Scarla

BC Furtney is the writer-director of the feature noir thriller,
New Terminal Hotel
. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, he wasted no time enrolling in and dropping out of film school, in favor of relocating to his second hometown of Hollywood in the mid-nineties.A string of award-winning short films followed, among them
Mister Eryams
and
Disposer
, which both screened on multiple continents and saw wide DVD release. Subsequently, BC enjoyed a 3-year tenure as bassist-lyricist for L.A. rock band, Bull Lee, before returning to full-time filmmaking. As he’ll attest, writing is his first love. He lives with his wife and two dogs.
Scarla
is his first novella.

www.bcfurtney.net

for Chenga, who never stopped enduring.

and for Dissed, who never stopped believing.

She was barely thirty and hardened, a stone fox frayed at the edges, hairline scars slashing her brow and the bridge of her re-set nose, but still wildly attractive on anyone’s 1-to-10 scale. The john was thrusting into her sloppily, with poor rhythm at that, his face buried in her neck, whiskey-fueled breath on her flesh. She made the requisite sounds, the sounds he’d paid for, while watching the ceiling and waiting for
it
to happen. She knew it would, and soon. The pill lent her the intuition to spot it a mile away, like a dog finding its way home. She studied the ceiling, imagining how his brains would stick to the aged paint. He wasn’t
bad
looking. Middle-aged, greying hair, slightly paunchy but still fit. Nothing to write home about in the sack, but better than some. Like the guy on the riverbank. She’d been wrong about him, but hadn’t taken the pill when she went out. They did it in the backseat of his rust-bucket Plymouth and he didn’t turn. She left feeling cheaper and worse than if she’d put him down. Or the guy in the guard shack at the textile factory. He
did
turn, and she painted the windows with his blood. It made up for the Plymouth. She pushed them all from her mind, focused on the task at hand, waiting for
it,
so she could deliver her own special money shot. And suddenly, there it was.

He shivered, his temperature dropping with light-switch suddenness. She’d never get used to the jolt of pain when they ran cold inside her. By the light of the bedside lamp, she could see the blue creeping up his neck veins into his face, the ice coursing through his wiring all the way into the brain. She snaked her long legs around his torso and squeezed tight.
Seatbelts fastened.
His eyes rolled-back white, glowing like backlit holes punched in a cardboard face mask, and he bared razor-sharp teeth, splashing hot drool on her chest. His muscles coiled like a cobra set to strike, but he’d never get the chance.

Before he could do any damage with those grotesque choppers, she slid her hand under the pillow and placed the barrel of a .38 Super between his eyes. It was a split-second before the bang that sent a hollow-point through his face, and she’d rolled him off before he started twitching, the back of his head blown-out, most of his brain adorning the ceiling. She jammed a wad of bills in her purse. She always kept her winnings. Perk of the job. She strode to the bathroom, nude and bloodied. She knew it’d be messy when he said he liked missionary, and she was right.
Mess
ionary. If the motel’s owners were indifferent to their five-minute not five-star rep, she was happy to repaint. And if the cops thought they’d have a quiet night, she was happy to make some noise. On the record, it was just another scumbag who crossed the wrong person. But
off the record
was where the truth turned tricks, and so did she. Her name was Scarla Fragran, and she knocked the bathroom door shut with her hip.

* * * *

The Starlite Motel. Silently-flashing red and blue lights. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Fucking ambulance chasers. It was a scene she’d gotten used to, but given her role with the police department—
vag for the badge
, she liked to quip—she didn’t stick around to explain the splat mark. Her job description, writ simple: fuck, kill, run. It was a clear night and the joint wasn’t far, so she walked. Nobody saw her slip out the motel’s bathroom window in her short skirt and beat it down the side street, but someone called in the gunshot pretty quick, because the cops hit the lot about the same time she rounded the corner. The chaos was behind her, nothing but the sound of her fuck-me pumps click-clacking the concrete and the flick of her Zippo. She lit a cigarette and eyed a text on her cell:
@ Pinto’s
. Cars lined the boulevard, stuck waiting for the cops to clear the crime scene. She drew catcalls from some of the less-reserved motorists, while others stared silently. Husbands imagining what they’d do with a chick like that, wives imagining what a chick like that does, children not knowing one way or the other. The only thing she had on her mind was coffee.
And sleep. Two things.

* * * *

A bell rang too loud when she opened the door, alerting the waitress, who scowled at the sight of her. Pinto’s Diner was bright, red leather stools and booths, everything in stainless trim. Red leather was her favorite. Clothes, furniture, gloves, shin guards, didn’t matter. She spotted a lone figure watching from the counter. He was forty-something, unshaven, with ringed eyes and a world-weary-but-intense gaze. He was Lieutenant Facil LeTour. She slid onto the stool beside him and the waitress delivered his cup.

“One more, black,” Scarla rasped, a voice like brandy on crushed glass. The waitress reached under the counter and came up with a cup, filling it silently. “You look like shit, are you sleeping?” she asked Facil.

“No. You ok?” He sipped his cup, kept his eye on her.

She exhaled, propping herself on an elbow. “Tired.”

“We found a body off 32nd tonight. Runaway. We’ll hit the area tomorrow.”

Scarla stared at her reflection in the coffee, dejected. “You mean
tonight
.”

“Get some rest,” he offered, looking over his shoulder at the duo of black-and-whites zipping by. “You’ve been burning it at both ends.”

“That’s my job,” she mumbled, reaching into her purse and setting an empty and unlabeled prescription bottle in front of him. “I need a refill.”

He palmed it. “Going through these kinda fast, aren’t you?”

“What the fuck’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. How often are you taking them?”

“Whenever I go out, like always. Nothing’s different,” she hissed, irritated by the insinuation.

“I didn’t say it
was
, but these shouldn’t go empty. It’s just you and me. One of us starts slipping, only one other pair of eyes is gonna notice.”

She sipped her coffee. He dropped the bottle in his coat pocket, studied her profile. There was still a softness in her face, and if you looked at just the right time, a spark that hadn’t been extinguished by life. Not many people saw it. She didn’t give them the chance. He looked away. He was her field officer, and to think of her in any other way than as his charge could be fatal, and he knew it. It wasn’t his first time around the block. Wasn’t hers either. The last year-or-so of Scarla’s life could equal his entire tenure on the force, and he’d seen some shit. Gruesome crime scenes and harrowing investigations were one thing. Rollercoaster court battles and backroom deals that undermined all that hard work were another. But the cumulative effect of a life on the frontline—the night sweats, the haunting memories, the twisted-gut nausea, the gnawing hindsights that never went away, but only got worse and worse as time moved on while you never seemed to—
that
was the hard medicine nobody with just six months experience could take, no matter how bad their time was.
Except Scarla.
He couldn’t help feeling
protective
. The operation was anything but run-of-the-mill good guys vs. bad guys, they knew it going in. But who could describe the psychological toll?
She could.
Facil knew enough to know he didn’t want the answer. She was managing, but if she were to slip, she’d be the last to know. If
he
was last to know, she’d already be dead.

“Any news from the lab? Has he learned
anything
from the bodies?” she asked, half-knowing the answer.

“I’m dropping by there later. I’ll let you know.”

She didn’t hide her disappointment. “It’s been over
six
months, we were supposed to go
three
. I’m burned out, Face.” She paused. “Is it
me?
” She paused again, thinking. “What if it’s
me?
” Then, scoffing at the idea. “Fucking fed scientist.” Another pause. “Does that guy even know I
exist?
” Facil didn’t reply. Didn’t have to. She downed her coffee.

“You need anything else?” he asked.

She gave it some thought. “There’s a pair of red leather thigh-highs at Max’s I’d look great in. Perfect for a switchblade or a small caliber. Four hundred bucks, department can foot the bill.”

He smirked, finished his cup and stood, peeling bills off a wad. “I’ll drop off the cash and pills later. Hopefully, you’ll be asleep.” He dropped the money on the counter.

She watched him. “Y’know something, Face? You make a great pimp.”

He didn’t react. “Great. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

She trailed him out the door, her purse twirling low to the ground. Just a bit like a little girl.

Facil stood watching the floor numbers tick by in the elevator’s digital window. 3 … 2 … 1. He used the call numbers to input a six-digit code, and the car descended two more floors. -1 … -2. The doors opened on a scene that existed somewhere between the city morgue and Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. The temperature had dropped noticeably. A wave of pungent antiseptic hit him. There were no rooms, no hallways, just open floor space with one single agenda. Rows of autopsy tables sat two deep on either side of the elevator and ran the length of the room, which was as wide as the building. No need for a headcount, he knew the tally by heart. Forty one males and five females, age span twenties to fifties, representing four races. The thought occurred to him that an untold number of perpetrators were responsible for the crimes they were fighting—many of them present and accounted for—but one woman was responsible for all
this
death. He’d met some tough SOB’s in his day, had been accused of being one himself, but nothing like Scarla Fragran. She took it to a whole new level. A level he wasn’t sure he wanted to be privy to.

A bespectacled black guy in a doctor’s coat stood at the far wall, an industrial rotary tablet press machine cranking out pills behind him. He was past his wrists in the bowels of a male cadaver under a crane-neck light in gore-drenched latex gloves, carving diligently with a scalpel. He was Dr. Calvin Harris, and if you didn’t know him, he’d introduce himself as
The
Calvin Harris just to fuck with you, and fair enough. He’d gone from precocious-med-student to master-of-everythinghe-surveyed in less than ten years, and his very presence in the secret lab, not to mention his salary, reflected it. He was forgiven a little eccentricity, as his brand of genius rarely came without it. With the exception of the Chief and Bureau Chief, not a single person upstairs knew that Harris was on the premises, nor would they. Unless, of course, something went terribly wrong.