Red Junction
by Cristiana Di Palma
We are delighted to welcome suspense novelist Cristiana Di Palma to Omnimystery News today.
Cristiana's new book is a collection of five stories, the first of these providing the title: Red Junction (Cristiana Di Palma; April 2014 trade paperback and ebook formats).
We are pleased to introduce you to this book with an excerpt, the prologue.
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Prologue — "The Desert Kid"
I OPEN THE DOOR OF THE REMOTE BAR IN the middle of the desert.
I stand on the doorstep and the patrons turn around to look at me.
I can almost picture myself: a stark outline in the sun, with scorching hot Arizona in the background.
Just like John "Goddamned" Wayne in my favorite movie: The Searchers.
I smile, pleased.
Sure, my red and white checkered shirt is in need of a good wash, but it's not the only one in this dive, so I guess no one will notice. I finally step inside, while the patrons return to their drinks.
I sit down on a leather barstool and I place my elbows on the dusty counter, and I give the barmaid a quick look from under my cowboy hat.
Her hair is colored with highlights, with dark roots growing in.
She is wearing thick makeup, black around the eyes and deep red on her full lips.
She is older than she is trying to appear. How old is she? Thirty? Forty?
A photo of her hangs on the wall behind: a headshot of her and a dark-haired child.
Same eyes, same smile. Her son, I guess.
I look at her while she places a few glasses on an old tray and walks across the room, shaking her hips.
Then I turn around, and as I follow her with my eyes, the people inside the smoke-filled room start coming into focus.
In this godforsaken bar, the shadows make the dark lines under the eyes of the girls stand out, and the lipstick is an invitation to tear those vulgar lips off their faces.
Some are sitting alone with their legs crossed provocatively, the mascara smeared under their eyes is proof that they have been waiting for some time for a client that isn't coming.
As I stare at them, their faces turn grim.
Some of the men, at the far end of the bar, laugh together as they glance at a couple of those women, and look hesitant about what they should do next.
The waitress does not seem to notice that I am staring at her, intent as she is on catching the attention of the four men whose drinks she is serving. I see her laugh and throw her head backwards.
Then, all of a sudden, she turns her eyes on me and she notices me staring, and her lifeless eyes sparkle.
But only for an instant, because she immediately turns around, annoyed, which stings my pride.
Are you afraid of me?
I sneer, dismissively.
I could always get girls. Ever since I was a kid, they came to me.
Even early on, I knew that a real man must always keep a clear head and a knife in his boots.
You never know what can happen, and you should never let anyone catch you off guard.
I look down at the mahogany counter, which shows the opaque stains of round glasses and of a wet rag that recently mopped it, but I don't pay much attention to it, I am not the cleaning lady, no sir.
Also, I am too caught up in Ms. Highlights to pay attention, after she turned the other way and showed no sign of interest in me.
I turn my eyes away, too. Breathe in, breathe out.
The best way to repress my anger.
Maybe.
But even the air you breathe, in this place, stinks.
It reeks of bad frying oil, and of garlicky hamburgers.
Almost worse than fast food.
I try to recall how long it's been since the last time I had a breath of fresh air, and I am almost shocked that I cannot remember what it tastes like.
And now I'm here, in this stinking rat hole, sitting on a fake leather stool with all my belongings, so few that they fit inside an old leather knapsack.
But the knapsack holds something special inside.
The most precious thing I own.
A brown envelope, with a red tie around it. All I have left of my mother.
The barmaid reminds me of her a little.
What are the odds?
Who knows, maybe I will should follow her home tonight.
Maybe not.
Again, I am watching her.
She is still with that group of shady characters, at their table. They look ten-twelve years older than me.
She acts coquettishly with a couple of patrons her age.
Her piercing laughter in response to their jokes is almost unnerving.
Now she is whispering something in the ear of the man with the long beard as she points to the closing time sign, before she goes back behind the counter.
When she walks away, I notice that he is staring at her with a half-satisfied smile.
And while my eyes wander with my thoughts, I look up and she's standing right in front of me. Behind her, the photo of her with a kid, a pure and innocent version of the woman standing in front of me.
She asks if I want something else to drink and now that I am paying attention, her eyes look … different.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she …
I ask her to fill my glass, and I watch her.
Then, after she lays her fingers on the dark mahogany, I lightly touch them. They are smooth, her nails painted red. Bright, beautiful red, smooth to the touch.
But she recoils immediately, as if I had scared her. She looks at me with confusion, and runs away, as if she'd seen the devil.
I look at my hand and I raise my eyebrows at her bizarre reaction: How could she be scared of being touched by me, after she let herself be groped by that pack of idiots for the last half hour.
But what do I expect? She works here, which means that she probably lost her soul a long time ago, the slut.
And what I had seen in her eyes for a fleeting moment was just a flash, the past memory of days long gone. Another life, that's no longer her own.
I go back to examining the contents of my knapsack and I get the brown envelope that holds my papers. I take out the envelope with the red tie, and I stroke it with my hand.
Touching it reawakens my senses, and I can almost imagine the distant smell of fresh air that I still long to breathe.
That smell makes me think of Kathy, and now I can almost hear her voice calling me, light, youthful, and low.
It's only a rustling in my ears, amidst the din of the room, but everything else vanishes into nothingness.
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Cristiana Di Palma lives in Rome. You can follow her on Twitter.
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Red Junction
Cristiana Di Palma
A Short Story Collection
Following the brutal and mysterious murder of her mother, the introverted and surly Kathy, who is only sixteen at the time, is forced to live with her aunt and uncle in a small, isolated town in Arizona: Red Junction.
In the arid, desolate, and wild open spaces of Arizona, which reflect her personal predicament, Kathy — still lonely and devastated by the loss of her mother, by pain, and by the bewilderment of adolescence — feels lost.
Only her encounter with an ambiguous local boy with a passion for cars and old flicks is able to restore some light to Kathy's life.
As a poetic love story is born, Kathy realizes that, sometimes, journeying back through the horror of one's past is the only way to discover the devastating truth, which has the power to destroy all certainty.
The horror of the raw truth, which surpasses any imagination, and the terrifying journey with her boyfriend, will lead Kathy to learn the harrowing truth about herself, finally leaving her free to move on with her life.
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