Everglade, p.1
Everglade, page 1
EVERGLADE
Book 5 in the Selena Series
Greg Barth
PRAISE FOR THE SELENA SERIES
“Greg Barth cooked up something mean and served it up and I hope none of you choke on it because it’s mighty tasty.”—Eryk Pruitt, author of Hashtag and Dirtbags
“It’s like the wildest of the men’s adventure novels of the ’70s, updated for the new millennium. Definitely not for the faint of heart.”—Bill Crider, author of the Sheriff Rhodes Series
“Reminiscent of Larry Brown’s Fay, but less innocent and more violent, Selena combines fine writing and an indelible character to help fill the gap of female protagonists in the world of noir.”—Vicki Hendricks, author of Miami Purity
“Greg Barth writes with a knife-like edge…A fast, crazy read.”—Marietta Miles, author of Route 12
“Greg Barth writes a hell of a book. He steps on the gas and doesn’t let up for a second.”—Michael Finamore
“Mister Barth writes well—hard charging and fast paced.”—Tony Knighton, author of Three Hours Past Midnight
“This book had me turning pages and gritting my teeth…a total punch to the gut, and it hurts so good.”—S.W. Lauden, author of Crosswise
“Selena is a visceral pulp thriller that had me gripped from the outset.”—Tom Leins, of Dirty Books Blog
“This series is a literary legend in the making”—Will Viharo, author of Love Stories Are Too Violent For Me
“Selena is a tour de force of unapologetic sex and violence, not for the faint of heart but definitely for hardcore fans of fast paced, unrelenting pulp-noir in the fashion of nobody except Greg Barth.”—Shane D. Keene
Copyright © 2017 by Timothy Miller
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Edited by Rob Pierce and Chris Rhatigan
Cover design by JT Lindroos
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Everglade
About the Author
Also by the Author
Other Titles from the Down & Out Books Publishing Family
Preview from Shakedown by Martin Bodenham
Preview from When the Lonesome Dog Barks by Trey R. Barker
Preview from Dead Clown Blues by R. Daniel Lester
This book is for
Loretta Penrod,
my mother,
who reminded me there should be a Glade
ONE
My soul struggled and kicked, fighting its way up from the black depths of unconsciousness.
I drew breath. The air was cool and tinged with the scent of fresh-cut grass.
Birds warbled. A shitload of birds, whistling and chirping like there was something worth celebrating.
A woman spoke. I wasn’t coherent enough to understand her words. A chilly breeze prickled the bare skin of my legs and stomach.
I opened my eyes. Light and air stung them, but tears wouldn’t form. The world in front of me was a dim blur, a mixture of grays and greens with no distinct shape. I was parched, my tongue pasted to the roof of my mouth.
The smells, the sounds—everything was wrong somehow.
Where the fuck am I?
My head throbbed, the pain driven by a jackhammer pulse. I’d felt this way before. Many times.
More talking. The woman’s voice should have been recognizable, but I didn’t even know who I was yet, let alone her.
The world around me was shrouded in a painful, dry haze, and I couldn’t make sense of anything.
My head rested against a hard surface. My cheek pressed into grit.
Her words pierced through the fog. “You can’t be showing that to everybody like this,” the woman said. She tugged at my clothing.
My dry lips peeled apart. “Hey,” I muttered. I tried to sit up. Couldn’t get my tongue to work. I reached down and swatted at her hand, tried to push it away.
The world took form around me as my vision cleared. I was outside on the sidewalk in front of my house. The grit I felt was the dirt and concrete under my cheek. I looked down. I was dressed in my bathrobe. I’d lost the belt, and the robe spread open from my lower stomach down. I was naked underneath. Pale, skinny legs. Patch of dark hair at my crotch.
Someone stood over me. I could make out pasty skin tones, a black T-shirt, a shock of platinum blonde hair. It was River. She was trying to close the robe around my middle. “You’ve got all the lady parts showing,” she said.
I pushed against the sidewalk and sat up. She helped me adjust the robe so I was not exposed.
A bottle of rum sat tipped over on the sidewalk to one side of me. On the other side, a Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver glistened with dew in the grass. I reached for the rum. I unscrewed the cap and poured a little in my mouth to wash away the dryness.
Tasted like the last thing in the world I needed. My stomach jerked in agreement.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Let’s get you inside.”
I held out my withered left hand, the palm curved inward, the fingers curled into a claw.
River took me by my wrist and elbow. I pushed with my other hand, got on one knee, and made it to my feet.
My head swam. She helped me a few steps over to the large maple tree in my front yard. I put my hand against the trunk to steady myself.
River grabbed the revolver and the bottle of rum from the ground.
“You make the sidewalk your bed last night?”
“Uh, I think so. Yeah.”
She came up close to my side. I put an arm around her shoulder. We took slow steps as she helped me back to the house.
I used the handrail to get up the stairs to the porch. I went over to a table near my deck chair. I grabbed my cigarettes, a bag of pot, a water pipe, and a pink massager—the remnants of a solo party that never happened—and put them in my robe pockets.
The front door stood open. I have a large mirror inside my foyer, and I caught my reflection on the way inside. The robe had fallen open again. I was pale, skinny, my eyes puffy and bloodshot, and my dark hair was sticking up on top. Dirt clung to my cheek. The skin around my nostrils was flakey and inflamed.
So much for daddy’s princess.
We stopped at the kitchen long enough for me to get a glass of water. My hand trembled as I filled the glass. I propped against the counter and took slow sips to make sure I could keep it down.
“I’m going to put you in the shower. I’ll get the water going, make a pot of coffee while you’re in there.” She put the pistol and the bottle of rum on the breakfast table.
Dots danced along the edges of my vision. My stomach flipped. I leaned over the sink and vomited into the stainless steel basin. I hadn’t eaten anything, but I purged a good bit of brown liquid. I kept gagging and coughing, my stomach and throat clenched until all I could bring up was clear spit. I turned the water on. Flipped the switch for the garbage disposal.
I wiped at my nose and lips with the back of my trembling hand. I ran my fingers under the stream and splashed cool water on my face.
“You want aspirin or anything?” River said from behind me.
“Dilaudid,” I said.
“Not on an empty stomach. Besides, you need to wake up.”
“Coke then.” I said the words, but I knew I’d never get any through my swollen nostrils. I’d been cutting too much snow lately, mostly so I could drink longer without passing out. My sinuses were inflamed as a result.
“How about we start with coffee and aspirin? You remember Bobby is coming by this morning, right?”
I had forgotten, but I’d be ready. I closed my eyes and nodded.
“Great.”
She went down the hall. The shower started up, water beating against the vinyl curtain.
I took small sips from the water glass until she returned.
“Okay. Just drop that robe here.”
I slipped out of it. Chill bumps sprang up along my arms and legs.
“Paper towel,” I said. “Wipe the dew off the .38. Don’t want it to rust.”
“It’s loaded?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded and opened the cabinet where I kept the towels spooled on the inside door. “I’ll take the bullets out, dry them off, run a swab through the barrel. You weren’t going to shoot yourself, were you?”
“I don’t remember. But I’m not that good a shot with the pistol. If I was going to do that, I’d use a shotgun.”
I was able to walk down the hall by myself but she followed behind me, her hand on my naked back. Steam greeted me at the bathroom door. River held my arm to steady me as I climbed into the tub.
The hot water felt good against my cool skin.
I closed my eyes and h
What the fuck are you doing to yourself.
TWO
A cup of coffee waited for me on the kitchen counter. Two-thirds coffee, one-third milk, just the way I like it.
My hair was wet. I had on a clean robe. I propped up against the counter and lifted the cup. “Thank you,” I said.
“Get some yogurt,” River said. “You need something on your stomach.” River had a slim face that was all blue eyes and cheekbones. Her platinum blonde, boy-cut hair looked clean and perfect. She had on a tight Bratmobile T-shirt that clung to her small breasts. Her nipple jewelry showed through the material. She wore low-cut, black skinny jeans with a thick leather belt around the waist. The belt buckle was shaped like a double-edged razor blade. She had on a pair of pink Converse Chucks.
I sipped my coffee, shook a cigarette from the pack on the bar and lit it. It took a few minutes for the coffee and tobacco to override the toothpaste and mouthwash taste I had going on.
“I’ll get some in a minute.”
River came over and got a refill of coffee. “You know one of the spirits told me this morning that you were in trouble.”
“Which one?”
“Lucy.”
“The twelve-year-old spirit?”
“That’s her. She likes you.”
I handed River the cigarette pack. She took one and lit it.
“She tell you I was drunk?”
“No. But I wasn’t surprised to find you in the yard with a pistol.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of fucked up.” I rested my cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and pulled a banana from the fruit basket on the counter. I peeled the banana and took a bite. “So how’s Chris?” I said, chewing.
River blew out her smoke. She rolled her eyes, held them on the ceiling, shook her head. “I fucking hate her right now. How’s Enola?”
I folded the peel over the rest of the banana and set it back on the counter. “We’re fighting.”
“How long you two been together?”
“Couple of years now, I guess. We hooked up a little bit before we moved here. It was during all the shit. We never really had a chance to just focus on us until we got this house.”
“You two are going to be okay. I know you will.”
“Spirits tell you that?”
“No. But you’re good for each other. Chris, on the other hand…”
I scoffed. “You don’t have to explain to me how Chris Friday can be annoying as hell.”
River crushed out her cigarette. She sipped at her coffee. “It’s me, though. Most of the time it’s not like this. But sometimes…I mean sometimes I just fucking hate women, you know?”
This coming from the most outspoken young feminist I’d ever met. But I understood the sentiment.
“Don’t I?” I said.
“Not all the time. And don’t get me wrong, men are worse. Believe me. Did I ever tell you about that guy?”
“Your friend’s dad who said all those crude things when you were young?” She’d told me the story once while we were drunk. A friend’s father said inappropriate things to her during a sleepover.
“Yeah. Him.”
“Horrible.”
River nodded. “At least I’m not afraid of women.”
“Oh, I’ve known a couple.”
“No. It’s men that scare me. Right after that, that’s about the time the spirits started talking to me.”
“What’d they say?”
“Men would hurt me, they said. They’d hurt me bad.”
“Must’ve been hard to hear.” My stomach didn’t like the banana. I held my nose over the brim of the coffee cup; the steam soothed my sinuses.
“They told me to make pain my friend.”
“I’ve done some of that. You can do better when it comes to friends, though.” I figured I’d get rid of River and see if I could get some coke in me.
“Then they told me the day’d come I could kill those men just by pointing a finger at them.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with hating men and talking to spirits in my book—I don’t judge—but I wouldn’t hold my breath on the finger part. I’ve found men harder to kill than that.”
She shook her head. “Anyway. Chris and I’ll be fine. I just need to get through my funk. She’s giving me some space. I’ll stop hating her soon. It’ll be the same with you and Enola. You’ll see.”
I wasn’t so sure about Enola and me. It felt like we were close to the end. “Yeah. It’ll all work out,” I said, trying to close the conversation.
“I’ll get out of your hair, so you can get dressed. What time’s Bobby coming by?”
“He’ll be here soon. Let’s get your stuff.”
I went down the hall to the spare bedroom, stepped inside, turned on the overhead light. Along the opposite wall was a bathroom and a walk-in closet. I opened the door to the closet and turned on the light. A tall gun safe stood in the corner. I worked the combination and opened the safe. In the bottom half of the safe stood an AR-15 and a semi-auto twelve gauge. The upper shelf contained some boxes of ammo and several sealed paper sacks. I took out River’s bag, locked everything back up, and returned to the kitchen.
A white envelope sat on the counter. Neither of us mentioned it.
I handed the bag over to River. “Here you go.”
She took it. Her backpack was by the refrigerator. She knelt down, unzipped it and moved some things around. “Oh, here. I brought this for you.” She pulled a book out and handed it up to me.
I took the book and read the cover. “Vicki Hendricks. Miami Purity. Any good?”
“Yeah. You’ll love it.” She stuffed the bag into her backpack. She stood and slung the pack over one shoulder. “You still coming to the concert tonight?”
“I’ll be up to it. Just hungover, and I’ve got the perfect cure. I wouldn’t miss the big show.” I flashed her a smile.
“Get some food on your stomach, okay? I’ll see you then.”
“You need to eat too,” I said, knowing neither of us would.
I walked River to the door. “Wear your fuck-me clothes,” she said. “About time you get laid.”
I scoffed, held the door as she went out. “I don’t think my fuck-me clothes even fit anymore.”
As she walked down the sidewalk to where she’d parked her car by the street, I thought about the strange guy I’d seen watching my house the night before.
THREE
The first page of Miami Purity hooked me. It was all I could do to put the book aside to get dressed, but I had to get ready.
I placed the book page-down on the counter, took up the envelope River left, and headed back to my bedroom.
There was another safe in the closet of my bedroom concealed behind a false wall partition. I opened it, put the envelope inside—I’d sort the bills later—and took out another, slimmer envelope that I had ready for Bobby. I tossed his envelope through the open closet door to the bed.
I closed the safe and picked out clothes.
I slipped out of the robe. The scars on my body had faded, all except the more recent ones—most notably the jagged, gristled scar on my left forearm. It was the worst and would always be noticeable. I flexed my fingers. I could still use my left hand, but it had never fully recovered.
I’d put on some weight over the last couple of years living in the house, most of it going to my hips and thighs. My belly was rounding out a little. I wasn’t fat, just had some curves. Overall I was pleased with how the weight looked on me. I’d been too slim my whole life.
I’d let my hair go back to its natural color—dark chestnut—and it fell in loose curls to my shoulders.
I slipped into my underwear, a loose cotton top, and some faded jeans. I threw on a splash of perfume.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed my purse from the counter and moved over to the breakfast table. Opening one of the vials I carried with me at all times, I sprinkled some coke on the smooth table surface and traced out a couple of thin lines with a razor blade. I took a shortened straw and snorted both lines. My nostrils were raw, but I got the powder up.
