Tiny Crimes Read online

  Richie Narvaez

  96

  Numb and paralyzed but still awake, Cabeza-Plana listened as she hacked off his right arm, then his left.

  “Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.”

  Then, as was her habit, she made agent meat loaf, empanadas, and guisada. She ate like a one-percenter for days.

  But, over time, Gladys found she had less luck. Year after year, refund after refund arrived without question. She became rich. But she ached with an awful hankering. And her Summerfield rusted with ennui.

  So when she moved to Klamath Falls, she sent out ten different forms using twelve different names. Sure enough, neat little letters started arriving in the mail.

  Four agents came by in one week, all carrying neat briefcases and flicking pens. The first one did not drink enough tea, so when Gladys emerged with her Summerfield, a scuffle seemed about to ensue. But the agent had spilled the tea on the floor and, approaching Gladys in his wingtips, had slipped, tripping and sending his forehead right into the edge of her axe. With the second and third agents, everything went hunky-dory. Tea. “Pie.” Chop. In fact, by the time the fourth agent arrived, Gladys found herself bored. She brought the axe to the door and took him out just as he stepped in. Then she did yoga.

  That month, Gladys made so much meat loaf, empanadas, and guisada that she began selling the extra.

  Withhold the Dawn

  97

  Everyone on the block said they were delish. She was even written up in a neighbor’s blog, something that delighted her because who wouldn’t want to be on a blog?

  It also made her wonder if perhaps the ardor of her revenge had been quelled. Yes, perhaps it was time to put away her faithful Summerfield and have a real life, to sleep next to something warm and soft, not cold and sharp.

  And then one day, in hazy August, the doorbell rang.

  “Mrs. Feldshuh, my name is Chris Haragán, and I’m from the IRS.”

  Slouching and unzippered, Haragán did not seem at all like an IRS agent to Gladys.

  “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am, I was going to send a letter, but I got busy at work, my grandmother passed, my cat got this weird eye infection. Listen, I’m sorry. Here’s the letter. I did type it.”

  Haragán handed her a dirty envelope. Gladys didn’t understand. She had already received her refund under the name Feldshuh. Twice. Gladys took the filthy envelope. The letter inside was wrinkled and a coffee stain made a crude yet artistic design in one corner.

  “What’s the hullabaloo?” she said.

  “I happen to subscribe to your neighbor’s blog,” said Haragán, “and I read about the success of your home business. Frankly, ma’am, I think you’re making money that belongs to the government.”

  Richie Narvaez

  98

  “Would you like some iced tea?” she said.

  “No, thanks, ma’am. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  Gladys found that she was irresistibly attracted to this fellow. But he was IRS. And she hated the IRS. She could sneak up behind him with her cherished Summerfield—so she wouldn’t have to see his pallid, scrambled-egg-speckled face. It would only take one good swing to get through that skinny, razor-burn-lined neck.

  Instead she began to cry.

  “Mrs. Feldshuh, there, there.” Haragán held her.

  She would have stopped crying but the smoke from the cigarette hanging in his mouth made her eyes water. And she didn’t want him to stop holding her. So she kept crying. And coughing a little.

  Eventually, the cigarette went out and Gladys fried some meat loaf slices for both of them. After the meal, he said, “I’d love to try some of that iced tea now.”

  That set Gladys to crying again. She said, “My name isn’t Barbara Ann Feldshuh, and I’m not an Amish electrical engineer.”

  “Of course not. You’re a forest fire lookout.”

  “Not that either, you silly fool.”

  And so Gladys confessed to this man with whom she had fallen hopelessly in love by his second helping of meat loaf. Hours later, when she finished, he said: “Really?”

  Withhold the Dawn

  99

  They made love half-on and half-off the kitchen island right then and there.

  The next morning Haragán returned, freshly showered and shaved, and smelling lightly of coffee and its aftereffects. He brought three Federal agents and a bouquet of freesia.

  The Summerfield axe sang to Gladys from the bedroom, called for her to wield it as the deadly instrument of justice it had been purchased—on sale!—to be. She ran toward it. But all three of the agents tased her.

  “My boss is so proud of me for this. I hope you know how grateful I am. Oh, and thanks for lunch yesterday,” Haragán said, winking.

  Although the families of the IRS agents Gladys had killed and cooked with oregano, sofrito, and a teaspoon of cumin almost all forgave her on a highly rated episode of Good Morning America, she spent the rest of her life in a penitentiary, sullen and unpardoned.

  As for her precious Summerfield—after spending years in a lockup, it was auctioned off, then passed from owner to owner, from year to year, and all the while, from dawn to dusk and even in its dreams, it hummed a Don McLean tune and dreamed of revenge.

  Richie Narvaez

  100

  Good Hair

  Marta Balcewicz

  One hair was stuck to the vent in the center of the dashboard. Another lay across the bulbous gear shifter, inscribed with a “V” for Volvo.

  We were done.

  Jeffrey zipped his pants. We sat in silence for a couple minutes. Then he sat up. “Better get rid of these,” he said, and started plucking the hairs—from the vent, volume dial, cup-holder.

  I was speechless.

  It was his expression. Jeffrey’s nose wrinkled and his lips curled, like he was picking gunk off an old sweater. It meant nothing to him that the hairs came off my head, that they were chock-full of DNA belonging to the woman he took to parking lots twice a week.

  101

  It could only mean one thing: there was someone else. I mean, someone other than Rose-Lynn, his wife.

  The next day I waited outside Jeffrey’s office in my brown Honda. When he got into his Volvo, I followed him, down two, three, eight streets, taking turns I knew weren’t leading to his house. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the Oyster Inn, on the beach. Cheap but not unromantic. He stepped out of his car, walked toward a parked older model Jetta in a fun-loving shade of turquoise, and leaned into the open passenger’s-side window.

  Something was off. It was the color. And the car model. The two combined.

  Jeffrey pointed to the check-in office and jogged toward it.

  I parked my car, got out, and speed-walked to the Jetta. It was definitely the color. “Fun-loving turquoise.” A custom color. Just as I’d described in my novel.

  I knocked on the driver’s-side window. I saw movement. She was gathering her purse, spitting out gum. Always with her gum. (Paranoid about halitosis. My “humanizing trait.” Chapter 2.)

  “Yeah?” she said, rolling down the window. Her makeup-model lips bent into a nasty zigzag. She was not a good human being. Not giving. But I knew all this before seeing her expression. Yup, I knew everything. I could’ve been a single mother with a flat tire (Chapter 4), I could’ve been running from a mugger

  Marta Balcewicz

  102

  (Chapter 8). Whatever the scenario, she’d refuse to offer assistance, think of herself only, say no, and toss her incredible hair.

  The hair.

  More than anything, it was the hair that identified her. I’ve always had a thing for Samson, so I gave my heroine a wonderful mane. Luscious, long, blond—I doled out the adjectives (Chapters 1 through 36). I even named her Samantha—almost Samson.

  “Sam?” I said.

  “Do I know you?” There it was again
. The snarl of a cold, clammed human being (bad childhood, alcoholic mother). From the first to last chapter she stayed that way, collecting victims stupidly snared by her coolness.

  “We worked together at the call center,” I said. I knew her employment history, naturally.

  “Oh, okay,” she said. “Listen, I’m kind of busy here.”

  “No problem. Just wanted to say hey!” I darted away, pointing to the 7-Eleven across the street to explain my hurry.

  Sam started rolling up her window. I saw her shake her head. Next she’d mutter an expletive and forget all about me.

  I ran back to my car and draped my jacket over my head, leaving a tiny slit for my eyes. I saw Jeffrey return and showily dangle a key with a novelty-sized

  Good Hair

  103

  Sebastian, the Disney crustacean, attached to it. He and Samantha climbed to a room on the second level and shut the door behind them.

  Two hours later they dashed out and hopped over to Frocker’s BBQ next door. I watched Sam’s hair bounce as she ran. It was like a third entity going out for BBQ with them.

  Since Jeffrey was a pig when it came to grilled meat, I had time.

  First, I tried the door to their room, but no luck. It was locked.

  I went to the check-in office and found a teenager watching a movie on his laptop.

  “I’m locked out!” I said helplessly. “Room 202. My boyfriend ran out for food.”

  The teen was hesitant.

  “He took the key,” I went on. “It had Sebastian on it.”

  That seemed to do it. He nodded and looked down at his laptop. “Is your boyfriend Jeffrey Beazel?”

  I hid in the walk-in closet. Within an hour the key turned in the lock.

  “I need Pepto-Bismol,” Jeffrey groaned. A door shut. He’d gone into the bathroom.

  From the crack I’d left in the closet door, I had a perfect view of the bed. Sam lay down on it sideways.

  Marta Balcewicz

  104

  Her hair splayed out on the duvet like a golden octopus. She placed one hand over her eyes.

  I knew her well.

  I knew she didn’t want the man in the bathroom (“Never again will I touch venison,” Jeffrey said over a watery burp). Heck, I didn’t even want him. I mean, after today.

  I pushed the door open. It didn’t make a creak. I walked toward the bed, quickly. The carpeting muffled my steps. I stood right overtop Sam, casting a shadow on her pretty face. She lifted her hand from her eyes. She saw me. Her eyes widened but not as big as you’d think. She’d seen crazier stuff in her time.

  “Shhh.” I put my finger over my lips. “I want to get rid of him, too.” I pointed to the bathroom door and made a grossed-out expression.

  Sam’s lip curled. She sat up and I plopped myself on the bed next to her, like we were old friends.

  “How much do you owe him?” she asked, and before I could understand, she added, “I’m at twelve thousand. I’ll never have that kind of cash.”

  I nodded. I’d never borrowed a cent from Jeff, but now it all made sense. Sam had always been terrible with money.

  “I’m thinking: your hair,” I said, picking up a tress and smoothing it in my palm.

  Sam looked a little taken aback. Maybe I was being too familiar.

  Good Hair

  105

  “To strangle him,” I explained.

  “Oh.” Her face softened. She understood and cracked up a bit, like I’d made a good joke. Then she went serious and shook her head. She reached for her purse, lying on the floor next to the bed, and opened it. Inside, nestled into the silky lining, was a gun, petite and elegant, just like my protagonist.

  “Of course,” I said. I felt like an idiot for tabling the hair idea. (Jeffrey started gurgling water, making dumb walrus sounds.) “I was joking about the hair,” I explained, waving my hand and checking her perfect face for signs of disapproval. But Sam’s thoughts were elsewhere—obviously. She was already pushing me back into the closet. The cool woman, the cooler woman, the more beautiful one certainly. It was no wonder Jeffrey had moved on to her, a blonde with a tiny pistol.

  Sam shut the door behind me. “Good luck!” I squeaked. But she didn’t respond. I sat on the floor, next to a fallen hanger. Even though I knew something big was about to happen all I could think about was what Sam and I might do after. I mean, after-after—after we’d disposed of the body. What we’d do tomorrow.

  Marta Balcewicz

  106

  Dogface

  Sarah Wang

  Let’s call Dogface,” Elma called up from the bottom bunk. “It’s the first of the month.”

  Dogface had been mauled by a dog as a child, and time labored tirelessly to stretch and deepen the long, pulpy scars on the left side of his face. His bargain-bin weed was full of seeds that crackled and popped, and it always came flat, as if it had been pressed between the pages of a heavy book. Surely he would be in high spirits tonight. It was payday from the government. Can you be on disability for having a mangled face, we wondered? What other parts of his body had been unspeakably mangled on that fateful dog day? On the first of the month Dogface bought us atomic nachos, which he watched us eat while smoking rocks of crack cocaine

  107

  on the other end of the couch, our fingers dripping with what resembled melted yellow plastic.

  “Bowling alley.” Magda swung down from the top bunk after hanging up the phone. “Show starts at nine.”

  At the former bowling alley that now functioned as a venue for bands to play, we circled around with our gazes fixed somewhere in the distance. We never looked directly at anyone. If we happened to catch someone’s eye, we always looked away immediately in exasperation. We perched on a long lunch counter near the door, sipping on a shared waxed paper cup of Suicide. That’s what we called it, all the sodas from the fountain mixed together. Kids rolled heavy balls at each other, scuttling out of the way to avoid being hit, sneakers squealing across the dull wood floor. The grumble of balls rolling evoked the ghostly noise of pins clattering and toppling, though it had been years since the bowling alley had been functional. The seventies were still alive here, mainly in the form of the orange, yellow, and green squirts painted on the walls, and the lacquered mustard tabletops that teenagers splayed upon.

  Magda’s cousin was about to come on. His band dragged their equipment down the lanes and began setting up. The bass player stepped into the gutter and fell, smashing his guitar on the hardwood floor.

  “Ha-ha,” someone yelled. The sound traveled

  Sarah Wang

  108

  down the lanes, and three seconds later, Magda’s cousin looked up and threw a middle finger in the direction of the crowd. The “ha-ha” had come from Dogface’s mouth. Only half of his face was animate, leering in satisfaction, while the other half was set in a permanent half-stunned, half-semiconscious expression by scar tissue. Most people were terrified of him, but he had drugs and could buy beer, so we remained complicit in the collective denial of our own terror. He exhaled a billow of smoke and flicked his cigarette, still burning, into the middle of a bowling lane.

  Magda grabbed me and I reached to yank Elma, who was so busy looking nowhere that she didn’t see me waving three inches from her face.

  “Sup?” Dogface nodded. He shoved his hand into the pocket of his giant army jacket.

  “Sup?” we replied, one echo in three different pitches.

  “Sup?” he said again. Dogface had the jaw of a pit bull and the brains of a chicken.

  “Got a lil’ sack for us?” Elma asked, crossing her arms over her baggy shirt.

  “Nope.” He pulled out a bindle from his pocket. “Got this though.”

  “I’m not smoking crack. Once was enough,” Magda said. “The last time I did drugs with you, you stayed up for three days with a shotgun propped in your lap peering out of the blinds. Dark, dude.”

  Dogfac
e

  109

  “This isn’t crack. It’s mescaline.”

  “What’s mescaline?” I asked.

  “It’s from peyote.” Elma’s eyes widened. “I’ve always wanted to have a psychedelic spiritual communion on peyote.”

  Dogface opened the paper bindle and shook four tiny maroon pills into his palm. Elma looked at me. I shrugged, raising one eyebrow. She grabbed a pill and sucked it up.

  “Waaaaait a minute,” Magda said, sighing. “What’s that gonna do to you?”

  “Trip you the fuck out.” Dogface smiled. He took one and ate it.

  “Uh-uh.” Magda shook her head. “No way.”

  Dogface lifted his palm up to me, as if he wanted me to lick a pill out of his hand. I took one and pretended to pop it in my mouth. The band started playing; we snaked to the front. Magda’s cousin couldn’t play any instruments, but he was an enthusiastic dancer. He sang, at first sliding around stiffly tethered by the mic cord, and then breaking out of his own body like he was undead. The drummer smashed behind him coolly, looking around the bowling alley as if he had no interest at all in what his body was doing.

  Magda hopped around on one foot until she couldn’t balance anymore before switching to the other. “Are you tripping yet?” she asked me.

  I shook my head, holding the pinched pill up for