San Antonio Sangria
Eugene was sober enough to slap Buster’s phone away, but too drunk to cock a fist. “I told you, never stick that video in my face!”
“You clocked that wife-beater good, Boss. I would’ve given you a medal.”
“Dallas Police Department saw it differently.”
“’Cause you already had him cuffed.”
“Because the video went viral. And …” Eugene shook his head. The guy got what he deserved, a black eye for a black eye. But Eugene getting numb on tequila afterward, on duty… that’s what doomed him to HotDustyNowhere, supervising the impulsive gambler the desperate town had also graced with a detective’s badge.
“We both deserve better.” Buster raised his glass. “Come on, let’s finish these before the ball drops.”
“New year, old year, who cares? Besides, we can’t both get sloshed. What does Bartholomew put in these San Antonio Sangrias, anyway?”
“Relax, I can hold my own. And does it really matter? Really?”
Eugene looked down, dredging for his ego, and came up empty again. Sure, he solved cases here, gut-wrenching ones, but always after the suspects were long gone. Came with being so close to the Rio Grande that gusts carried buzzard shit from Mexico. Maybe policing was like that in every HotDustyNowhere.
Someone shouted “Pendejo!” and a barstool crashed to the floor. Buster leapt up, and Eugene grabbed his wrist. Within moments, two of the town’s thugs bounced a couple of lowlifes out separate doors. “Bartholomew staffs up for New Year’s Eve,” Eugene said. “He’ll get us if he needs cops.”
As Buster sat down, they both received texts: Winnie Bell died at her home hours ago, suspiciously. Buster bit his lip, hard, and closed his eyes, tight.
Loose Winnie, rest her soul, had used her prostitution nest egg and goons from both sides of the border to monopolize loan-sharking in town; everyone with a business or a habit owed Loose Winnie.
Eugene staggered leaving the bar. “You drive.”
Riding with the window cracked didn’t clear Eugene’s head, and gulping water somehow made it worse. He leaned on the hood after they arrived.
“Should I take this one?” Buster asked.
“I’m sober inside,” Eugene lied.
Despite the brain fog, Winnie’s bedroom roused Eugene’s suspicions, particularly the spent needle next to her body. She, of all people, would’ve known how to measure her hit.
Buster also gave off bad vibes, a forced sorrow now on top of the exaggerated shock from before. And no reaction to the bizarre doll on her bed, leather bustier and clown-red hair poking out from under a beanie. He’s been here before, seen that before, Eugene thought. Plus, the murder getting discovered when I’m drunk, when Buster made me drunk, pushing me to hand off the case … “Seal that needle for the lab.”
Eugene crouched over Winnie’s body and pretended not to watch whether his partner smeared the fingerprints.
Buster used his pen to cleanly nudge the hypodermic into an evidence bag. “You sure you’re up to this, Boss? We both let loose tonight.”
“I only had three, same as you.” Three that were hitting like thirteen. Eugene swallowed hard, and decided to prod for tells. “Ten years she’s been sharking?”
“Since she got too old to sell herself.”
Eugene found it harder to keep Buster in focus. “She must’ve pushed one of her deadbeats over the edge.”
“Yeah, motive’s easy. But ‘deadbeats’ doesn’t narrow it down much around here.”
“So, means and opportunity?”
Buster flapped the bag. “If it was fentanyl, anyone could’ve gotten that. It floods over the border.”
Eugene nodded. “Who would’ve known she was vulnerable tonight, and that we’d be incapacitated?”
“It is the biggest party night, if they had to guess …”
“You want to take over the investigation, right?”
Buster raised his index finger. “Hold on.” He took a deep breath, then knelt down, red-faced. “I thought I was holding up better.” He grabbed his stomach, then turned and puked before flopping on his side and convulsing.
Eugene buckled trying to stand, landing on all fours. By the time he crawled to Buster, his partner had gone still. Dead still.
Eugene collapsed and gasped for air. He flailed his hand into Buster’s half-digested sangria, hoping in vain to start scrawling the eleven-letter name of the businessman who’d hired away Winnie’s goons for his bar’s busy night, who could’ve poured antifreeze and more into the sweet drinks he served HotDustyNowhere’s only detectives.
Jacob Graysol lives and writes in central New Jersey. He wrote the lawyer-laden police procedural Righteous Judgment, and its sequel, Righteous Endeavors. His flash fiction has been published by Every Day Fiction, Mystery Tribune, Yellow Mama, and Reflex Press (UK).
