Left-handed Luck

by Rod Michalchuk

  *

  “KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT,” I said. “Don’t mess around. I don’t care if there’s witnesses—I’ll shoot something else off if I have to, I swear.”

  She scowled, scuffing through stone-shards in her dainty little sandals.

  There were eight or so people. Two had industrial-strength flashlights; one had something tiny and bright—a halogen penlight. The beams crissed and crossed, illuminating a shapeless bundle of rags in a glistening puddle.

  “Okay stop,” I said.

  She cupped her injured hand to her chest and stood. I buttoned the bottommost button of my jacket and stuck my gun hand in like Napoleon.

  “Listen,” I said. “You’re going to behave while I talk to these people and I don’t care, one speck of trouble and I’ll shoot you again—through your fucking spine. I’ll put you into extended care with a tube up your pee-hole.”

  She said nothing, but her posture told me exactly how she felt about it.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I get it.”

  We walked up to the circle and the gathering was too fascinated by Gary’s remains to pay us any attention. I pulled the gun. “Everybody,” I said. “Hello?” I held the weapon in the air, displaying it to one and all. The flashlight beams tracked away from the body, spotlighting it—little one first, then the others.

  Somebody choked out: “Omigod!”`

  “I’ve got business here,” I said, doing my best to sound authoritative. “Put your flashlights on the ground. Now!”

  No one did anything. They stood frozen. I raised my voice. “Lights down! On the ground! Now!”

  The two bigger lights dropped and rolled alongside Gary’s cadaver: still lit, still shining. The little halogen winked out—gone.

  “Okay! Get out of here! Go back to your cars!”

  They fled, en masse, bobbing and weaving back to the flare-lit scene of the accident.

  I’d honestly expected more trouble. I also expected that, sooner rather than later, some of them would be back, packing heat of their own. This was, after all, America, but still, driving them off was the only way I could think to do what I had to. It was the best—least complicated—course of action.

  I picked up one of the flashlights—a black metal cylinder, the size of four D-cell batteries lined up end-to-end. “Okay Princess,” I said, aiming the light at Gary’s corpse. “It’s time you got your hands dirty.”

  He looked more like a sack of broken dishes than a human being. His limbs were contorted into impossible angles, legs scrunched up underneath, arms at his sides—squiggles of wet leather. His head was hammered flat: an elongated disk, features clustered in the center—vent holes cut into piecrust, brimming with black syrup. His ears stood out like the handles of a chafing dish, and he stank—a thick, syrupy, retch-triggering mix of shit, piss, blood and bile. Eau de abattoir.

  “Empty his pockets,” I said. “Put everything on the ground.” I shone the light, indicating the place. “There.”

  She knelt beside him, complying so easily it made me suspicious. I picked up the other dropped flashlight—a box-battery with an adjustable lens—and set it up on the ground a few feet away, aiming the light so she could more easily see what she was doing.

  What she was doing, however, instead of following instructions, was stroking Gary’s waxy, smacked-flat face and whispering—saying good-bye I supposed.

  “C’mon,” I said. “You can be as kissy-face as you like when I’m gone.”

  “You did this.” She spoke without looking up—pointedly, mulishly, not emptying his pockets, not giving me back my things.

  “What does it take with you?” I stepped in and surprised myself. I kicked her. In truth, it was more like pushing her with my foot, but, still, it toppled her onto her side. I stood, aiming the gun. “What do I have to do—shoot you again?”

  She struggled back up to her knees and resumed her position alongside Gary. “Nobody’s forcing you to do anything,” she said. “No one’s pointing a gun at your head.” She kissed the palm of her hand and pressed it—a benediction—against Gary’s shattered brow. “Why didn’t you just walk away in the casino? You knew what was going to happen. You did! You chose this!”

  “Get me my stuff back.”

  “Stuff—stuff—you and your assholy stuff. Get your face out of the muck. You don’t want your stuff—you want vengeance! You got yourself a gun and crowned yourself King Shit!”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “Well you got a lot of nerve, ‘cause I know what you and that dead fucker did, and you deserve every shitty thing that’s coming to you. It’s not vengeance, it’s justice!”

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “You could’ve just walked away but you don’t get it. There’s consequences for everything—not just for me but for you too. You think you’re exempt? How stupid!”

  I was at the end of my patience with her. “Shut up and start rooting for truffles—right now—or I swear, I’ll put one right through your fucking foot!”

  Teeth gritted, glaring hot hate, she shoved her good hand into his inside jacket pocket and groped through the morass of entrails, arm in up to her elbow. She pulled out a clot-gelled double-fistful of wristwatches, rings and chains, flapped the mess on the ground in front of her, nowhere near the place I’d pointed out, and then went back for more. She brought out a pair of wallets and a thick roll of bills—shellacked black, slathered in blood-tar.

  “There’s your wallet.”

  “Nice,” I said. “How about my keys and knife?”

  “Fuckhole!” She spat the word and went back at it, pulling out a double deck of credit cards, a cell phone and a wodge of paper money. She dumped everything and sat, livid with rage, rebelling totally against having to go any further.

  “You’re not done yet,” I said. “There’s still his pants to go through. And you could do a better job—you’re missing things.”

  “My work’s not good enough?” She sounded incredulous. “Do it your-fucking-self. Go ahead, shit stain—I’ll hold the gun.”

  “That’s not an option. Keep digging.”

  She bared her teeth and I raised the gun. She took a breath and another one, and shoved her hand into Gary’s hip pocket. She rooted around, pulling out—slick with clotted excrement—a few sets of keys that weren’t mine, and my pocketknife.

  “Good work,” I said. “Great job.”

  “Cocksucker,” she snarled. “Why don’t you just up and fucking die?”

  I pulled the hammer back: ker-click-snap! That got her attention.

  She worked her hand into his hip pocket on the other side and came up with a mix of coins, bullets, and, hallelujah, my car keys. Even gore-smeared, I recognized them.

  “Okay,” I said. “Drop everything and go stand over there.” I pointed with the gun. She flung her handful down, got to her feet and stomped away, holding her beshitted arm away from her body.

  Grinding knee bones, I knelt to collect my stuff and everything was swimming in liquefied human remains. I remembered the scrap of rag I’d torn off my shirt and shoved into my pocket. I used it to extricate my keys and wipe them clean. I stowed them away and was almost there—all I needed was my knife and wallet.

  I shone the light and identified the sticky mess that was my wallet. I picked it out, wiped it off and checked inside. Everything that was supposed to be there was still there, bankcard and all. I shoved it home, into my rear pocket where it belonged.

  She stood, face intent, eyes glittering.

  I retrieved my pocketknife, wiped and stowed it, and remembered my nickels—I’d had at least fifty dollars worth. I plucked Gary’s roll of bills out of the mess. It was more than enough to cover my loss. I wiped it, feeling justified, believing I deserved every penny, and shoved it in my pocket alongside the roll I’d taken from her earlier.

  There was a noise like sucking the last bit of milkshake up through a straw and it was coming from Gary. It stopped and I
shone the light in his face, just in time to see his lips pooch out. It was like a toilet overflowing. Black liquid welled up and brimmed over. His chest convulsed and he heaved up pints and pints of blood-jelly. It gushed out, sheeting over his cheeks.

  Gargling in reverse, he sucked air though a stew of smashed anatomy, and, blindly, convulsively, grabbed me by the pant leg. I was too stunned to scream. His mangled hand worked, clenching, gathering up a handful of jean-fabric, and then yanked—hideously strong—almost upending me.

  Footsteps scuffed on stone. She hit me from the side, knocking me down. The light went flying—it spun away, landing and rolling, beam sweeping the ground. I managed to hang on to the gun but she was standing over me, feet braced, pulling it out of my grip.

  “Let!” she barked, tugging. “Go!”

  I held on for dear life, struggling to get up. Gary had me by the ankle. He pulled, dragging me back. She reefed on the gun and I held on. She pulled and I pulled back—and it went off. There was a flash and a roar. It bucked in my fist, bullet skipping off into the desert.

  I kicked out, connecting solid with something soft and squishy—Gary’s face. I thrust away with both legs and lost the gun. She twisted it out of my grasp.

  I fought to my feet and she had it in both hands, aimed at me. I rushed her and she pulled the trigger—it would’ve blown my heart and lungs clean out of my chest, except there was no bullet. The hammer fell on an already spent shell—Gary’s first shot—the one that had bipped past my ear. I wrenched the gun out of her hands and hit her open-handed, knocking her to the ground.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I was screaming. “Can’t you leave well enough alone?”

  She cowered, shielding her face with her mutilated hand. I aimed the gun at the middle of her mass, and knew, with absolute certainty, that the next shell in line was a live one—if I let myself pull the trigger the weapon would fire. The bullet would rip through her—splintering bone and hydrostatically shocking every cell, reducing her guts to a slurry of loose protoplasm.

  I raised the gun—lifting the sights off of her. After a moment, I lowered it to my side. I couldn’t kill her. I didn’t even want to hurt her anymore—not her or Gary.

  It was enough. I’d won. I’d got what I wanted. All I had to do was walk away.