THUGLIT Issue Five

by Chris Mattix

  There’s yells from the bar for Chupo to take his birthday shots, forty of them. He turns to us before he goes inside. "You guys make sure to take a few shifts in here so I can get you drunk." As he goes in I hear him say "Aw, Christ, will you look at this."

  Bob and I stand silent at the door for the better part of two hours. A red Escort cruises by three times, slowing down each time. The car is packed with tough-looking Mexicans.

  The third time they pass, the car slows almost to a stop. Bob’s been spitting blood and rubbing his knuckles each time they cruise by, and I’ve been telling him to keep it cool. This time he pulls a knife out of his pants, a thin blade made for gutting fish, and raises both hands over his head.

  "What are you looking at, salsa niggers?"

  The guy riding shotgun takes out a Bowie knife and points it at his temple. The driver revs the car’s engine, and they peel out down the street.

  "My fucking boot up your taco." He turns to me. "Did you see that shit? An orange-picking clown car."

  "Why don’t you try being quiet?"

  "What?" He screws up his face. The milk-eye is keeping watch on the road while the rest of his attention is on me. "Don’t dictate yourself to me, Dale."

  "I’ll dictate to you, Bob. I’m not getting shot over Familia."

  Bob spits and smiles up at me. "Don’t be such a pussy."

  "Your mouth smells like fish," I say. "Keep it shut."

  Dale points his little knife up towards my ribs. "Don’t you lose your temper, now."

  I grab his hand and part of the blade. I can feel it cut into my palm, but I twist it back. "We don’t have a problem here, Bob." I let go and wipe my hand. "Just take it easy."

  "I’ll take it easy." Bob says, and puts the knife up his sleeve.

  MacDougal’s at the bar, sitting with his shoulders sloped. He looks like an old man on a tiny highchair. "MacDougal, you go out there for a while."

  "Bob?"

  "There’s a car full of Familia that keeps riding by. Maybe you can keep Bob from mouthing at them."

  "Are you fucking kidding me?"

  "I’ll kill him if they don’t."

  "Fine." He drinks his drink and sets the glass down hard. "You take the back door for a minute. Have a cigarette. Calm down."

  I sit at the bar and order a mixto. The bikers swing do-si-do with each other, slopping their drinks on the floor and singing along to "Convoy". Some of them wear cowboy hats, and they stamp their feet and whoop and swing their hats over their heads. At the back table a group laughs while a man in a red, white, and blue jacket with tassles grabs his groin and says, "Like the devil’s handshake! Like the devil’s handshake!" Chupo comes from the back room. The dancers call him over, but he waves to them and sits next to me.

  "Howdy, Dale," He looks contented, like he just pissed against a church.

  "Hola, Chupo. Enjoying yourself?"

  He signals to the bartender for whiskey, holding up two fingers. "Just called to get a happy birthday from the missus. Figure that deserves a drink."

  "Covered your bases."

  He laughs and hands me a whiskey. "To the road and a warm bed."

  "To old age."

  I down it and he does the same. I ask how the north’s been treating him.

  "Like a disease." He leans back onto the bar, surveying the crowd. "I like the money. College costs a kidney these days so I got to save up. But this…" He sweeps an arm across the room. "I miss this. Business makes me feel old."

  "Not too old to get on a bike."

  "Sure as shit. You been riding?"

  "No. How are the kids?"

  "Rosie just brought home a boy for the first time." He shakes his head. "He looked like a bitch, hair done up, jeans all up his ass."

  "How old’s Rosie?"

  "She’s fifteen. Sammy’s seven. How old’s your boy?"

  "He’s seven."

  "You seen him? Or the old lady?"

  "Not since coming down. You keep an eye on that daughter of yours."

  "If I don’t someone else will, you can be damn sure."

  He orders another batch of whiskeys, leaves me one and picks up three. "Think I’ll take these to Dougal and Bob, keep them sharp."

  I head out back and take up my spot in an alley that stinks like bad meat. A light breeze carries the smell of the ocean and the sounds of drinkers on the street ahead. I know the red Escort will be back. I know that MacDougal won’t hesitate cutting them, and Bob’s looking for ears, but if Familia get in the bar it will take three yuppie bikers for each of them. Zihuatenejo breeds men for this. In bottles of Toro Oro and the bellies of whores at Calle Roja and the dirty sheets of Sancta Maria it breeds them and then replaces them when they die. I have broken their fingers and cut their faces with bottles. I fractured a man’s skull slamming it in a car door because of a spilled drink. I don’t feel bad about any of it, but I’m getting old. I’m thinking about clean laundry and American Legion ball.

  I hear car doors slam, and the slap of boots on pavement. From the front of the bar comes the sound of scuffling. I wait. Someone screams high-pitched and queer, the sound of man taking a knife in the gut. I grab the metal stool I’m sitting on and run.

  Out front two gangsters stand over Chupo, kicking him in the face and ribs. A third is swinging a baseball bat at MacDougal; he has his hands balled against his face like an overmatched boxer. A fourth Familia is reaching for the door of Gato with a gun in his hand. Bob has the handle of his fishing knife sticking out to the left of his spine. He’s crawling on the ground, clawing at the knife with one hand. I swing the bar stool into the head of the man reaching for the door. His face cracks the small window in the door and he drops the gun. One of the gangsters standing over Chupo aims his boot at my knee, and his heel bends my leg in the wrong direction. I fall on the stool and he starts in on my kidneys. I push him with one arm and pick up the stool by the legs. The Familia is cranked out on something, blind rushing me. I swing the stool at his face. His cheekbone collapses around the metal of the stool’s rim.

  "Dale." MacDougal reaches up for me and I pull him to his feet. He’s leaning hard to one side, but he pulls a straight razor from his pants pocket. The man with the baseball bat starts to go for him. The Familia member swings and lays the bat into MacDougal’s gut. MacDougal falls, but his arm is already out and the razor cuts the gangster’s cheek down to the corner of his mouth. The gangster yells with a ragged, lopsided smile, and his blood covers his fingers and feet.

  The last gang member still stands over Chupo, unsure what to do now that his mob is gone. Chupo’s face is a red mess, his nose pushed against one cheek and his mouth a dripping hole. He isn’t moving. I pick up the bat as the gang member comes for me. He puts a foot into my chest, and a big piece of rib breaks free. I can’t breathe for all the pain, but he’s off-balance, expecting the kick to have at least put me on my back. I stagger but don’t go down. I bring the bat forward with both hands, driving it into the top of his shin. He falls to hands and knees and I beat him. I beat his ribs and I beat his neck and I beat his face. I break something in his throat with the toe of my boot.

  MacDougal’s hunched against the wall of Gato with his arms wrapped around his sides. Bob, still reaching for the knife, is making words at the back of his throat that don’t come out whole. The gang members lay in sorry piles, making their own soft noises or making no noise at all. I stand over them, the sons of this town and Chupo, a good man who should have stayed up north. With their blood and prayers mixing at my feet, I make my peace with Zihuatenejo.

  The door to Gato opens and a small batch of the party comes out. Johnny Cash plays on the jukebox inside. He sings, "I hang my head."

  "Holy shit."

  I turn to them while bending over Chupo. His breath is coming in gurgles. I say, "Get an ambulance."

  MacDougal perks his head up, nodding. "Call 9-345, get police. Tell them I’ll pay."

  Some go back inside, and MacDougal looks at me. "This went a l
ittle sour. Hey," he smiles, though he can’t pull himself straight. Something’s wrong in his stomach. "You’re back in the good graces."

  I go over to the gang members lying on the ground and empty their pockets, taking all the bills inside. Another car pulls up in front of Gato, full of more Familia.

  "Oh, shit." says MacDougal. "Dale, help get me inside."

  Bob is curled up in a ball on the concrete, holding his back, eyes open. With every breath he releases, Bob says, "I’ll turn." I take his money. I go over to Chupo and take his money and the keys from his pocket. The Familia members are running over. One of them looks like he has a gun.

  MacDougal is watching me. "Dale, what they fuck? Help me inside. Dale!"

  I go over to him, flip him over and take his wallet. He swipes at me with the razor and takes a piece of my leg. He says, "Don’t."

  I run. The Familia members take a shot at me, missing far wide. They don’t follow so I keep running. Behind me there’s the sound of more shots, then doors opening.

  I find Chupo’s full dresser, the black Ultra Classic. I kick start it, and before I can think about Chupo or MacDougal or what’s left in Zihuatenejo I give the bike throttle and take off down the road. It’s been a long time since I rode a bike. I sold mine outside of a bar for $400 cash and a case of mixto. I settle my weight over the center and shift up, letting the engine call across the streets. Soon, the Pan-American opens up in front of me stretching all the way north to Canada.

  I let the engine loose and the bike runs itself clean through me. I’d almost forgotten the wind, that it burns when you really get moving. It cuts at my bloodied knuckles so hard it feels like rubbing alcohol. The headlights carry out past the road to the wide desert ahead. The desert is as brown as my eyes, as brown as the eyes of my family. My wife and my boy wait for me at home. I know I probably won’t be able to keep my hands from her, but I’d rather kill someone out of love. I’d rather take the chance. There’s only one sound I hear, and it’s the wind, clear and furious around me.

  With One Stone

  By Brian Leopold

  The old Cadillac creaked to a stop alongside the curb. Paul Curcio turned the key, but the uncooperative engine refused to die. Coughing and sputtering, the car’s frame shook violently side-to-side. Finally, with one last burst of blue smoke from the tailpipe, the Caddy went still. A dark cloud of exhaust hung stubbornly in the dank, still air, floating above the Caddy’s trunk, just waiting for something to happen.

  It was lunchtime, and foot traffic was heavy out on the sidewalks; salesmen and delivery guys grabbing something quick to eat, office workers getting a little fresh air, high-school kids looking for trouble, everybody checking everybody else out. Across Commonwealth, a couple of old paisanos in metal patio chairs puffed on cigars and gave Paul the dirty eye. They had him figured for a cop.

  Paul fumbled for his cell phone, then remembered that he'd thrown it in the glove compartment with his passport and the plane tickets. He waited for three mud-caked construction workers to amble past on the sidewalk before he slid across the Cadillac's front seat. The glove compartment fell open with an anguished, metal-on-metal complaint, and Paul hurriedly retrieved the phone, then slammed the glove compartment closed before anyone could catch sight of the impressive stack of cash. He slid back across the cracked white leather and took his place behind the steering wheel. There was one last thing to do: call his wife.

  "Anna Marie. Where the hell are you?"

  "What do you mean, where the hell am I?"

  "I called you at the house, so I know you're not there." He bent forward to retrieve a brown mailing envelope that had fallen from the passenger seat onto the floormat.

  "So, I'm not at the house," his wife said. "So what?"

  "So, let me ask you again. Where the hell are you?"

  "What, I have to check with you every time I want to leave the house?" Anna Marie didn't sound happy. "Honestly Paul, I don't see how it's any of your business."

  He turned the magazine-sized envelope over on his lap and struggled to undo the metal clasp with his free hand. The photographs spilled out onto the car seat beside him.

  "You're my wife, Anna Marie, so I think I got the right to know where you are and what you're up to," he said.

  "Oh you do, do you?" she said and went on to tell him exactly what he had a right to know and what he didn’t. It was a tired recitation that he’d heard many times before, but he let her talk anyway. His attention drifted to the photographs which were now fanned out across the seat. Many of the images were blurred, hard to make out, but a guy knew his own wife. After that many years, you could recognize her from the way she stood, from her gestures, from the weird way she held her cigarette. And there was that one money shot of her and the guy together—where you could see both of their faces clearly.

  He took a long breath and let it out. "Aw hell," he said into the phone. "Who am I kidding? I don't give a damn where you are, Anna Marie. You could be standing on the Sixth Street Bridge, ready to jump, for all I care. There, you like that better?"

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally his wife said, "Well, for your information, Paul, I'm at the grocery store, trying to find something nice to fix for your dinner, although I don't, for the life of me, know why."

  "Yeah, well, about that. I'm not going to be able to make it home until late tonight. I've got some important business to attend to. So, I guess you can save those groceries for another night."

  "Paul, you're not going to a poker game, or to the track are you, because..."

  He cut her off. "I told you," he said, raising his voice. "It's business. That's all you need to know. I'm not playing cards, or going to the track. I'm taking a client to dinner with the hopes of closing a sale, that’s all. And if the guy signs on the dotted line, I'll probably have to buy him a few drinks afterwards. Thus, I will not be home for dinner."

  "So I'm on my own tonight?"

  "It would seem so, Anna Marie."

  "You remember the kids are gone as of today, right?"

  "Of course I remember. It was my parents who picked 'em up, wasn’t it?"

  Anna Marie grunted with discontent. "I don't know why they have to spend the whole summer in Oregon, half the world away."

  "Washington, not Oregon," he corrected wearily, "and it's not the whole summer. It's almost July already, and it’ll be good for them. They'll get to meet some people from a different part of the country, expand their horizons. Maybe they'll learn how to stay out of trouble."

  "Yeah, just like their father." Anna Marie scoffed, "and I still don't understand why your parents decided to retire and move three thousand miles away, just like that. It all seems so sudden."

  "What are you talking about, Anna Marie? My folks have been talking about retiring for ten years now. You just never pay attention to them is all."

  "Yeah well, talking about retiring and doing it are two entirely different things."

  "So everybody got off all right then? The moving vans showed up, and everybody's on their way out west?"

  "Everybody’s gone," Anna Marie said, "and I’m here all by my lonesome." There was a long pause on the line. "And now you’re not coming home either."

  Paul glanced down at the surveillance photographs again. Maybe this is all my fault, he thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone so often. Then he thought about all the nights his kids had been left alone, while she was off doing God-knows-what. Or worse yet, maybe she’d brought the guy back to the house, entertaining him in their marriage bed, just a few feet from where Paulie and sweet little Nicole lay sleeping.

  Anger surged inside him, bubbling up like hot lava, but he reminded himself that he had a purpose now, one he couldn’t lose sight of. Emotion is the enemy, he told himself, the one thing capable of derailing his carefully constructed plan.

  An ugly, muscle-bound pug leaned in the Caddy’s open window. He was moon-faced, leering, bent on intimidation. "Hang up the phone," the pu
g said quietly, his breath reeking of garlic and cigarettes. Paul was certain it had to be one of Amato's guys.

  "Listen, Anna Marie," he said into the phone. "I gotta go. Don't wait up for me, all right?"

  "As if I ever did."

  Paul snapped the phone closed, and began collecting up the photographs spread across the front seat.

  "What's your business here?" the big guy asked, still leaning on the open window frame as traffic whizzed by behind him. He was wearing a dark blue golf shirt with a Nike swoosh, and Paul noticed that the golf shirt’s sleeves were stretched to their limit in a not-entirely-successful effort to contain the man's muscular biceps. He also noticed that the top third of the guy’s left ear was missing. Paul turned away, continuing to slide the eight-by-tens into the manila envelope, careful not to bend any of them. He noted the look of contentment on Anna Marie's face, a look he hadn’t seen in years.

  "I asked you..."

  "You need to learn some manners, my friend," Paul snapped. It stopped the guy dead in his tracks. "This is a public street, and I got just as much right parking here as anybody else." Then he remembered the suitcase in the back seat, sitting there in plain sight. He cursed himself for being too lazy to throw it in the trunk, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Hopefully, the big guy would be too dumb to put two and two together.

  "See, here's the thing," the big guy said, crossing his arms defiantly. "In this neighborhood, we look out for one another. We don’t like troublemakers. So I’m gonna ask you again, nicely, what the hell are you doing in my neighborhood?" The smell of the big guy's sweat mixed with too much cologne, filling the Cadillac’s interior with funk.

  "Who are you kidding, Lefty?" Paul said. He pointed to the white-washed stucco storefront. "That, right there, is the headquarters of this city's number-one gambling boss. That's who you're looking out for, Dumbo, so don’t give me any of that concerned citizen bullshit." Paul could tell the guy wasn't used to be talked to like that, especially the cracks about his missing ear. The big guy seemed confused and stumbled backwards, like he’d been pushed.