Getting Black Eyes in Houston

Chapter 6 - Waking up

I awake ready to get things done. In the chill cold that only comes from a really good air conditioner in Texas, anything seems possible. Despite my injuries from the morning, I am energized, and hungry, and even a little brave. I text Beau, "What has shiny wings and hates smokers?" Then I grab my last two trash bags and went to the kitchen. Despite my hunger, I know that I can't leave this place like this, and there certainly isn't anything I can eat here. Everything is old and spoiled. But if I leave to get breakfast, this would all still be here when I get back, and worse than before.

I sweep the refrigerator into my first trash bag, takeout containers, full cartons of juice, and even a few dishes. They're not worth the herculean effort of saving. Sacrifices must be made if you don't want to live in filth, but insist on being out all the time. I tie that bag off quick, so the smell will be trapped. It isn't that bad, since it had all been refrigerated, but it isn't nice. There're two beers and a half bottle of vodka. I leave those... for company.

The dishes are more serious. They will not go down without a fight, and I don't want to trash yet another set of dishes because of my active, away from home lifestyle. I put them in the sink, individually, rinsing what I can and stacking them neatly, eventually filling the whole sink with hot soapy water. The scum bleeds off and the smell retreats as the vile bits swirl down the drain. Thank god for modern conveniences. I am sweating slightly when I am finished, the hot water having a slight echo of the heat just outside the windows. My phone dings. "Riddle or job?" Beau asks.

I don't know how to respond, given our last encounter. I want to be cool and playful, but I also need his help. Beau is effortlessly smart, and everyone who knows him seems to love and hate him for it in equal measure. He also knows more about plants and animals than any man in this part of the world, and that includes the magical variety. If I ever need information about a living thing, he's my expert. If only he didn't know so much about me as a living thing, I'd be way more comfortable. My phone dings again. "I have answers for both."

Well, now I need to know. "Let's start with riddle," I reply. The little dots are lit up for a long time. I start loading the mostly clean dishes into the dishwasher. Finally, a paragraph comes up. The man is serious about questions. Part of what makes him so useful and infuriating.

He begins slowly but picks up speed. "1. Ladybugs, they prefer snuff. 2. Grasshoppers (pokemon joke) 3. Dragonflies (impotence) 4. Katydid, but she got over it. 5. Queen bees - always pregnant. 6. Bees, if they just got out of bee-hab."

I groan through my suppressed laughter. "Those are more like jokes than riddles," I text back, closing the dishwasher and setting it to deep clean.

"Sue me," he responds immediately. "As for job, if it's cigarette smoking, could be any insect. Insects hate smoke, because fire equals death."

I lean against the recently uncovered counter and sigh. I would love to have some witty banter, make him dinner and see where it goes, but I need to close this case before anyone else gets hurt. "It wasn't actual smoke. It knocked over a cigarette bin."

"..." I wait while the dots appear and disappear multiple times. Finally, a message pops up, reading, "Maybe an insect spirit of some kind. Nicotine is a powerful pesticide. We don't use it as much anymore, but most insect monsters hate it. You should have Mickey make you something for it, but don't spill it on yourself. It stinks worse than catfish bait."

"Thanks. I'll make sure to get you a commission when the case is done."

"Okay. We should probably talk about last weekend."

Shit. Shit shit shit. I'm not ready to apologize or lose Beau forever. "Definitely. But right now, I have to go," I tap awkwardly. "Lives are at stake," I add lamely.

I have officially become a character from a pulp novel. "Lives are at stake?" Next, I'm going to be calling myself a dame, and standing in the rain. I think I'd rather be standing in the rain in a romance than a noir. I put my phone away, studiously ignoring the buzz from his most recent message. He's right about Mickey. He's also always right. Why are my friends always right? 

Because you surround yourself with capable people who know more than you do, Becky. This is a strength and not a failing, and you are not the sole loser in the bunch. No, really, you're a winner who just threw away a bunch of silverware rather than clean it.

I gather my laundry spread across the living room into the other garbage bag and toss it on the couch. My place looked damn near respectable, except for the full trash can that's just beer bottles... and wine bottles. I stare at it for just a moment. I look back at the fridge and think about my throbbing head. Surely the hair of the dog won't hurt? I shake my head. Two beers won't be enough and it's too early for vodka. I'll swing by a liquor store somewhere. I shoulder the two heavy trash bags.

I have the door unlocked and am about to open it when I realize I'm in a sports bra and panties. Warm as Texas is right now, that would not have been prudent and definitely makes the word loser echo in my head as I head to the bedroom and pull on a pair of pants and a solid blue t-shirt. I like band T-shirts, especially obscure bands or bands that don't exist anymore, but they're all in the laundry. It's probably been... more than a month since I've done laundry in the machine. Undies are different, but those can be done in the bathroom. This, again, does not make me feel like less of a loser.

Stepping out of the house is like opening an oven. The heat hits you like a blast of wind. I am almost knocked down by it, which would have been really bad because I would have fallen onto the disgusting fridge trash I'm carrying out. I toss the trash into the dumpster and hop into the car, only burning my hands twice as I start it up and wait for the air conditioning to make it safe to touch the steering wheel again or buckle my safety belt.

I use this time for research. My phone is still cool from being in the house, so I can touch it. I look through the newsletters of the garden, and while I don't find anything specifically about nicotine, I did find out that they had just changed over to a new, locally sourced organic pesticide right about the time that poor... what was his name? Brent? That poor gardener died. I'm not trying to be callous. A lot of people I meet are dead, and I don't have enough memory not to disrespect some of them. The good news about this is that while I am looking for the actual source of bug monster, I can make the garden safe by getting them to switch back to the old nicotine based pesticide.

That's something, right? The steering wheel is only 'sunburn' hot, and no longer 'melt plastic' hot when I look up. Thank all the gods for freon. I wrestle a dirty t-shirt from underneath the beer bottles in the back seat and wrap the steering wheel in it. It only smells mildly of hops. The sun will be down soon, and it will cool off to a more moderate time, but until then, I might need my hands to have feeling in them, rather than being crispy. Where am I going? Mickey's! Then the office.