14 \\ COACHELLA VALLEY INDEPENDENT
AUGUST 2021
Books’ award-winning series of original noir anthologies, launched in 2004 with Brooklyn Noir. Each book includes all new stories, each one set in a distinct location within the geographic area of the book. Palm Springs Noir includes brandnew stories by T. Jefferson Parker, Janet Fitch, Eric Beetner, Kelly Shire, Tod Goldberg, Michael Craft, Barbara DeMarcoBarrett, Rob Roberge, J.D. Horn, Eduardo Santiago, Rob Bowman, Chris J. Bahnsen, Ken Layne and Alex Espinoza. Here is an excerpt of from “VIP Check-In,” by Michael Craft.
The move, the new job, the fresh
Dante From Sunny Junket An excerpt from ‘VIP Check-In,’ part of new short-story collection ‘Palm Springs Noir’ The editor of Palm Springs Noir, Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, writes in the introduction: “The best noir writers make us feel the heat of the sun, the touch of a lover. Setting can be gritty but can also be sublime, no longer relegated to urban locales and seedy hotel rooms but also mansions and swimming pools. Hence, Palm Springs, which may seem like an odd setting for a collection of dark short stories— it’s so sunny and bright here. The quality of light is unlike anywhere else, and with an average of 300 sunny days a year, what could go wrong? … “The stories in this collection come on like the wicked dust storms common to the area. More than half are by writers who live here full-time; all have homes in Southern California. They know this place in ways visitors and outsiders never will. These are not stories you’ll read in the glossy coffee-table books that feature Palm Springs’ good life. There is indeed a lush life to be found here, but for the characters in these stories, it’s often just out of reach.” Palm Springs Noir, released on July 6, is the latest in Akashic CVIndependent.com
beginning, none of that was my idea. But for two men, together for years—hell, decades—the time had come to plot a path toward retirement. And to Dr. Anthony Gascogne, ophthalmologist, Palm Springs felt like the logical destination. To me, not so much. That was seven years ago, when Anthony was dead set on relocating his practice from L.A. Because I balked, he said I could join him in the business as his office manager and assistant. My lackluster career as an actor and model had sputtered to a standstill, so I tagged along to the desert. Soon after, when the law finally allowed, he asked me to marry him. Then, two years ago, Anthony divorced me. And fired me. And my career path took another unexpected turn—a much darker turn. Starting over, pushing 60, I was broke, unemployed, and couch-surfing. On the brighter side, I was now in Palm Springs. Well-heeled snowbirds fled for the long summers, but for the rest of us, 12 months of sunshine provided a constant tan, inspiring me to stay fit. And while the sizable gay populace skewed toward the rickety side of Medicare, this demographic twist had its upside: In the eyes of the local gentry, I was still pretty hot (which had a little something to do with the divorce). My immediate need for income and a cheap apartment led me to consider—briefly—a stint as an escort. But I wasn’t getting any younger, and time would quickly take its toll, as it had on my starstruck dreams, so I settled on a bartending gig to get back on my feet. When I took the job, the manager said, “We already have a Danny.” He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a name tag. “Here you go: Dante.” The job lasted only five months, but the name stuck, trailing me as I sniffed around for more durable employment. And
that’s when a friend tipped me off to a vacation-rental agency that had an immediate opening for a field inspector. I landed the job, which involved checking the condition of properties before guests arrived and after they left. My duties also included occasional VIP check-ins and minor service calls during their stay. “Yes?” crackled the intercom after I rang the doorbell. “Dante from Sunny Junket.” A befuddled pause. “What?” “My name’s Dante. I’m from Sunny Junket Vacation Rentals.” “Oh. Just a minute.” This was one of our premier properties, up in the Little Tuscany neighborhood, where the bohemian feel of steep, winding streets gave no hint of the million-dollar views enjoyed by residents behind their walled courtyards. In the gravel parking court on that rare cloudy afternoon in February, my battered Camry looked especially pathetic— huddled next to an elegant champagne-colored SUV. When did Bentley start making those? The party of two was registered under the name Edison Quesada Reál, booked for 11 nights, the entire duration of Modernism Week. It was a prime booking in high season, costing north of a thousand a day. The office said the guy was a bigwig art dealer from L.A., and they wanted him happy, so they sent me out for the VIP treatment. I intended to greet them when they arrived at the house, but they’d driven over early, letting themselves in with the keypad code we provided. The front door now rattled as someone fussed with the lock from inside. I waited with my slim folder of paperwork, standing under the cantilevered roof of the boulderlined entryway. A small peeping bird flitted from the top of a barrel cactus and darted into the darkening sky when the door swung open. “Well, hello.” His Asian eyes widened with interest as he sized me up. I grinned, returning the once-over. He didn’t fit my picture of anyone named Edison Quesada Reál. And he was too young for a titan of the art world, maybe in his 30s. He had delicate features and a prettiness about him, like a twink who’d grown up, but he’d also hit the gym and was pleasingly buff, for a short guy. I’ve always had a thing for short guys.
The party of two was registered under the name Edison Quesada Reál, booked for 11 nights, the entire duration of Modernism Week. It was a prime booking in high season, costing north of a thousand a day.