Afternoon Heat: A 1999 Pulp Fiction

By A.A. Dare

Two men and one woman. One of the men is a killer. Who is going to die first? In the rich tradition of Jim Thompson's "The Killer inside Me" plus the more recent TV series, DEXTER, this novel explores the life style and mind set of a killer. A serial killer, lone wolf type. The story is set in the glittering beach cities of Southern California during the year 1999. 1999 is a good year. Stocks are up and the only problem in the White House is misuse of Cuban cigars. People in their twenties are finding it easy to make money. The economy is great and life at the beach couldn't get any better. There is sex, sushi, drugs, drinking, goth/vampire clubs and good times to be had by all. Even serial killers.

Tom has arrived in California after five years of travel and killing. He has changed his identity more often than some people change their pants. He is 23 years old, tall and strong. He would be good looking except for a certain blankness of expression. Tom has never been caught. He is still unknown to the law. In his mind, he is free to do whatever he wants. To kill whomever he wants. Tom does not obey rules, except for his own rules. He has decided that he will not kill in his own backyard. He will no longer kill near where he lives. Tempting him to forget his rules, is his beautiful neighbor. A woman he can't stop thinking about unless he kills someone else. When the attraction between him and the neighbor heats up under the summer sun, Tom is at a lost. Other killings do not do the trick. It all goes back to her, every time. What is a killer to do?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692349106

Book preview

AFTERNOON HEAT

A 1999 PULP FICTION

There is no heat that hurts more than the afternoon heat.

By A.A. DARE

Prolog

The man on the cool concrete floor stared up at the huge skylight window centered in the high slanted adobe ceiling. He smiled peacefully at the few meager stars coming out over the hot night in San Diego. He looked down at his side and hugged the body tighter to his. He turned his head slowly, the pain sharp. Another body bled nearby. He laughed out loud. An evil sound in a dark room. Three guys bleeding together but this had all started with a woman. A woman he wanted to kill.

Tom

June, 1999. Beach Bay, California

The killer watched her from behind. He could see down her tight summer top into the beginning curves of her white breasts. He was a tall guy who took up most of the room in the small elevator that made slow tired noises as they rode, sharing an empty moment of time and space together. She was unaware of him. Her mind wandered to love far removed and out in the sun away from this little world as she stared up at the changing numbers.

Her supreme indifference caused a growing excitement to rush through him and he had the momentary impulse to hit the stop button and take her, wrap his strong arms around her, pull her tight to him and whisper ever so softly into her ear, Pay attention, bitch. Here is death come for you.

He held himself motionless and the impulse passed. He grinned, feeling again that surge of control, that power of will which was his to command. He returned to his study of her flesh, peeking out so bravely from the wild pattern of the summer outfit that failed to cover much of her body. He loved her skin, which was smooth with the slightest sunburn giving it the appearance of a pale peach sun-ripening, nearly ready to taste. She remained blissfully innocent, maybe wrapped in dreams of her lover’s warm kisses and already she was in her apartment, drinking coffee and thinking of tomorrow. The elevator simply did not exist and the man near her was a presence no more. Her body was relaxed as if there were no fear of him at all.

Maybe she was right. She was safe. One of the few who were safe because one of his rules was never to kill close to home. Worse, she lived on his same floor, the one they were reaching now, the third and final floor of this luxury apartment, in Beach Bay, California.

The elevator slowed, hesitated, and then jerked to stop. She felt in the momentary pause before they were freed, a fear. Then before she could think on it, a blast of wind hit hard and mean. The doors opened wide to the harsh sunlight and cruel hissing winds of the Santa Anas. She started to step out, then as that feeling came again, she stopped, causing a stranger to bump into her. She moved quickly forward, out into the full sun, past where the overhead arch failed to shadow anything and turned quickly around to apologize. She saw a young guy, tall, muscular, kind of mild-looking, and disappointing in a way. His features were regular and should have been handsome only they were unanimated, uninteresting.

Then she became aware of his eyes, so blue a color before the void of space starts, so staring or mocking or, she realized her thoughts were melting, reason giving way to sunstroke. She’d better stop before the heat destroyed her.

Hi. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking, or I was thinking, so . . .

It’s ok. I’m Tom. We’re neighbors, I mean, I guess I saw you around before. I moved in a couple of months ago, from back East, and places.

Oh, yeah. I was from someplace. I mean from Oregon. I guess like I’ve lived here awhile. It’s very nice. Speech failed her. His eyes were so very blank, as blank as her mind seemed to be, but her body was demanding attention. Heat from the sun burned her arm. She could feel rivers of sweat wanting to flow under her clothes, and a drip down her forehead gave first warning.

So I’ve got to run so have a good day? She got that out and turned halfway, remembered some childhood lessons on manners and turned again to say, Yeah, I’m Vi. It’s spelled V-I but most people call me V. Nicetametya. See you around.

Then she was off, moving to escape heat or fear or both.

Nice to meet you, too, He breathed to her back then stepped forward to catch a last glimpse of her hips in the flared little skirt and top that he guessed was the style this summer. The skirt was short and moved as she walked as if to call out for someone to lift it up. He noticed that she was very curvy for a woman who was like model thin and that her hair was metallic red. She must be near his age. Whatever, she was hot!

He wanted to watch her until she reached her apartment door. Wait until she opened it and was swallowed into the hidden mysteries of her private dwelling. Again the control came. Never knew who was watching, listening. He turned instead toward his own door. There was no messing with The Rules. They were maybe his own rules: he would never break them. He had learned. Not ever would he risk his cover again. He had been forced to move from New York because of a very close encounter with the bacon kind.

The police had been breaking down the door as he had made it down the hall, down the stairs to the bottom floor. He could still hear that breaking wood. He had been roaming ever since.

This was a fantasy he played for himself. He pictured himself sliding to freedom. A narrow escape. The excitement of the chase, reversed. Then he let the truth rush through his mind. The truth being that the police had never gotten close to him. He roamed because it was safest. What he hated to admit lately was that he liked his life now. Too much. There were reasons. This was the first real solid cover he had in a while. Even if the police had never got near him, still he had been on the move a lot and had changed identities many times. He wanted to keep things just the way they were. Which was cool. So Rules. Oh, yeah, he would kill but not here. This was his decision and his Rules. He would follow them.

He nodded in agreement with his thoughts. He took out his keys, watching the metal glisten in the sun for a second’s pause before he opened his door and closed it quick, shutting out the light. He hummed a little once inside. The energy was starting. Too soon. He had a lot to do still before his own personal macabre dance of death began again. He had to make himself wait.

He stripped off his shirt and threw it down. He stood before the large square mirror in the hallway. He had put it there himself. This was his daily challenge. He hated mirrors. Not because he wasn’t good looking. He knew he was handsome but his reflection disturbed him. A twin he never wanted, a brother he would kill, stared back at him. He sneered at his reflection. It sneered back. He reviewed the stats. 6 feet. 180 pounds. Of muscle. Wiry guy. 23, blond. No scars. Yet.

He started to speak to mirror image. Then stopped. He refused to let himself talk to himself. Not out loud. Not with his lips moving. Sometimes his mind had conversations.

What do you think of the neighbor? Kind of hot, yeah

What do you care? You only like a woman that you can kill.

That’s so not true. How about that time....I forget. She said she loved me and we went to Paris.

Right. That was a late night movie you saw when you were stuck in that motel in Florida. Because of the storm. Buddy. You got no love and no business looking at no neighbor.

Tom shook his head to clear the talk in his brain, gave another nod to himself and walked away, heading to the kitchen for a beer. The coldness of the refrigerator caressed him when he opened it. He kept the door open as he drank. Damn the lack of air conditioning. Everyone is so cool in California they just don’t need it. He slammed the door close. The temper, the desire for carnage was coming back. His mind’s eye moved around, seeking something pleasant, something fine to distract himself. Yeah, the forbidden neighbor. Hips flashing back and forth, metallic hair, a wild ride. He took a drink of beer, a long one that finished the bottle in one gulp. He put down the bottle and went for another. He started to grin then laughed out loud. He had lied to her already about his name. His name wasn’t Tom. In fact he had used so many names he couldn’t remember his real one much and it sure the hell didn’t matter. His id was ok, the best. He had told his bud, Frank, the professional in the paper work line, go ahead, Tom was a great name. Anything but Timmy. He laughed again and walked with the second beer into the sunken living room. He wandered around the room putting the beer down, picking it up.

He drank in faster gulps now. His eyes darted here and there. The restlessness. He tried concentrating on how the place looked. Giving himself a nod of approval.

Yeah, I did good this time.

He spoke out loud then frowned, lips tight. No talking to empty rooms, blank walls, silent TV sets or mirrors. His Rules. The control came again. He continued his inventory in silence. He had spare taste. Colors were muted grays and contrasting black and whites. A little blue gray from the apartment walls and then a thick dark brown rug. Simple with no pleasure denied. He leaned against the huge stereo center, all black. Yeah, he had plenty of electronics. A top of the line 56 inch screen TV and VHS hook up. He heard that he would be needing to change that to DVD soon. Still, the unit looked good in those black cabinets. Right next to the TV was the music center. A 5 disc cd changer and a third of the wall covered in cd cabinets filled with CDS. Surround sound speakers. Of course, dude. Added last month, and finishing the L shape layout of his techno-display was one PC Unit looking sharp within its matching computer desk, also black.

He didn’t use any of the equipment. He didn’t watch the TV. He didn’t use the PC here. Only the one at work. He rarely listened to the music. The stuff just looked great. Of course, it all went with the job and this job was the top of his covers so far. Stereo store manager. Everything store manager. We got it all. Dude!! Way too much California.

He turned carefully, wanting to save the best for last and eyed his latest and biggest expense. The only thing he gave a shit about at the moment. A huge black leather Italian sofa, imported, flown here by Angels, carried up three flights of stairs by sweating Mexicans. His sofa, comfortable as hell and always there. Even now it beckoned to him. He began his own private strip tease toward it. His dark slacks were loosely cut. They dropped smoothly to the floor. He gyrated hard with his hips at it. Do you want it, baby?

He laughed then fell into its waiting arms. The sleek coolness wrapped itself around him as he sank deeper into its thick cushions. He got off his shoes and socks throwing them across the room with the abandon only his victims got to see and never lived to tell. Then he settled back, eyes closed, letting himself relax, feeling the leather, the next best feel to human flesh itself.

His white skin and black briefs made a nice picture with the black couch. He was irritated no one was there to photograph him. Then he laughed. Of course that was another Rule. No photos.

His eyes opened again to survey the room. There were some pleasures he denied himself. He never used the PC so there was never a record of what he was interested in or web sites he browsed. Also, he permitted no scrapbooks, or other records of his killings or any news clippings of anything. No killing walls or souvenirs. No equipment. He kept no personal items of the past at all.

Tom sincerely believed that. His mind and his eyes left out the one picture. The picture of the train. The one he always had. The train going onto to nowhere from nowhere. He didn’t even see it.

Tom continued his thoughts, erasing that one picture.

Each place each man he became was completely new. He loved to read about other murderers but he did so in libraries and bookstores. He had no desire to be there among them in their dubious hall of fame, in those infamous green miles, no matter what brotherhood there may be in being one of them. He wanted no death row chats with his colleagues. Out here free to kill was where he wanted to be. That’s what made him different. Yeah, smarter than the rest. He was clean, a citizen, solid with his cover.

Sure he was careful. There had been mistakes. East coast, New York, Chicago, back to New York, New Orleans, Florida, Texas and here we are. He had learned. He worked his covers like art these days. All the furniture except for the couch was convenience. Just stuff to bring the normal picture of Tom into focus. He had comedies which he never watched. He had the top ten selling CDS he never listened to very much. He liked the silence best.

Because what he liked to do was remember. He squirmed his butt tighter into the leather, ready for some heavy memories when the cell phone let loose with loud demanding noises. He jerked his head around. Where the hell, oh right. He reached out with his long arms, grabbed at his pants and tore out his new latest model cell phone.

What is it? Tom spoke in his calm, deep manger’s voice. Only the store employees had this number. He liked the cell phone more than the pager but not much.

Freddy was on the other end. New guy Fred, dressed cool. Mind like a turkey. The assistant was out, and these people wanted blah, blah. Tom talked him down from his panic and walked him through the forms. He enjoyed yelling at the assistant when he got back at the end of the transaction. Tom clicked the phone off, threw it at the mirror, missed and listened to it slither around the tile. That should do it. They usually only called once on his day off. He slid his hand over his body. Hot, the hot day reminded him of something. A memory. Yeah, that’s what he needed. He rubbed himself more deliberately, willing his penis to get hard. He needed something to help with the memories. Maybe he should keep a few souvenirs. No, his eyes narrowed. The Rules were important.

His eyes widened again. He saw. From his position on the couch, he faced the large French windows, where the curtains were partly open. The harsh glare of the sun’s light hit the Spanish style rails and the cruel light came through the window, etching patterns of sharp stilettoes from the twisted wrought iron bars, black against the inside wall.

Oh, that memory, that good memory of Texas.

Those sharp pointy shadows he had seen before, and it had been in a hot, horrible and vast place.

So he had seen them two summers ago in Texas.

There he had sat in a dark booth, hiding from the sun, watching it make harsh shadows on the blank walls. There had been the Spanish style stucco buildings and there he had been and hating it, when she walked into the room.

Her skin was white on her arms and sunburned red on her face. She was young, not too young, though. In L.A., or New York she might have dressed like a little slut. Here she dressed in tiny white shorts and a white tank top, white platforms and the only sign of wildness came from the liberal hand she gave to the makeup and her hair was tied up in a ponytail with a wet looking black ribbon. He liked her lips. She had thick lips and her tits looked thick and round through her blouse, which was thin enough to give you the idea.

She was aware of him. She had seen him in the back watching her. She moved in his direction real slow, maybe for this part of the United States, not so slow. She stopped at the bar. Looked like she wasn’t ready to surrender yet. The grass might be a little greener, bigger around the next minute.

The bartender came up to her. They started talking. He was flirting a bit. She had been here before. The man knew her drink. Beer. Cold beer.

The killer studied her awhile, filling in the picture, waiting. Some other time of the year her complexion was probably pale and shallow. Right now she looked good, all pink and white like candy. She slumped sometimes when she forgot. He thought she might be fat in a few years, but now she was just curvy as hell. He hoped she was no hooker. He didn’t mind her occupation but them ho’s often had their boyfriends nearby, wanting the honey money. They were not alone in world, as she was, he thought. Not as she was this night, he finally decided. She signaled the guy for another. Number two. She’s going to need company. He felt rather than knew that her life was as bleak as the desert outside. He watched her more intently. He eyed her legs now, taking in all he wanted. She returned to staring at the bar mirror, her reflection broken between the bottles. Maybe she hoped a movie star would sit down in the booth behind her. No movie star tonight baby. He kept looking her over, knowing she was his. He had the time. They both had nowhere to go.

He let his thoughts flash back and forth. Focus on her breasts, focus on her ass, focus on the past. Why the hell were they there, with her moving toward him, with him waiting, his drink cold and wet on his fingers?

One long week ago, he had arrived in Texas. Now, in the bar, in shadows, watching the sun burn whoever was foolish enough to be outside, he wanted to laugh.

He didn’t even grin although the laughter danced around inside of him.

He came here to damn hot Texas for a sales convention. To find someone to kill. He had flown in from Florida and was disappointed. There was no way to kill in that vast four-hundred-room hotel. The salesmen, all men, were too tight, close. The male bonding never let up. He never had a moment free from those friendly faces. And the thing was, he had to be free to do what he needed to do.

A week was enough. He rented a car. Not a car he liked. No, even that had messed up. He remembered cruising to the hotel in the giant land -boat rental. They were waiting. Almost noon. Time to put on the chow bag. No way today.

Sorry, guys. I’m heading out. New York?

Nah, Ray, I told you. I’m done with the apple. And I am more than done with the South. Next stop, Canada. You know there’s business everywhere.

That’s alright. You just keep moving. Texas is big enough for us.

The other men nodded. Yeah, plenty of room. More talk. There had been offers.

Homes opened. Wives to feed him. Endless barbecues planned. Beer flowing like the rain denied Texas in summer. A tall fellow, Sunny Jim, had become a buddy. Their names!

Thanks, guys. No. I’m out of business cards. Take it easy everyone. Thanks for the cooler Sunny Jim.

Warnings of overheating, road conditions and finally a hell of a lot of good-byes and good buddy hits. One more back slap, the last and hardest. There behind him was the one man, the fattest pigheaded hitter of them all. Tom wanted to eliminate Loud George. The man never stopped talking. He was talking now. One fucking more invitation.

Oh, yeah, George, I’d like it real bad to go to your house. I just got this deadline.

Yeah he wanted to follow George back home and kill his wife first then him and his children too. Destroy the breed.

The control came and he got into his car, waved bye and headed out.

He regretted his decision to drive off and on, all the many hundreds of miles of searing highway. He drove under the huge sky and huge sun, in the vast lands, and thought of blood, lakes and rivers of it plus flesh as white as the stars would be that night. He had never realized exactly how big Texas really was. The roads were wide, the landscape bleak, all burning as his soul might be one day and at least as empty. After a time he stopped long enough to get the beer out of the trunk, inside a well-stocked cooler that one of the guys has given him. Then he settled down for a long ride, just sipping the beer and riding out the day to the border without comment or thought.

Hot hours later, the sheer immensity of the state made him despair. He was losing his calm, his control. His flesh crawled and twitched. He needed to stop, to rest somewhere in this hell hole. At least until blessed night. Miles, mirages, minutes etched themselves into his brain. Then he saw it. A sign promising a town and then another sign a motel and food. Then a shot gunned billboard with the words seven and bar visible on the shreds of paper dangling in the razor wind. Now an animal awareness took over him. He drank his beer faster and stashed the cans under the passenger seat.

In thirty minutes he cut his speed and rolled onto Main Street. Most places were shut up, curtains and doors closed, afraid of the sun. This town was about one or two buildings more than the others and too quiet.

This is got to be the last place I can get my rocks off murdering anyone. Shit! He cursed and then settled down to the idea that he was too numb from driving to give a fuck if he killed anyone. He wanted more beer or something stronger and a bed. He wanted someplace out of this horror movie sun. His mouth twisted. His face grew hard. Damn. There had better be a place to sleep or rest and drink or he’d go make one.

Then he saw it. A dead neon sign just ahead. Palms in a pink glow, lighting up the sky at night, filling it with a hot pink pants color. No glow now. He drove in and parked in a secluded part of a sandy parking lot, where a few tortured weeds grew twisted and ragged. He sweated the hike to the office.

The sign which said OFFICE was over a small window in a bleached white once pink box like building with two wings of rooms in an L shape angled around a dead pool filled with dirt and wind-whipped daisies. He peered into the window and saw no one.

Then the wheel of fortune hit red. A man appeared and pointed to the door. He entered and found that Seven Palms did indeed have a