THUGLIT Issue Twenty

by Justin Bendell

  Dmitri returned to the engine, gasping and shaking, mouth full of the sour taste of another man's blood. He turned the boat back around to the Russian side of the river. Once he made it to the shore, he restarted the engine, tied the tiller, and let it off into the river, the box of guns still loaded onto it. He watched it ride out far into the darkness until it capsized, or at least seemed to.

  He walked up to the car and realized that Anatoly had the keys, which meant that they were now lost somewhere in the dark river behind him. He headed to the road and began trudging back toward town. Not a lot of cars were coming down the road. After about half an hour of walking, he caught a ride with a slightly drunk truck driver, who dropped him off a 15-minute walk from his apartment.

  Everyone was sleeping when he got home. He lay down on his fold-out bed and stared at the wall for a solid hour before falling asleep. He'd never done anything like this before. He'd never even really been in a fight as an adult. It was a miracle he'd managed to kill three people without them killing him. He'd killed three people. He had to. To save lives. If he hadn't stopped them, how many people would have died? He had to. He had to. He had to.

  His parents grew worried over his listlessness the next day, more so when he didn't leave his bed after that. He wouldn't tell them anything about what happened other than there was an accident with the boat. When they asked about Anatoly, Dmitri said that he was gone.

  He could hear them fighting over him in the next room—his mother shouting at his father about how he could ever have gotten their son involved with Anatoly, his father replying that how should he know dodging taxes on electronics would bring such trouble? Besides, what else was the boy supposed to do? Did she have any better ideas?

  They never talked to him directly about what happened. By the end of the week, Dmitri still hadn't left the apartment. He'd get over it eventually, he assured himself. He'd start answering the phone again when his friends called. Maybe next week. Maybe the week after that, or next month, but it would happen eventually. He couldn't keep feeling like this forever, not when he'd done a good deed, really.

  The next Monday, a group of men came for him.

  They came in the middle of the day, when no one else was home. He was glad for that, for the fact that his parents and sister wouldn't know what happened to him. He didn't consider any agony they might have over his sudden disappearance, only that he didn't want them to be involved with the trouble he was in, as much from embarrassment as a sense for their protection.

  The men weren't what he expected. Most of them were Chinese, he'd figured on that, but none of them were Muslims. At least they didn't seem like Muslims. They seemed like gangsters, or what he'd figured Chinese gangsters would be like realistically. Not slick men in suits like the movies, but a pair of big fat northern Chinese men. The older one was going bald and wore a suit jacket over his t-shirt. The younger one wore a leather jacket and black t-shirt, had slick black hair on the top of his head with shaved sides. The younger one acted all cocky but jumped at anything the older one said. Dmitri figured the older one was the boss.

  They had another man with them who looked like any of the Chinese Dmitri had seen around Blagoveschensk working construction jobs for low pay. Cheap clothes, rough hands, dark face. He spoke Russian though, which the other Chinese men didn't.

  Finally there was the actual Russian, some skinny blond kid in oval glasses. He looked even younger than Dmitri. He seemed like someone who would sell him ecstasy at a rave, but the first thing he'd done when he came in the door was pull up his shirt to flash a pistol (Dmitri had no idea what kind), and tell Dmitri that he'd come here representing the gun seller.

  They looked like such a motley assemblage standing there, out of place in the middle of his family's living room, that it almost came as a relief when they hustled him out of the apartment and downstairs into a cramped sedan.

  The Chinese boss sat in the passenger seat while the Russian drove. The fat Chinese gangster pushed Dmitri into the middle seat next to the translator. Dmitri wasn't sure where they were going.

  "So," the Russian asked him from the driver's seat, "what happened?"

  "The boat capsized," Dmitri said simply.

  "That's it?"

  Dmitri shrugged as well as he could while nestled between two men.

  "Did anyone else survive?" the kid asked him.

  "I don't think so," Dmitri answered him, "It was windy that night. The two men weren't used to the water. The terrorists, I mean."

  "The what?" the kid asked him, sounding startled.

  "The Chinese men," Dmitri said, growing silent with this confirmation of what he already knew.

  "The Hui?" the kid said.

  "What?"

  "The Chinese men. The traders, the middlemen. Fat and skinny, you know. They're Hui Muslims," the kid said, waving a hand idly.

  The Chinese man on the other side of Dmitri translated this and set off a storm of conversation in Chinese.

  "The Muslim men on the boat. They worked for him?" Dmitri asked, nodding toward the passenger seat.

  "Something like that. That anti-corruption thing they've got down there, it fucked up his protection. He's had competitors in his city and needs to scare them off. It's not important. So they all drowned and you swam back to shore?"

  "Yes," Dmitri said.

  "You know we found the truck driver who gave you a ride?" the kid asked.

  Dmitri didn't say anything.

  "He said you were dry when he picked you up."

  They didn't need to say anything until they arrived at the dacha. Anatoly's car was still parked past the gate, undisturbed. Dmitri thought they'd take him out on the river in a boat, but they just made him kneel on the riverbank in front of the water.

  He didn't try to resist. He was angry at himself for never having made it out of Blagoveschensk, but more than that, he was overtaken with guilt.

  Even as they were about to kill him, it never occurred to Dmitri that smuggling guns to gangsters might be as much a moral evil as smuggling guns to terrorists. For him, the existence of organized crime was to be taken for granted, and any related casualties were expected and even deserved. The way that Dmitri was about to be killed was what he expected out of the world. The way he'd killed those men on the boat hadn't been, and in a way he felt it was only natural he be punished for that.

  The Chinese thug grabbed his hair and pushed his head down into the water, holding him down with a beefy arm. The last coherent thought Dmitri had was that there weren't any dragons in the river, but even when submerged at such a shallow depth, the water really did look black.

  The Flight Home

  by Carl Press

  The police, the tax people, his ex-wife, they can all go and fuck themselves, thought Max Jardine, as the car rolled down the slope, then plunged over the edge of the cliff.

  RIP Max Jardine.

  He'd lived, he'd wheeled, he'd dealed, and now he'd met a watery death.

  The freshly deceased Max Jardine made his way to the phone box that stood like a glass monolith by the path that ran along the cliff and dialed 999.

  "It's terrible, the man drove his car of the cliff," he said, putting on a doddery old man's voice, "He must have been in a terrible way, the poor man, to end his life like that." He gave the location and then replaced the handset.

  Over the last few months he'd carefully laid the groundwork for suicide by expressing his worries about his unpaid taxes, unpaid alimony and failed business deals—how life in general was getting too much for him. When the battered remains of his empty car was found at the base of the cliff, people would draw the obvious conclusion—that it had all gotten too much for him and he'd ended his life. His body lost to the sea. At the same time, he'd set down the groundwork for a new identity

  'Martin Johnson' was booked on a flight to a new life in Spain.

  A deeply suntanned Martin Johnson sat at the bar of a secluded little pub run by another English exile. United posters
lined the walls, a picture of Queen Elizabeth II sat behind the bar. The air buzzed with accents from all corners of the United Kingdom, he could almost believe that he was back home—away from all the gambling debts he'd racked up in the ten years since he began his new life here—that he could step out of the door and into a rainy summer afternoon in England.

  His phone buzzed, the name Laszlo on the screen, "Fuck," he muttered, then answered the call. "The boss wants you to take a package to England," growled Laszlo.

  "I'm not a courier, Laszlo."

  "You owe the boss."

  "But—"

  "You're not in a position to argue. He says you take this package to England, you take it to England. I will collect you in one hour and give you your instructions." The line went dead.

  Laszlo's car drew up outside Martin's apartment. The giant Bulgarian had a face like a baboon's arse, thought Martin as he made his way to the car.

  Laszlo motioned him to get in the car. Martin knew better than to argue.

  "Okay, what's the job, Laszlo?" asked Martin.

  Laszlo handed Martin a briefcase. "This is what the boss wants you to take to England. Don't let it out of your sight for a second. Hidden in the lining is a valuable painting. A gift from the boss to a friend." He handed Martin a plane ticket and a slip of paper with an address on it. "Here is where you are to take the painting."

  "Will you want a receipt?" asked Martin.

  "Funny," said Laszlo flatly. "All you have to do is deliver it. The boss will know if it arrives safely. No need for a receipt."

  Laszlo started up the car. "Your plane leaves first thing tomorrow morning. Be on it."

  As Martin started to get out of the car, a shovel-like hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him back. "Don't even think about running off with the painting."

  "Trust me."

  Laszlo laughed. "Trust you? No way. I trust the boss." He gripped harder on Martin's shoulder. Martin gritted his teeth, determined not to give Laszlo the satisfaction of knowing that he was in pain.

  Laszlo brought his large square face closer to Martin's. "If you try to sell the painting, or get rid of it in some way, the boss will find out. He doesn't take kindly to people who double-cross him."

  Martin pulled himself free of Laszlo's grasp. "You'll get a bill from my tailors." He straightened his jacket. "The boss knows he can trust me, so I can do without your fucking strongman man act, Laszlo."

  Martin took hold of the briefcase and got out of the car.

  Laszlo leaned through the window, "Remember, if for any reason that painting doesn't reach its destination, then a little crease in a jacket will be the least of your worries."

  "Piss off, Laszlo."

  The car pulled away. Martin took a deep breath and headed inside. He had packing to do.

  The plane touched down. England, I've missed you, he thought as he relaxed on the train and drank in the familiar landscape of fields and buildings racing by the window. He felt strangely annoyed with his fellow passengers as they jostled him while they detrained. What was the rush? Couldn't they see that he was trying to enjoy every moment of his return? He felt the briefcase twist in his hand.

  A split-second later it was gone.

  "What the fuck?" he shouted.

  The thief, a stocky teenager in a light blue jacket, weaved his way between the milling passengers like a rugby player going for a try. Martin gave chase. As the distance between him and the thief increased, he pulled his phone from his pocket and took a photograph of the absconding briefcase snatcher before he vanished from sight.

  Slightly out of breath, Martin retired to a nearby branch of Café Nero to gather his thoughts.

  Martin sipped at a coffee. He had about two days' grace before the boss would know something had gone wrong. Two days to find the painting and deliver it to its intended destination. First, he had to find the thief and hope to heaven that he hadn't thrown the case away thinking that it is worthless. Or hadn't discovered the hidden painting. Would he guess that it was valuable? And if so would he try and sell it?

  The kid probably regularly targeted passengers just off the trains. He'd be well-known to the security guards and probably in all the shops in the area. His best bet for information would be finding a worker who was willing to talk in one of the shops that lined the station.

  In the first couple of shops he drew a blank. The staff either didn't know the kid or didn't want to talk. His last hope was the small bookstore on the corner.

  He approached a plump, stony-faced assistant who was busy refilling a shelf. "I wonder if you can help me," Martin began, flashing her his best smile, "I'm looking for the person who stole my briefcase." He showed her the photo on his phone.

  "Phone the police," she replied.

  "I need the briefcase back, urgently. I need to find him. Do you know who he is?" He showed her the photo again.

  She barely glanced at it. "Phone the police," she repeated flatly, and carried on restocking the shelf.

  He noted her name badge, the personal touch usually worked well. "You see, Mary, I really, really need that case back as soon as possible."

  "I'm busy," she snapped.

  "I just need a bit of information, Mary, then I'll be out of your way."

  "I said go and phone the police. They'll get your briefcase back."

  "They could keep it for months, Mary. It really is important that I get it back ASAP or my neck's for the chop."

  "Well, there's nothing I can do about that."

  "I'm not kidding, my boss'll kill me," said Martin. He didn't have to try too hard to sound worried.

  "Valuable was it?"

  Thinking on his feet, Martin spun her a story. "There are some important plans in that case that could be useful to rival companies. My boss is paranoid about rivals getting hold of his plans. He's convinced somebody in the company is passing on information. When I tell him my briefcase's been stolen, he'll put two and two together."

  "And come up with five," volunteered Mary.

  "You've got it. He'll think that I've deliberately passed on the papers to a rival company and made up the theft to cover my tracks. I'll be the one who gets it in the neck, not the toe-rag who stole the briefcase. Tomorrow he'll probably be here stealing more briefcases or books and I'll be looking for another job—if I survive my next meeting with the boss."

  Mary nodded in sympathy. "I know what that's like. I get into trouble every time that little turd comes into the shop," she pointed to the picture on the phone.

  Martin smiled, at last, a breakthrough. "Do you know his name?"

  "Wayne Gorton. He's been in here a few times, stealing stuff. He's away and gone before you can do anything about it. The manager blames me. Says I should call for security when I see Gorton come into the shop. But I'm rushed off my feet—"

  "Wayne Gorton. Any idea where he lives?"

  "The Westfield estate, I think. That's where all the filth comes from."

  "You've saved my life, Mary, thank you."

  "Thank me, what for?"

  "You've given me a lead. I might get my briefcase back before the end of the day."

  "Watch yourself. He slashed a guy who refused to hand over money. He's a fucking head-case."

  "Don't worry, Mary. I can take care of myself."

  He was about to leave the shop when he thought he heard Laszlo's voice somewhere behind him. He whipped round, expecting to see his old sparing partner looming over him. "Laszlo?" he shouted, but there was no sign of him. It was Laszlo's voice, he was sure.

  Mary tapped him on the shoulder. "Are you all right?"

  "Oh, yes, it's okay. I just thought I heard somebody I know."

  Martin thanked Mary again and left the shop.

  Why would that baboon's arse be here? thought Martin.

  Then he had a really shitty thought—could Laszlo have arranged for the painting to be stolen? Would he…could he have double-crossed the boss? Or is it a trap to frame me? Now that was a shitty thought.
<
br />   Martin shook his head. No, I'm being paranoid, he told himself. The important thing was to find Wayne Gorton.

  Martin took out his phone, and after a few minutes searching on the internet, he found a report about Gorton being jailed for a number of vicious assaults and thefts just over two years ago. The report gave his address. It also reported that the police found Gorton's flat overflowing with stolen goods. Gorton was a hoarder. So the briefcase would probably end up in his flat even if he thought it was worthless.

  He hired a car and drove to the Westfield estate.

  Martin parked the car outside the flats where, according to the news article, Gorton lived.

  The streetlights flickered on, firing from red to orange. Martin tapped the wheel, "Where is he?" As if in answer, Gorton appeared at the top of the road.

  Stocky, with a head like pool of vomit—lumpy features and pimples floated about on his round face as if on the verge of looking human.

  Gorton swaggered along the road as if he fucking owned the place. Which he probably thought he did. Martin had met and dealt with a hundred other little shits like him. Gorton only had one thing on his side, youth. But Martin had experience, even if that experience had gone a little rusty in the Spanish sun.

  Gorton was alone. Martin smiled and prepared himself.

  Martin got out of the car and walked slowly towards the flats. He let Gorton get in ahead of him.

  As Gorton opened the door to his flat, Martin said, "I'm here about the gas leak."

  "You what?"

  Martin pushed him way into the hallway.

  "There was a report of a gas leak."

  "Fucking get out."

  "Could be very dangerous, the whole block of flats could go up at any minute." Martin moved along the hallway, no sign of the briefcase