As she walked to the stove with her thin dress hiked up, small circular pink scars showed on her upper thighs under the fluorescent lighting. I turned to the ashtray and my burnt-out cigarette. That was okay; I hadn’t needed the glowing red end to make her obey, not today.
I’d lost count of the years since she’d shown up on my porch again.
No one outside this house knew she still existed.
Weekly hits of heroin and cigarettes made feeding her less expensive. The hardest part was finding good veins in her used-up flesh.
“Umm.” The sound of throat clearing caused me to turn.
Leaning against the archway to the dining room with her arms crossed over her breasts and her complexion pale was my oldest daughter, Zella. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her bloodshot eyes were narrowed, and a cigarette dangled from her lips. The kid in her belly was beginning to show.
I fucking hoped this one was a boy.
How many damn daughters could one man have?
Ignoring my exposed dick, Zella looked around the kitchen and narrowed her gaze at Nancy. “When you’re done with your coffee break, clean up this kitchen. I don’t feel good. I’m going to rest today.”
It was obvious from the dishes piled all over and beer cans and pizza boxes stacked on the floor and counters as well as empty cartons and containers that Zella rested every day.
“Too much blow,” I assessed as she moaned.
My daughter shrugged and rubbed her stomach. “I think it’s the kid. Pregnancy sucks.” She scoffed. “Just like our maid.” Her nose scrunched. “This place stinks almost as much as her.”
“How’s the rest of the house?” I asked.
“Fucking mess,” Zella replied.
I spoke to Nancy. “Since you’re upstairs, it sounds like you have a house to clean today. Do a good job, get the house spick-and-span, and maybe we’ll let you lick our dinner plates.”
“Only if you’re a good bitch,” Zella said. “And after I spit on everything.”
“You know, Nancy, if you’re not happy with the accommodations or our bartering system, you could always leave.”
“I want to stay,” Nancy said. “I’ll clean the house. But...first...can...when..?” The cup in her grasp trembled as she looked from me to Zella.
“The bitch wants drugs,” Zella said. “Fucking pathetic addict. Earn it. Bathrooms need scrubbing.”
A sound from beyond the back door caught all of our attention.
We all turned as a knock rattled the door, reverberating through the kitchen.
Though the window inside the door was covered with a sheer curtain, it was stained and yellowed from years of cigarette smoke. Yet the silhouette of a person, a short person could be seen.
“What the hell?” I asked, pushing my dick into my pants. “Find out who’s at the fucking back door?”
No one should be at our back door. Our backyard was fenced. The gate was padlocked from within and the only other entrance was through an old detached garage that stayed locked.
“Make your pet go away,” Zella said, tipping her chin toward Nancy. “Even if it’s a neighbor kid, we don’t want nobody seeing your smelly old bitch.”
“Go. Crawl,” I said, knowing Nancy wouldn’t be seen through the window if she stayed low. When she didn’t move, I added in a more determined hushed tone, “Get your ass downstairs. If you make a sound, you’ll be sleeping standing up because I’ll beat your ass raw.”
Zella laughed.
As Nancy scurried on all fours toward the basement door, Zella followed, and after closing the basement door, she turned the lock in the handle.
Standing taller, Zella nodded and stepped to the back door.
“Wait,” I said, reaching for a pistol I kept on top of the refrigerator and placed the barrel into the back waistband of my pants. “Ain’t takin’ no chances. Now, go ahead. Answer the door.”
Unlocking the bolt and then the chain, Zella opened the door inward. From around her head and shoulder, I saw our visitor wasn’t a kid but a woman dressed all in black. She wasn’t much, short and puny with yellow hair pulled back too tight and red lipstick. She was wearing large dark sunglasses.
“What are you doing in our backyard?” Zella asked.
“Miss Maples?”
“Mrs. Keller.”
“You’re married?” the woman asked.
“Was. He died.”
That wasn’t true, but it was her standard answer.
“It happens,” the woman replied with no sympathy. Her head moved slightly side to side, appearing to be looking behind Zella. Truthfully, with the dark glasses it was difficult to tell. “This house still belongs to Gordon Maples.”
“Yeah, my dad...What do you want?”
“I’m looking for information.”
As I came up behind Zella, I scanned the woman up and down. The black sweater she wore fit tightly around small tits and she had a tiny waist. Not skinny like Nancy. This woman was well proportioned with curves, just small. She couldn’t have been one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. Her pants were pleated at the waist and hung to the exact top of her black shoes or boots with pointed toes. It was like they were made just for her—expensive.
“What kind of information?” I asked.
“The kind I’m willing to pay a lot of money for.”
I noticed her neck seemed odd on one side, wrinkly.
“But if you’re not interested...”
I reached for the door and opened it wider. “Show me the money, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
The woman removed her sunglasses. The side of her face matched her neck, weird and wrinkly. It was like she was half old and half young. The young side wasn’t too bad to look at. I started to wonder about her pussy—was it half and half too—when she spoke.
“Mr. Maples, if you have the information I need, I will pay generously. I suggest you refrain from trying any bullshit on me. I know what I want, and I will get it. It’s best to remember that I’m not a patient person.”
There was something about her I couldn’t identify. Even though she was small and disfigured, she had a haughty air, like she might have money. “How much money are we talking?”
“That depends on what you can provide.” She peered around us. “Is there anyone else home?”
“No,” I answered.
The woman nodded. As she did, a dark-haired man stepped from our garage. He was tall and big, as if he was a body builder, but his clothes were wrong for the neighborhood. They looked like he belonged at one of the fancy clubs downtown. Instead of wearing working men’s clothes, he wore a cream-colored sweater, black jeans, and shiny black boots.
Zella and I both took a step back. “Wait,” I said. “How did he get in—?”
The woman raised a gloved hand to silence me. Her speaking returned my attention to her face. “This is my associate. You will let us in and we’ll talk.”
“And if we don’t?”
The man lifted a revolver as the woman put out her hand. “Give me your gun, Mr. Maples.”
“I ain’t got—”
The man moved his finger to the trigger.
My gaze met Zella’s, mine silently admitting our disadvantage. Exhaling, I reached for my pistol and placed it in the woman’s small gloved hand.