Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  A.R.M. and the Woman - Laura Lippman

  Den of Iniquity - Lori L. Lake

  Boomerang - Carsen Taite

  The Economics of Desire: A Cautionary Tale - Jeane Harris

  Some Kind of Killing - Miranda Kent

  Anything for the Theater - Clifford Henderson

  Social Work - Kendra Sennett

  Devil in Training - Ali Vali

  The Darkest Night of the Year - Victoria A. Brownworth

  Lost - J.M. Redmann

  Chasing Athena - Diane Anderson-Minshall

  Lucky Thirteen - Anne Laughlin

  Feedback - Lindy Cameron

  Contributors

  About the Editors

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Women. Crime. Justice. At least the search for it. On the mean streets, the back allies, the dark corners.

  These are stories of tough women in hard places. The nights are long, the women are fast, and danger is always a short block or quick minute away. Edited by award winning author/editors J.M. Redmann and Greg Herren, Women of the Mean Streets is an anthology of some of the top, tough women crime writers today, noir stories with a lesbian twist.

  Women of the Mean Streets

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Women of the Mean Streets

  © 2011 By Bold Strokes Books. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-538-3

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: August 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: J.M. Redmann, Greg Herren, and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Dedication

  To my fabulous co-editor Greg Herren.

  Long may his red pen rule.

  Acknowledgments

  I need to thank the talented group of writers who were willing to contribute stories and endure my editorial suggestions—“but it’s not dark enough—channel Barbara Stanwyck, please.” This is a great bunch of writers, talented in myriad ways and a pleasure to work with. I also need to thank my co-editor Greg Herren, for making this so easy and fun—okay, let’s be real, we didn’t kill each other and the rest of the wounds will heal. Also big thanks to Rad for making Bold Strokes what it is. Stacia and Cindy, for all their hard work behind the scenes, and everyone at BSB for being the best little publishing house in the world.

  Introduction

  “For neither life nor nature cares if justice is ever done or not.”

  —Patricia Highsmith

  Women. Crime. Justice—or what can be found in the far reaches of a dim streetlight or deserted road. A hasty kiss when the clouds cover the moon. A tryst in someone else’s bed. On the mean streets, the back alleys, the sinister corners. The dark unleashes sex and violence in a way that just won’t do in a cozy mystery or happy romance.

  Why do we want to look into the shadowed alleys, behind the heavy curtains of the house on the corner? What is the fascination with the mean streets? Is it the adrenaline rush of a life we want to live? Or more likely, a place we don’t want our daily journey to take us, not really, not where the stench of garbage fills our nostrils, the lone footsteps could be coming after us, and the consequences are more than just turning the next page. Perhaps we read these stories as cautionary tales, worlds we want to view only through a glass darkly.

  Early stories about the mean streets—aided and needed by the rise of the paperback—started out as a men’s club—men interested in women, that is. It took a few decades—and some major changes in society, with women’s liberation and LGBTQ activism—but the bookshelves made room for woman, then men who liked men and women who liked women.

  This evolution in who could write what led to there being authors like the ones you’ll find in these pages, enough to create an anthology like this one. (With many more authors in other books still waiting on the bookshelves.) I am fortunate to know many in the literary community, so when I asked some of my friends and acquaintances, “Hey, can you write a dark, twisted story—in addition to everything else you’re doing?” the ensuing chorus of “yes” was quite gratifying. Included in these pages are some of the top crime writers practicing today, with a long list of award winners and authors you probably know or should know.

  These are stories of tough women in hard places. The nights are long, the women are fast, and danger is always a short block or quick minute away. Love can be fleeting or deceiving or the wrong woman in the wrong place or the right woman and the wrong time, a jumble that doesn’t promise happily ever after, only that, in true hardboiled fashion, hot sex is better than no sex and right here, right now feels good, the morning after be damned.

  These stories take us from small-town Kansas to an Australia far away not only in distance, but in time. New Orleans, the dark lady at the end of the Mississippi, features in three of the stories, but they take us from the West Coast to Europe, from the darkest night to the height of folly. The talented authors take us backstage and back home, from an ironic shrug to desperation at the common horrors of life. A criminal comes into her own, and some detectives lose their cases. Love is found and lost and lost again.

  So sit back, get comfortable, and strap yourself in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

  J.M. Redmann

  New Orleans, 2011

  A.R.M. and the Woman

  Laura Lippman

  Sally Holt was seldom the prettiest woman in the room, but for three decades now she had consistently been one of the most sought-after for one simple fact: She was a wonderful listener. Whether it was her eight-year-old son or her eighty-year-old neighbor or some male in-between, Sally rested her chin in her palm and leaned forward, expression rapt, soft laugh at the ready—but not too ready, which gave the speaker a feeling of power when the shy, sweet sound finally bubbled forth, almost in spite of itself. In the northwest corner of Washington, DC, where overtly decorative women were seen as suspect if not out-and-out tacky, a charm like Sally’s was much prized. It had served her well, too, helping her glide into the perfect marriage to her college sweetheart, a dermatologist, then allowing her to become one of northwest Washington’s best hostesses, albeit in the amateur division. Sally and her husband, Peter, did not move in and did not aspire to the more rarefied social whirl, the one dominated by embassy parties and pink-faced journalists who competed to shout pithy things over one another on cable television shows. They lived in a quieter, in some ways more exclusive world, a charming, old-fashioned neighborhood comprising middle-class houses that now required upper-class incomes to own and maintain.

  And if, on occasion, in a dark corner at one of the endless parties Sally and Peter hosted and atten
ded, her unwavering attention was mistaken for affection, she managed to deflect the ensuing pass with a graceful shake of her auburn curls. “You wouldn’t want me,” she told the briefly smitten men. “I’m just another soccer mom.” The husbands backed away, sheepish and relieved, confiding in each other what a lucky son of a bitch Peter Holt was. Sally Holt had kept her figure, hadn’t allowed herself to thicken into that androgynous khaki-trousered—let’s be honest, downright dykish—mom so common in the area, which did have a lot of former field hockey players gone to seed. Plus, she was so great to talk to, interested in the world, not forever prattling about her children and their school.

  Sally’s secret was that she didn’t actually hear a word her admirers said, just nodded and laughed at the right moments, cued by their inflections as to how to react. Meanwhile, deep inside her head, she was mapping out the logistics of her next day. Just a soccer mom, indeed. To be a stay-at-home mother in Northwest D.C. was to be nothing less than a general, the Patton of the carpool, the Eisenhower of the HOV-lane. Sally spent most of her afternoons behind the wheel of a Porsche SUV, moving her children and other people’s children from school to lessons, from lessons to games, from games to home. She was ruthlessly efficient with her time and motion, her radio always tuned to WTOP to catch the traffic on the eights, her brain filled with alternative routes and illegal shortcuts, her gaze at the ready to thaw the nastiest traffic cop. She could envision her section of the city in a three-dimensional grid in her head, her house on Morrison and the Dutton School off Nebraska the two fixed stars in her universe. Given all she had to do, you really couldn’t blame her for not listening to the men who bent her ear, a figure of speech that struck her as particularly apt. If she allowed all those words into her head, her ears would be bent—as crimped, tattered, and chewed-up looking as the old tomcat she had owned as a child, a cat who could not avoid brawls even after he was neutered.

  But when Peter came to her in the seventeenth year of their marriage and said he wanted out, she heard him loud and clear. And when his lawyer said their house, mortgaged for a mere $400,000, was now worth $1.8 million, which meant she needed $700,000 to buy Peter’s equity stake, she heard that, too. For as much time as she spent behind the wheel of her car, Sally was her house, her house was Sally. The 1920s stucco two-story was tasteful and individual, with a kind of perfection that a decorator could never have achieved. She was determined to keep the house at all costs, and when her lawyer proposed a way it could be done, without sacrificing anything in child support or her share of Peter’s retirement funds, she had approved it instantly and then, as was her habit, glazed over as the details were explained.

  “What do you mean, I owe a million dollars on the house?” she asked her accountant, Kenny, three years later.

  “You refinanced your house with an interest-only balloon mortgage to buy Peter out of his share. Now it’s come due.”

  “But I don’t have a million dollars,” Sally said, as if Kenny didn’t know this fact better than anyone. It was April, he had her tax return in front of him.

  “No biggie. You get a new mortgage. Unfortunately, your timing sucks. Interest rates are up. Your monthly payment is going to be a lot bigger—just as the alimony is ending. Another bit of bad timing.”

  Kenny relayed all this information with zero lack of emotion. After all, it didn’t affect his bottom line. It occurred to Sally that an accountant should have a much more serious name. What was she doing, trusting someone named Kenny with her money?

  “What about the equity I’ve built up in the past three years?”

  “It was an interest-only loan, Sally. There is no additional equity.” Kenny, a square-jawed man who bore a regrettable resemblance to Frankenstein, sighed. “Your lawyer did you no favors, steering you into this deal. Did you know the mortgage broker he referred you to was his brother-in-law? And that your lawyer is a partner in the title company? He even stuck you with PMI.”

  Sally was beginning to feel as if they were discussing sexually transmitted diseases instead of basic financial transactions.

  “I thought I got an adjustable rate mortgage. ARMs have conversion rates, don’t they? And caps? What does any of this have to do with PMI?”

  “ARMs do. But you got a balloon, and balloons come due. All at once, in a big lump. Hence the name. You had a three-year grace period, in which you had an artificially low rate of 3.25 percent, with Peter’s three thousand in rehabilitative alimony giving you a big cushion. Now it’s over. In today’s market, I recommend a thirty-year fixed, but even that’s not the deal it was two years ago. According to today’s rates, the best you can do is—”

  Frankennystein used an old-fashioned adding machine, the kind with a paper roll, an affectation Sally had once found charming. He punched the keys and the paper churned out, delivering its noisy verdict.

  “A million financed at thirty-year fixed rates—you’re looking at seven thousand a month, before taxes.”

  It was an increase of almost four thousand dollars a month over what she had been paying for the last three years, and that didn’t take into account the alimony she was about to lose.

  “I can’t cover that, not with what I get in child support. Not and pay my share of the private school tuition, which we split fifty-fifty.”

  “You could sell. But after closing costs and paying the real estate agent’s fee, you’d walk away with a lot less cash than you might think. Maybe eight hundred thousand.”

  Eight hundred thousand dollars. She couldn’t buy a decent three-bedroom for that amount, not in the neighborhood, not even in the suburbs. There, the schools would be free at least, but the Dutton School probably mattered more to Sally than it did to the children. It had become the center of her social life since Peter had left, a place where she was made to feel essential. Essential and adored, one of the parents who helped out without becoming a fearsome buttinsky or know-it-all.

  “How long do I have to figure this out?” she asked Kenny.

  “The balloon comes due in four months. But the way things are going, you’ll be better off locking in sooner rather than later. Greenspan looked funny the last time the Fed met.”

  “Funny?”

  “Constipated, like. As if his sphincter was the only thing keeping the rates down.”

  “Kenny,” she said with mock reproach, her instinctive reaction to a man’s crude joke, no matter how dull and silly. Already, her mind was miles away, flying through the streets of her neighborhood, trying to think who might help her. There was a father who came to Sam’s baseball games, often straight from work, only to end up on his cell, rattling off percentages. He must be in real estate.

  *

  “I own a title company,” Alan Mason said. “Which, I have to say, is like owning a mint these days. The money just keeps coming. Even with the housing supply tight as it is, people always want to refinance.”

  “If only I had thought to talk to you three years ago,” Sally said, twisting the stalk of a gone-to-seed dandelion in her hand. They were standing along the first base line, the better to see both their sons—Sam, adorable if inept in right field, and Alan’s Duncan, a wiry first baseman who pounded his glove with great authority, although he had yet to catch a single throw to the bag.

  “The thing is—” Alan stopped as the batter made contact with the ball, driving it toward the second baseman, who tossed it to Duncan for the out. There was a moment of suspense as Duncan bobbled it a bit, but he held on.

  “Good play, son!” Alan said and clapped, then looked around. “I didn’t violate the vocalization rule, did I?”

  “You were perfect,” Sally assured him. The league in which their sons played did, in fact, have strict rules about parents’ behavior, including guidelines on how to cheer properly—with enthusiasm, but without aggression. It was a fine line.

  “Where was I? Oh, your dilemma. The thing is, I can hook you up with someone who can help you find the best deal, but you might want to consider takin
g action against your lawyer. He could be disbarred for what he did, or at least reprimanded. Clearly a conflict of interest.”

  “True, but that won’t help me in the long run.” She sighed, then exhaled on the dandelion head, blowing away the fluff.

  “Did you make a wish?” Alan asked. He wasn’t handsome, not even close. He looked like Ichabod Crane, tall and thin, with a pointy nose and no chin.

  “I did,” Sally said with mock solemnity.

  “For what?”

  “Ah, if you tell, they don’t come true.” She met his eyes, just for a moment, let Alan Mason think that he was her heart’s desire. Later that night, her children asleep, a glass of white wine at her side, she plugged figures into various mortgage calculators on the Internet, as if a different site might come up with a different answer. She charted her budget on Quicken—if she traded the Porsche for a Prius, if she stopped buying organic produce at Whole Foods, if she persuaded Molly to drop ballet. But there were not enough sacrifices in the world to cover the looming shortfall in their monthly bills. They would have to give up everything to keep the house—eating, driving, heat and electricity.

  And even if she did find the money, found a way to make it work, her world was still shrinking around her. When Peter first left, it had been almost a relief to be free of him, grouchy and cruel as he had become in midlife. She had been glad for an excuse to avoid parties as well. Now that she was divorced, the husbands steered clear of her as if a suddenly single woman was the most unstable molecule of all in their social set. But Alan Moore’s gaze, beady as it was, had reminded her how nice it was to be admired, how she had enjoyed being everyone’s favorite confidante once upon a time, how she had liked the hands pressed to her bare spine, the friendly pinch on her ass.