Dark as Night by Mark T. Conard

Author:Mark T. Conard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

There was a bench outside the carwash next to the diner. They sat down there, watching the cars come out dripping wet, a crew of Mexicans wiping them down with rags. Eva looked even better out here in the sunlight, and somehow she reminded him of an old girlfriend, though he wasn’t sure what it was about her. She took out a pack of Marlboro’s, put a cigarette in her mouth, lit it. She kept staring at Morris, like she was trying to figure out if he was for real. She had sensual green eyes, and the way she was looking at him excited him a little. He said: “I like your hair.”

She reached up, touched the ends lightly with her fingers. “Yeah? It was real long, ’til ’bout three months ago. I wanted somethin’ different, so my girlfriend cut it for me. I been thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ a rinse, red maybe.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“No?”

“No, that color’s nice—suits you.”

“Thanks.” She drew on the cigarette, blew out the smoke. “You know, I don’t get you. Minute ago, I thought you were tryin’ to pick me up, now I’m wonderin’ if you’re queer or somethin’.”

Jesus! Queer? Morris felt himself turn red, and he forced a laugh. “Why—just ’cause I said you got nice hair?”

“Well, most guys—you know, normal guys—don’t talk about the color of a girl’s hair. They’ll tell you you got nice tits or a great ass or whatever, but they won’t say your natural color suits you.”

“Maybe you been hanging around with the wrong kinda guys.”

“Jesus, you got that right.”

“I just think you got nice hair’s all. I’m not gay.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Don’t bother me none. This guy I went out with once in high school turned out to be queer. He got AIDS, though, and died. You don’t look queer—but you can never tell, right?”

“No, I only like women—believe me.” She shrugged, and he said: “Could I bum a cigarette?” She took out the pack, gave him one, then lit it for him. “Thanks,” he said, taking a drag on it. It was the first one he’d had in a week and a half, maybe two weeks. He’d been trying to quit. It felt and tasted great.

“So let’s have it,” she said. “What’s the mystery?”

“You know a girl named Jeanette, early to mid twenties, dark blond hair, kinda heavy, works at the diner?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Carpioli.”

“Jeanette Carpioli?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s she live?”

Eva knocked the ash off her cigarette. “Not sure.”

“Eighth Street?”

“Could be.”

Then it hit him: ‘Carpioli.’ Eddie the Carp. He said: “You know someone named Eddie Carpioli?”

“Yeah, that’s her dad.”

“You ever seen him? He come into the diner?”

“Not for a while,” Eva said. “He’s in jail. Jeanette’s always bitching about having to work, ’cause he’s in prison.” She paused, drew on the cigarette, said: “What’s this about, anyway? You mixed up with her dad somehow?”

“Mixed up, how? What d’you mean?”

“Eddie’s mob. Him and Joey Spinoza run Philly.”

“No, nothing like that,” said Morris.

“Then what is it? You got a thing for her?”

Morris laughed for real this time.

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