twenties, maybe early thirties.

Thunder rattled the house. The wind sent the cock screeching.

“Took an hour to walk here. Was worried I’d get caught in the rain. They’ve been talking about the storm for a week.”

I looked at the flat shoes she was wearing. They were speckled with rain and dusted from the road.

“Lalli called you a hick spy,” she said.

I smiled.

“I’m looking for an item, and it has to be done quiet.”

“What?”

“I need to know you’ll be dead quiet about this.”

“Sure.”

She looked at the kitchen. She turned towards the bedroom.

Lightning lit the room white.

“It’s a bin the size of a shoe box. Clear white plastic. The kind you can find anywhere for two bucks. It was taken from my bedroom three days ago.”

“What was in the box?”

“It has… intimate photos.”

“Compromising?”

“Extremely compromising.”

“Who took it?”

“That’s what your supposed to find out,” she said. “Lalli said your price is seventy-five. Ten upfront.”

The girl talked fast. My house made her uncomfortable. You couldn’t help but smell each other, see each other, hear each other. People from big homes can’t stand it.

“My husband cannot know about this.”

“I figured.”

“I’ll have to wire you an amount every month, or he’ll notice it’s missing.”

“That’s fine.”

The woman pulled a thick envelope from her pocket.

I took the bundle and went to the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Locking this in a safe,” I said, “something you should invest in.”