THUGLIT Issue Five

by Chris Mattix

  She smirked and filled his coffee cup, popping her gum. "Sprackenzay doich?"

  "That ain't funny."

  "Whatever you say, sweetheart. Try not to stiff me on the tip this time."

  "I did that?"

  She rolled her eyes and scribbled on her pad. Ralphie hoped maybe it was her number but it turned out to be the bill. "Have a nice day, hon."

  Through the diner window Ralphie saw Rhoda fighting with that man from the bar, clutching at his coat collar and making herself shorter so she could smile up into his glower. The wind whipped at them, making it look as if they were both keeping each other upright and he twisted her hands off his collar and walked away. She ran after him to grab his arm and he allowed it as far as the curb before shoving her off again and crossing alone. She stared after him, the biting wind tearing at her open coat down to her threadbare dress and skin.

  Ralphie willed her to turn around. "It's warm and safe in here," he whispered.

  "What's that, hon?" The waitress stood near him, looking pointedly at the check he hadn't yet paid.

  "Nothing." Ralphie answered and doubled the tip to make up for last time.

  *****

  "Twenty-five, Ralphie."

  "Price went up?"

  "Yeah. Different supplier. Don't worry too much, I pinched a little extra for you."

  "Thanks, Alby."

  "Anything for a veteran. Besides, you ain't like my other customers."

  Ralphie laughed. "A well-mannered junkie am I."

  Alby shrugged. "You manage it better than most. Like you to eat a meal now and then."

  "Ah, that's just the soldier in me. Hard habits to break. I ever tell you about..."

  "This the story about the potato?"

  "I tell that damn story too much."

  "You can tell me again if you want to," Alby smiled and gestured to the couch, "Tie off here if you like."

  Ralphie took off his jacket and sat down, rolling up his sleeve to locate a vein with one of the syringe tips that Alby kept in the house, clean and sharp.

  "You seen that new guy around the neighborhood?" Ralphie asked as a warm fog rolled in and sanded the edges.

  "Which guy?"

  "Some new guy. Think he's seeing Rhoda."

  "Rhoda from the bar?"

  "Yeah."

  "How's the stuff?" Alby asked as he lit a cigarette.

  "Oh, it's perfect. Perfect."

  Alby leaned forward and blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Comes from Laos first, but they process the shit in France, can you believe it? That junk's probably been as many places as you."

  Ralphie chuckled. "I bet it has. Maybe more. So this fella of Rhoda’s…"

  "Rhoda ain't no good, man. Don't waste your time thinking about her."

  "Yeah." Ralphie wondered how no-good a girl had to be to waste the time of a man like him. "I don't know."

  "Why'd you bring him up? You sweet on Rhoda or something?"

  "Nah, nothing like that. I don't know, I just think it's weird. He's new around, you know? I wonder where she met him."

  "You gotta stop thinking about it, pal. You're gonna drive yourself crazy."

  "Yeah. I think he works down at the docks. On a boat."

  "Oh yeah?" Alby rolled the cigarette between his knuckles.

  "This stuff comes in off a ship, right?" Ralphie said, gesturing to his arm.

  "Yeah. Straight outta Marseilles, France. You ever been there? I hear the beach is amazing."

  "I been to France, Alby, but I wasn't there for the beach."

  "Right. Guess not."

  "Is it easy? Just wonder if anybody could bring some over, you know? Start small."

  Alby grinned. "You thinking about going into business, Ralphie?"

  Ralphie ducked his head. "Nah, not me. I was just wondering."

  Alby grunted. "This fella of Rhoda's, where'd you say he works again?"

  "Down by the docks, I think. Looks like he works on a boat. Pea coat and whatnot."

  "That so?"

  *****

  Gray bodies stacked, their clothes gone to tatters and char in the sky-high flames that never stopped, just like the listless moaning never stopped, just like his breathing never stopped until it did and then he couldn't even manage to let go of the scream that tore him awake.

  It came out in a gasping wheeze that he was embarrassed of even as he wondered if it was real or part of the nightmare. So many dead and behind him and here he was years later, still no better and with a needle in his arm. In the dark he found the lights and the box, dropping it with rubber hands that still felt burned. He chased after it on feet still stupid with dream sand. Part of the mother of pearl inlay was cracked and one piece had fallen out, lost somewhere in the dark, but the box had stayed closed like a miracle, like an impossibility, like that trench to which no rescue was coming. He opened it and thought about dreams, thought about Rhoda, thought about her man, thought about getting out of here for good.

  He picked up the syringe, tilting the liquid inside it, the cold metal warming in his hand.

  He closed the box and lay staring at the ceiling, laughing at himself and reaching for the other box, the one that held Alby's globetrotting heroin. He'd talked to other junkies. The nightmares weren't supposed to cut through, most of them said. They weren't supposed to, but his always did. They're probably all lying. A little extra in the spoon this time, he thought, don't want to limp away from this, limp off into a night that's just dark and warm and black, not sooty red with fire and screams and stacks of gray-skinned bodies rotting and burning and still dying all these years later.

  *****

  "I need a drink over here for a war hero."

  "Mr. Dove, that ain't necessary." Ralphie said.

  "Ah, hush, Ralphie. You ain't getting outta this."

  Mr. Dove, not like the bird, but like the Irish word for youth—on account of how he'd see a coffin before a regular shave. He ran book and bottle for Squint Sheridan. Dove had dodged the war some said, in a basement or by going home to Ireland.

  "Slainte," Dove said and they drank down their whiskey. "Need a word, Ralphie."

  "Whatever you need, Mr. Dove. You know that."

  "Outside, lad."

  "Outside? Why? Mr. Dove? I ain't done anything."

  "Now, Ralphie."

  "Please, Mr. Dove." Ralphie shook on his stool, wishing there was something else in the glass or that he had the pearl-inlaid box and just five minutes alone. Always have an exit strategy looped in his head while they slid their hands under his arms and helped him outside to the alley behind the bar, the alley where Rhoda had taken that man of hers.

  Rhoda. Was Rhoda okay?

  Why the fuck are you worried about Rhoda, he wondered as they guided him to lean against a wall.

  "You scared, Ralphie?"

  "I want… I…" Ralphie cringed, rubbing at his arm through his sleeve.

  "In a minute, Ralphie. Christ's sakes, calm the fuck down, I ain't gonna do nothing to you."

  Ralphie looked at the New York Irish circle around him, Dove's smooth face staring into his own with a mix of compassion and disgust. "Jesus, Ralphie, you were in the war. The fuck you scared of us for?"

  "Can I have a cigarette?" Ralphie reached into his own pocket without waiting for permission, already acting with an angry echo of manhood that he'd asked permission to reach for his own Luckies. He lit one and muttered around the end. "Mr. Dove, I was scared in the war too."

  "Hell, Ralphie, I don't blame you."

  "I ever tell you what this old soldier I knew used to say?"

  "Always have an exit strategy?"

  "Shit, I tell that story too much. When did I tell it to you?"

  "It's alright, Ralphie. You were off your tits that night."

  "So what'd you wanna ask me, Mr. Dove?"

  "About this fella of Rhoda’s."

  "Ah, hell."

  "Alby tells me he's trying to open up business around here. He talked to you about it?"


  "I didn't mean for..."

  "Ralphie, what's the matter? Alby ain't taking care of you?"

  "Alby takes good care of me, Mr. Dove. I got no complaints. I shouldn't have said anything, it's probably nothing."

  "He's a dockworker, right? What'd he tell you, Ralphie?"

  "Nothing. I'm sure it's nothing, Mr. Dove. Please, I'm sorry."

  "Don't beg, Ralphie. You're a fucking hero for Christ's sakes. Have some fucking pride."

  "Sorry, Mr. Dove." Ralphie shrank against the wall and Dove sighed.

  "Jesus Christ. Okay. You see that prick, you let me know alright?"

  "He didn't mean anything..."

  Mr. Dove touched Ralphie's sweaty cheek with surprising gentleness.

  "You find me, right?"

  "Okay, Mr. Dove."

  "Good lad. Tell Alby next time it's on me, alright?"

  "Thanks, Mr. Dove."

  Ralphie watched them leave the alley, shaking so hard that he thought the nails might pop right off the ends of his fingers. He sank into the filth of the alleyway, wanting to wrap it all around himself. It's no more than I deserve, he thought, no more than I deserve.

  Down in the filth of the alley he thought of the box at home and the syringe inside.

  "Anytime you wanna leave, Ralphie. You can just go," Dove said.

  And in the filth of the alleyway, Ralphie felt warmer and safer while tears streamed down his face.

  *****

  Dusk had stolen most of the red out of Rhoda's hair as she stood under the lamppost trying to light a cigarette against the wind, tossing snuffed matches and frustrated swears until Ralphie reached her and snapped open his trench lighter.

  "Thanks, Ralphie."

  "Don't mention it."

  "This damn wind, huh?"

  "Days of it."

  "You heading to the bar?"

  "Maybe in a bit. You got time for a cup of coffee? Something I wanna ask you. I'm buying."

  "I'm waiting for somebody."

  "He late?"

  Rhoda shook her head and looked into the distance from that corner of 45th and 9th. The Kitchen was quiet. All the cabs were crawling uptown on 8th and it was too dark for stickball, any handsome strangers approaching would have been visible for blocks or miles.

  "It's just a cup of coffee, Rhoda. C'mon. You can watch for him from the counter."

  They sat with the twin cups steaming between them, Ralphie adding sugar to the point where every time he stirred Rhoda's lip curled a little further.

  "Spoon's gonna stand up in there, Ralphie."

  Ralphie shrugged. "I like it this way."

  Rhoda shuddered. "You wanted to tell me something?"

  "That man of yours. What's he up to?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's got Mr. Dove curious. Braced me outside the bar last night, asked me what the man was doing around here. Mr. Dove thinks he's trying to get into business."

  "That's crazy, he's just working the dock until he ships out again."

  "Yeah, well, Mr. Dove maybe doesn't think so. Should tell that man of yours, warn him, you know?"

  "How’s Dove even know about him?"

  Ralphie shrugged. "I don't know. He staying with you?"

  "Yeah, Henry's…" Rhoda squinted at Ralphie and put her hands on the counter around the coffee cup. "Why're you asking, Ralphie? Ain't any business of yours."

  His name's Henry, Ralphie mused to himself, ignoring her question.

  "Yeah. Henry. What’s Dove worried he’s getting into?"

  "Junk."

  "That doesn’t make any sense."

  "You should tell him to get outta town, Rhoda. Stay gone."

  "Why do you care anyway?"

  "He ain't good to you, Rhoda." Ralphie said, hands tightening around his coffee cup.

  "Oh I get it. You sweet on me, Ralphie? Well you can forget it. Like I'd ever go with a junkie."

  Ralphie shrugged back the bite of the comment and sipped his coffee, the rush of sugar across his tongue seemed like too much then for the first time. I should go back to drinking it black, he thought as he watched Rhoda smirk, her skin getting warmer and redder.

  "Ain't anything like that..." Ralphie said but Rhoda cut him off.

  "Oh sure it is. Nothing better happen to him, you hear me? Nothing. He loves me and there's no way..."

  "Yeah. Loves you right in the alley, huh?"

  "Fuck you, Ralphie." Rhoda jumped to her feet and threw her coffee in his face. It scalded his skin, dripping black into a collar that had already seen whiter days. He didn't turn until he heard the door open and slam and then he looked around at her, stamping her foot out on the corner and then throwing herself into his arms when he walked up.

  So his name is Henry, Ralphie thought, and picked up his napkin with sleepy fingers to wipe the coffee off his face.

  "That could have gone better, sweetheart," the waitress said from as far away as she could be and still tend the counter. The cook was peering through the pickup window.

  "Sorry for the fuss." Ralphie left two dollars on the counter and walked out of the diner.

  On his familiar barstool he ordered whiskey, quiet and staring at his own sunken skin in the mirror and the low light glinting off the rows of bottles.

  "You alright, Ralphie?" The bartender asked.

  "I been better."

  He couldn't believe it when they came in, Rhoda and Henry; her face in his neck as they opened the door and staggering inside to the stools on the far end of the bar from Ralphie. Sitting down for a soul kiss before they'd even ordered a drink. Rhoda glared at Ralphie as Henry ordered a whiskey and soda for her and a beer for himself. She played with the hair at the nape of Henry's neck and danced her fingers across his broad shoulders.

  "Now that's what I want a man to look like," Rhoda said, loud so the whole bar could hear. "Broad across the shoulders, right? That's how a man should look."

  "Give it a rest, Rhoda. Nobody gives a shit, alright?" the bartender said and went back to his newspaper.

  "I'll say what I feel like, ain't that right, baby?" she said and kissed Henry's cheek, but he only grunted and sipped his beer.

  "Who won the game?" Henry said to the bartender hidden behind his newspaper, his voice too high for a man with shoulders like that, Ralphie thought.

  "I ain't a sports fan."

  Ralphie knew the man loved baseball and chuckled. Nobody likes Henry.

  "The fuck are you laughing about, junkie?"

  "Nothing." Ralphie laid money on the bar and nodded goodbye to the bartender.

  "You leaving me alone with them, Ralphie?" The bartender asked as he went to make change that Ralphie waved off.

  "Sorry, pal. See you tomorrow." Ralphie shuffled out of the bar and headed to Alby's, knocking on his apartment door.

  "Who is it?"

  "It's Ralphie, Alby, open up."

  Alby smiled at him as he opened the door. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon, man. How're you?"

  "I'm alright. Been having trouble sleeping, you know?"

  "You out already?"

  "Close enough." Ralphie sat down on the couch and rubbed his face. "You ever been in love, Alby?"

  "Wow, Ralphie. Ah, yeah. Once, I think. You ain't talking about Rhoda, are you?"

  Ralphie laughed into his hands. "Yeah. Dumb, huh?"

  "My old man used to tell me you don't get to choose. Anyway, that ain't why you come here."

  "Nah." Ralphie fumbled dollars out of his pockets, "Just need to sleep, you know? I still dream about the war. Bodies on fire everywhere. Seeing Rhoda with that guy just makes it all worse."

  "She's in there with him? At Ferguson's?"

  "Yeah. Rubbing it in my face, you know?"

  "Just now? That's rough, Ralphie, I'm sorry." Alby looked at the clock on the wall.

  "Yeah. Can I tie off here?"

  Alby looked at him for a moment, some series of thoughts that made him stare. "Ah, sorry man. Another time but I gotta take off.
Got something to take care of."

  "You know, Dove came to see me? Braced me outside the bar?"

  "Sorry about that, Ralphie. It's just business."

  "That's okay. I guess I shoulda expected it."

  "I don't mean to chase you out but..."

  "It's okay. See you later, Alby."

  Who wants to listen to a heartbroken junkie anyway, Ralphie thought and put his hat on as he walked out of the door.

  *****

  Five beers deep and Henry liked to listen to Rhoda's voice, by eight he was sure she wasn't so bad. The way her mouth moved when she laughed toward the ceiling like she was looking for the sun through the dusty wood. Their drunk had reached a point where they had nothing in the bar but each other, his nose in her hair and her head slumping on his shoulder. The effort of signaling for another round was massive and Henry could just make out the bartender's scowl when he finally managed to lift a hand.

  "No more, you two. That's it."

  "Ah, c'mon, ya mook," Rhoda whined.

  "No Rhoda, you're done."

  "Ah, come on."

  Through that whiskey and beer haze, through the smoke in the air, Henry could see the blue of her eyes if he squinted or remembered. Maybe it was a memory. Who had those blue eyes? He thought the hands on his shoulders were Rhoda's until they dragged him from the barstool and out of the door. He was halfway outside before he even registered a protest.

  "Hey what the fuck?" He could hear Rhoda screaming from the bar while some big guy held her, braced on the barstool and reaching a hand to him.

  Why am I being dragged outside? Henry wondered.

  "Get the fuck off me." He tried to thrash and free himself, but there were too many hands and then they were in the alley behind the bar.

  "Hey, I know where we are..." Henry muttered, remembering the feel of Rhoda's lips when a fist crashed into his midsection. Gagging, he dropped to his knees while they pounded his drunk, pliant flesh and he made feeble attempts to keep them from kicking in his teeth. He lay there, being beaten, with one hand clapped over his mouth and the knuckles already skinned. Blood ran into his eyes and he felt the impacts as vibrations—as if the ground was groaning and cracking beneath him instead of one man kicking his spine through his sternum.