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

talking."
    “What the fuck, David...”
    “I know. Will you come pick me up?”
    “I guess. Where is it?”
    He gave her the address and she wrote it down. “So, should I just meet you outside or something?”
    “No, just knock on the door.”
    “Let me get this straight – you and Mad Marky are buddies now?”
    “Yeah, kind of.”
    “I guess he’s just misunderstood, huh? Just needs a hug.”
    “Come and get me and I’ll tell you.”
    Mesa is a sprawl of identical suburban streets and houses, and it took Laura a while to find Marky’s place. It didn’t help that it was getting dark. She saw David’s car, parked nearby, got out and knocked on the door of the house.
    Marky looked like he’d been provided by Central Casting. Bald-headed and hairy-faced, wearing jeans and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, his gut hanging over his Arizona state flag belt buckle, a bottle of Budweiser in his hand.
    “God damn,” he said. “Davey never told me you looked so fine.”
    “Thanks. Where is he?”
    “Davey! Get your drunk little ass out here!” Marky called, and David appeared behind him.
    “Sorry, I was in the bathroom,” David said. Marky clapped him on the shoulder. “I figured that one out for myself. You want something to drink?” he asked Laura.
    She looked at David. “Do we have time?”
    “Actually, no,” he said. “We need to get rolling.”
    “Hell, I see how it is,” Marky said. “You come over here, you cast aspersions on my masculinity, you drink my beer, you watch my movies, and as soon as a fine lady shows up you run off with her. Damn, boy.” He held out his hand for David to shake. “For real, though, Davey – come back any time. We’ll watch us some of that Godard.”
    ––––––––
    “G odard?” Laura said as she drove.
    “Yeah, we were watching Truffaut movies, and I asked him if he liked Godard, and he does. He’s really into the French New Wave.”
    “Okay, I think you owe me some explanation here.”
    ––––––––
    “I ’ll do more than fucking hit you,” Marky said, as David sat on the ground and looked up at him.
    “Why would you do that?” David said, so quietly that Marky could barely hear him.
    “What? What did you say?”
    “I asked why you would want to do that. You’re bigger than me and I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid to even stand up.”
    “Shut your fucking mouth. You weren’t scared to come to my house and knock on my door and call me a fucking fag.”
    “Please don’t hit me. Listen for just a minute, okay? I’m not trying to be a smartass. I came to your door because my boss told me to and it would cost me my job if I didn’t. I yelled all that shit because the little weasel you chased away earlier was following me to your door and I wanted him to bolt...”
    “Did he run away again?”
    “Yeah. I don’t know if he pissed in his pants this time. I heard he did before.”
    “You gonna piss in your pants?”
    “No. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared. I am. And I’m hoping you’ll just tell me to fuck off and let me leave. Then I can tell my boss I did what he told me and you wouldn’t talk to me.”
    “You from the Weekly? ”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “David Regier.”
    “You can stand up if you want to.”
    “You won’t hit me if I do?”
    “No, I won’t hit you.”
    “Thanks.” David got to his feet. “Can I ask you a favor?”
    “What?”
    “I’ve been sitting out here without any water for hours. Could I have some?”
    Marky looked at him. “I’m not sure you’re not fucking with me, and, if you are...”
    “I’m not, I swear. Look, I’ll just leave now. I’m sorry I asked.” David turned to walk away.
    “Hold up. Hell, come on in and I’ll get you some water.”
    The living room had a couch, chairs, coffee table, T.V., D.V.D. player and dozens of D.V.D.s lying around. A movie was playing.
    “Hey,” David said as Marky came out of the kitchen and handed him a glass of