Oak Cliff Confidential: Chapter 3

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  Sharon’s confusion and Hexom’s obtuseness were interrupted by a commotion at the front door of the restaurant. They glanced asunder and spied a man writhing on the lobby floor, with bits of paperwork splashed about. He clearly needed some type of assistance, but the nearby hostess and two servers couldn’t be bothered because they were discussing something Snoop Dogg had advised them to do on his latest album.

  “Oh, God,” muttered Sharon, instinctively reaching for another lukewarm mini-taco. She proceeded to smack and lick her fingers.

  Hexom, uncertain if it was wise to simply ignore the fallen man, reluctantly turned to Sharon for further information concerning her brief outburst. Had she just spied the Lord at the salad bar? Had she climaxed? “Pray tell of thee utterance,” he queried, thinking himself rather clever for doing so in such a manner.

  Sharon spit a bit of taco detritus into a napkin and then hurled the wadded object at the nearest server. “Go ask the wretched cook what the hell THAT is!” Then Sharon snatched up her purse and began fumbling within for something of apparent importance. “I know that man,” she stated, brow furrowed in concentration.

  Hexom was perplexed. “You know the cook?”

  Sharon sighed, as if dealing with ignorance was simply beyond her strength at this time. “No,” she said, finally locating the holy grail and pulling out a tube of lip gloss. “The man at the door. He’s the accountant I was supposed to meet.” Then she began to apply vigorously.

  Hexom glanced at the front door sprawler again. Still down, still writhing, still being ignored by Winkin’, Blinkin’ and Nod as they feebly attempted to have a conversation with any redeeming value whatsoever. The man nearly got to his feet, but then tripped over a pocket of air and went down again, one foot destabilizing a previously-unnoticed coat rack and sending it crashing toward the wannabe rappers. They simply moved out of the way and continued grunting.

  Hexom turned back to Sharon. “Shouldn’t you go help him? Or perhaps I could, if you’d like.”

  Sharon, still applying, “No, leave him be. For two reasons. One, he’s always doing that, with the clumsiness. It’s his thing. Completely annoys me, but I let him live because it might just be a genetic condition. I’ve been to his house and there were people tumbling about like walruses on crack.”

  “And second,” she paused, slipping the lip gloss tube back in her satchel and giving it a little pat. “He was late for our meeting. At the moment, I’m talking to you and I don’t need him. It’s going to take him time to recover, it always does, and by the time he gets to that point, I just might allow him to speak with me.”

  She gazed with curiosity at Hexom. “Now, tell me all about my involvement with Sunset High and people trying to kill you.”

  Hexom stared in wonderment. “How are you able to talk THAT much and put on lipstick at the same time?”

  “Lip gloss, sweetie, and I can successfully apply during animalistic sex and not miss a thing. I’ve won awards. Now. Sunset? Let’s start there. Why me? Why Sunset?”

  Hexom fiddled with his notebook again. “Well, as I mentioned, this all started some time ago.”

  Sharon nodded. “Yes, strange man in park, three years ago. Go on.”

  “And that I can’t tell you certain things.”

  Sharon sighed again. “I don’t really understand that, but got it. I’m starting to get bored with the repetition. Entice me.”

  Hexom smiled. “Everything that happens from this point forward entirely depends on your emotional reaction to carefully-planned stimuli.”

  Sharon studied him for a moment, then “Are you serious with this?”

  “Completely. The path you choose to follow can save my life.”

  Sharon briefly tapped one lacquered fingernail on the table, then suddenly lunged for her purse again, rummaging instantly. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, tossing the purse away. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  Two seconds later the restaurant manager, unseen by anyone for the past two weeks, suddenly appeared at the table. He glared at Sharon. “M’am, you can’t smoke in here.”

  Sharon blew her smoke at him. “Yes, you can. I’ve done it before.”

  “Only in the bar.”

  “Then make this the bar.”

  This startled the manager. “I’m sorry?”

  Sharon took another drag. “Make this the bar. Get some coasters and some peanuts and make people leave if they don’t like it.”

  The manager rolled his eyes, because he was once again dealing with a psychotic customer with focus issues. “It’s not a simple as that.”

  Sharon grabbed her purse, which apparently contained any possible need she might ever have, and then threw a wad of bills at the irritating man, who proved quite agile when it came to professionally capturing thrown currency. “Everything is simple when you have money. Make it happen.”

  The manager quickly counted the bills, his eyes brightened, he raced into the bar, raced back to the table, plunked down a shiny ashtray, and smiled. “Enjoy.” Then he strolled away. When an elderly woman tried to stop him and complain about the smoke, he slapped her.

  Sharon plinked her ash into the glass receptacle, then grinned at Hexom. “I must say, you’re really starting to get my interest with this. I don’t quite believe everything just yet, especially the business about my actions changing how things-”

  A phone started ringing.

  Sharon turned to her purse with exasperation. “Can’t people just leave me alone and let me live my life? GOD!” She whipped out some kind of bejeweled flip phone and got right to the point. “What is it?”

  She listened to someone babble, her expression slowly changing from bitter annoyance to confusion and then surprise. She suddenly barked an order. “Have someone bring it to me right now…. Applebee’s…. yes.” She slammed the phone shut, pondering.

  Then she looked at Hexom. “A package was delivered to the house.”

  “And?”

  She hesitated. “The return name on the package….” Her eyes briefly gazed off into the distance.

  Hexom leaned forward. “The person who sent the package. This person is no longer alive, are they?”

  Sharon leaned back in her seat. “No. No, they are not. Not for a long time.”

  Hexom smiled. “Then it’s started. Welcome to the game.”


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Oak Cliff Confidential: Chapter 1

  Sharon Horizons, our heroine if you should choose to call her that, was sitting in a booth at Applebee’s near the corner of Illinois Avenue and Westmoreland Road, waiting on a man. After forty-three years of such activity, she had learned two things. Men were always late. And waiting was boring, whether for men or for food.

  She turned in the direction of the gaggle of servers standing off to one side, whispering and giggling among themselves, probably about drugs or unexpected pregnancies. She cleared her throat with gusto and force, intending for the noise to signify that she needed serving, them being servers and all.

  No response, other than the shortest girl gushing forth a bray of laughter at something that had just been uttered, then slapping the palm of the ugliest girl in that insipid manner that so many of the street folk had. Why, Sharon wondered briefly, did these people think that striking one another should be considered a form of approval? No wonder the apes were catching up. But anyway, there were more important things to ponder right at the moment. Like nourishment.

  Sharon took a deep breath, then bellowed “Excuse me!”

  The gaggle turned as one, looks of confusion on their unwrinkled faces, which shouldn’t have surprised anyone who had been observing this squadron of adolescence and dimness for any length of time. Other than that, not a muscle moved.

  Well, mused Sharon, there will be no tip for these people. She drew another breath. “Where are my wonton chicken tacos?”

  Still with the silence. Still with the dimness.

  Sharon sighed, then pointed at the short girl. “I informed THAT one that I required said tacos at least five minutes ago. Has she made it to the kitchen yet? Does she even recall where the kitchen might be?”

  Short One let out a small squeak, then stepped forward. She briefly touched her nametag, a reflex action of some kind. “Hi, I’m Brandi!” proclaimed the tag, along with both a heart and a smiley face scribbled in as accent pieces. Figures. “Um, yes, I placed the order. Let me go check on it now,” said Brandi, then turned with great relief to escape the confrontation. She clattered down some hallway and vanished, probably slipping out the back door, never to return, her life forever a meaningless wreck of disappointment and questionable relationships.

  Sharon dismissed the rest of the gaggle with a wave of her hand, then pretended to study something out the window while they scattered to the far corners of the restaurant, a few of them weeping and experiencing the first formative twinges of failure that would eventually lead to alcoholism. Then a structure outside that window caught Sharon’s eye, and her mild displeasure ticked up a notch toward outright anger.

  The taqueria restaurant next door. She hated it.

  Well, to be fair, Sharon didn’t actually hate the taqueria per se, or even the concept of tacos. After all, she had just ordered some miniature tacos as an appetizer, albeit with an Asian infusion, a variety which had probably not crossed the mind of the inventor of the taco, most likely some distant woman who had been pounding her corn on a flat rock one day and decided to throw the whole mess into a bubbling cauldron of animal fat, just to see what would happen.

  Yes, Sharon was fine with the neighboring taqueria. But she didn’t care for what the taqueria represented, and what it represented was that the original occupant of the building was no longer there, due to a horrifying corporate management decision that had forever changed her life.

  And that original occupant had been a Starbucks.

  Now, Sharon had always enjoyed her coffee, going all the way back to her wee days in the nursery when she would wait until Mamie, the governess, turned her back, and then Sharon would swill whatever remained in Mamie’s steaming, unattended cup. (This covert ingestion was probably one of the factors involved in Sharon being able to read and write by the age of two.)

  But what troubled Sharon, initially, about the Starbucks craze was the mere concept of paying large amounts of money for what was, essentially, water that had been filtered through coffee beans and then christened with a dollop of stiffened dairy product. And it wasn’t even a lack of finances that was the issue. (She had never had to worry about money, especially after assuming control of the trust fund.) No, what irked Sharon was simply the principle of the matter.

  Then one of Sharon’s less-imaginative friends graced her with a Starbucks gift card.

  At first, Sharon was simply going to throw it away, she would never have any use for it. But then she just chunked it in the glove box of her car, on the off chance that the rectangle of thin plastic might prove useful if she decided to become a cat burglar. Then one day, while Sharon was out shopping for crinoline, because one of the fashion magazines had indicated that you MUST have some, Sharon spotted the Starbucks on Camp Wisdom Road. In a rare moment of balanced insight, she realized that she couldn’t complain about Starbucks if she had never been.

  So she steered her car into the drive-through lane.

  There were technical difficulties at first, starting with the oddity of the cup sizes being in Italian, followed by none of the workers being able to speak Italian and thereby butchering the words. (Sharon had nearly married an Italian count at one point, and knew of which she spoke.) Then there was the overwhelming number of ways in which coffee could be served. Who knew?

  But all good things come to those who have the money to afford it, and eventually Sharon was presented with her toasty purchase, snuggled in a protective and environmentally-responsible sleeve. (Frankly, Sharon felt, that woman who sued McDonald’s because she didn’t understand that coffee was hot should have been shot, not rewarded.) Taking her first sip of the brew, Sharon’s taste buds awoke and sang praises. She was hooked.

  Thus a relationship began, and the once-a-day love affair went on for some time. It was a beautiful thing, with satisfaction all around, and Sharon placed a small fortune on her now beloved gift card, so that she would always be prepared to accept her lover’s embrace. But as with all good things, an end appeared on the horizon. The home office closed the local outlet, and her lover was ripped from her jittery arms.

  Sharon did not leave her home for a week, sitting in the dark and drinking Kahlua. Eventually, her closest friends intervened, and convinced her to walk in the sunshine once again. She even got to the point where she could hold the gift card in her hand without sobbing. There was still a small amount left to spend, and one day she would do so, but not now. It was too soon.

  Wiping away a tear of remembrance and high pollen count, Sharon turned away from the taqueria and the lingering ghost of passion. As her eyes swept the Applebee’s parking lot, she spied a man getting out of a car. A very nice car, from what she could see. (She didn’t know much of car makes and models, only that this one was shiny and had a nice line to it.) When the man stood, she caught her breath.

  He was gorgeous.

  The epitome of the tall, dark and handsome standard of attraction, he moved with a powerful grace that had her enraptured and slightly drooling. She stared, knowing it was rude but not caring, as he walked to the entrance. She squirmed around in her booth to continue her surveillance, common courtesy be damned.

  Much to her surprise, the man did not wait for the vapid hostess to figure out where he could be seated. Instead, he walked directly to her table, a look of introspection on his bronzed and chiseled face. “Sharon Horizons, I presume?”

  At the sound of his gravelly voice, Sharon knew that she would be purchasing batteries on the way home. Blushing slightly, she vacantly nodded her head until her vocal cords caught up. “Yes. Yes, I’m Sharon. And you are?”

  The man extended his perfectly-manicured hand. “My name is Hexom Breen. I’ve been waiting to meet your for a very long time…”


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