When It All Comes Down to Dust (Phoenix Noir Book 3) by Barry Graham

though his organs were sizzling in their own juices. When the T.V. people finally left, he wished he could go with them. He had never felt less like confronting a violent criminal. The thought of a cold bottle of beer in an air-conditioned bar seemed almost pornographic.
    He thought about Laura, and thinking about her made him remember how it had been when he’d first moved to Phoenix. He was working a piece-of-shit job that paid just enough to cover food and rent and gas, and not enough to cover car insurance or pay to have a phone connection in his apartment. He was looking for another job, and when he saw ads in the paper he would walk to a public phone nearby and use it to make the call. One Saturday morning, he went  to call a restaurant about a dishwashing job, and found that somebody was already using the phone. The guy was around David’s age, and spoke with a Southern accent. “I really love you,” he said. “I miss you so much. So damn much... you know?”
    David moved a few steps away, trying not to invade the guy’s privacy, but to remain near enough to still be in line for the phone. After a while the guy said, “Well, I better go. It’s real hot out here, and there’s a boy waiting for the phone...”
    After he’d hung up, he smiled at David. “Sorry I took so long. You know how it is.”
    “Yeah,” David said, but it wasn’t true. He didn’t know how it was. He felt sad for the guy that he was so far away from someone he loved, but he also envied him, because he had someone to be far away from. David wasn’t far away from anyone, and he wasn’t close to anyone. He was just where he was. It didn’t really matter that he didn’t have a phone, because there was no one he had to call, except for restaurants looking for kitchen labor.
    He called the restaurant and they told him to come over, and they hired him on the spot. As he washed dishes that evening, he imagined how it would feel, having someone to call, even if she was far away, someone to call and tell her how he was doing and ask how she was doing and tell her how much he missed her. He realized that he actually did miss her. He missed what he had never had.
    Now, as he sat in his car and felt the heat bake him dry, he thought that the person he’d been missing might be Laura. The thought made no sense, so he pushed it away and decided it was time to do something. 
    He got out of the car and stretched. Then he began walking slowly up the driveway. The only other reporter still around was Ortega, who was now following David at a distance. When David reached the front door of the house, Ortega stood about ten feet behind him and waited.
    David knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, harder. No answer. “Hey! Mr. Moorhead! The T.V. guys have all left. I’m from a newspaper. I don’t have a camera. I just want to ask you a couple questions that nobody else has asked you.”
    No answer, but the sound of movement from inside the house. Ortega heard it too, and started to move closer.
    “Mr. Moorhead,” David called again. “What I wanted to ask you is, are all the Hell’s Angels fags, or are you the only one?”
    Ortega fled.
    “I mean, I hear you gave up fucking your mother because you like to suck cock so much. I was just hoping you’d come out here and confirm or deny that. Or are you gonna hide in your house all day like a frightened little bitch?”
    When Mad Marky Moorhead threw open his door and stepped outside, he found David sitting on the hot ground with his back to him.
    David looked over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t hit me. Please.”
    ––––––––
    W hen Laura’s phone rang, she grabbed it. “Hello?”
    “Hey,” David said, his voice strange. “I need some help.”
    “Shit. Are you okay?”
    “Yeah, but I’m too drunk to drive, so I need a ride. Got things to do.”
    “Drunk? Where are you?”
    “At Marky’s house. We’ve been hanging out and watching movies and