THUGLIT Issue Twenty

by Justin Bendell

  She said, "You bring that shit around, I'm gone."

  He looked up road to Sorgy's, the neon cocktail glass flickering. He hadn't had a drop in twenty-three months.

  He pushed through the black double doors, pausing in the lobby to adjust to the warm red darkness. The place was half-packed and half-loud. Neil Young moaned about dead roadies on the jukebox. It was like walking into a dream, a friend's arm draped around him. He took the stool farthest from the door, set his ski hat on the counter and rubbed his eyes.

  The bartender was a big man with little black eyes. He stood in the half-light, waiting.

  "Jim Beam straight," Matty said.

  He had developed a taste for it from his father who drank it and, when Matty was a boy, made him drink it. The taste of whiskey made him mad. The tender set the shot down. Matt took it quick, squinting against the burn.

  "Another," he said.

  "You got it, hombre."

  Matty let the warm glow fill him.

  He'd have to find the paper, the classifieds, see what was out there. His bro Sando worked as a mechanic. Maybe that was something he could do. He took down the shot, wiped his mouth, slapped the glass down. He didn't know shit about cars.

  Three young hoods were playing pool. Matt didn't know them, but they got his ire up. He thought about getting in a fight. He clenched his teeth until his jaw popped. Check yourself, he thought. Be careful. He wasn't sure he wanted to be careful. He signaled to the tender, who was talking with a customer down the bar.

  The customer was Charlie.

  Matt turned away, hoping not to draw Charlie's attention. He pulled a bill from his pocket and tucked it under his glass. He didn't want to talk with Charlie. He would take the next bus home and face Alma. He might convince her to leave town, head to New Orleans. Or L.A. That would be nice. A fresh start.

  Matty was thrust into the bar counter. The force of the blow knocked half the wind out of him. He gasped, swung his arm around. Charlie caught his fist and smiled, all six-feet-two of ugly. He started laughing.

  "Jesus Christ," Matty said.

  Charlie pulled up a stool, raised two fingers to the bartender. Matt looked gloomily at his glass, the bill underneath it. He was stuck now.

  "I thought you quit everything," Charlie said.

  "Changed my mind when I got fired."

  "Fired?"

  "Violation of the fucking drug policy."

  Charlie shook his head. "Raw deal. Raw fucking deal." He tapped his fingers on the counter. Hank Williams sang about cheating hearts. "Not that I forced it on you."

  "Didn't say you did."

  They sat there a moment.

  Charlie said, "On account of a little weed? Man oh man…" He picked at his teeth with his tongue. "Remember the quantity we were running? Just think of that quantity."

  Matty nodded. Mostly he remembered the money. Stacks of it on the coffee table in his mother's basement. She had no idea. She thought he worked at Best Buy.

  "Well," Charlie said, "My offer still stands. Not that you wanna hear it."

  "I don't."

  "Is that Alma talking or is it you?"

  Matty eyed his shot glass, hesitating. Finally, he said, "I want to pop the fucker."

  Charlie smiled. "I'm sure you do."

  The tender came with the whiskey. Charlie and Matty met eyes and took their shots.

  Charlie said, "Why don't we talk some sense into him? No one fucks with the Barelas Boys."

  The drug thing had been Charlie's idea. After a couple years, they were selling from Bridge Street to Prosperity. It was hard work. There were fights, betrayals. They kept shovels in the truck, guns in their belts. Only had to kill once. Some arrogant kid. Tried to short-change them, drew a pistol from his jeans. Matty popped three shots into his chest. They drove him out to West Mesa and dug a hole.

  "Focus on the future," Alma would say. "You're not what you were, you're what you've become."

  Except that New Age shit couldn't help him keep a job.

  The bartender came over with another round. Charlie lifted his, rolled the glass between his fingers. "What time does Western close?" he said.

  "How's fucking him up gonna help anything?"

  "Fuck him up? No, man. Just talk. Meet him at the back door. Make him understand how important the job is to you. I'll keep in the shadows, the intimidation factor. He'll cave. Easy peasy."

  Matty imagined Alma at the kitchen table, eating a microwaved bean burrito, waiting for him.

  Charlie draped his arm around Matty and laughed. "How often do I see my boy?"

  Matt pulled away. "I gotta get home."

  "We're just getting started."

  Matty shook his head.

  Charlie downed the last shot. "Fine. It's your life."

  Matty went outside. The wind was blowing hard from the west. His head cleared up some. He walked to the bus stop and stood, shivering, thinking up something to tell Alma. He decided he was going to tell her the truth. It was the best way. She would see through his bullshit anyway. The 66 approached, slowed down, then continued past. Matty ran after it, shouting, waving his arms.

  "Fuck," he yelled. It was so cold. He returned to the bus bench, pulled on his black stretch gloves. They didn't do much to stop the cold, but they were better than nothing. The next bus wouldn't come for half an hour. Matty sat. Five minutes of sitting later, he couldn't take it. He started down the sidewalk.

  After three blocks of broken, ice-slick sidewalk, he stopped. He was better off returning to Sorgy's for another drink, calling a cab. It was then that a red Dodge Ram pulled up. The driver rolled down the passenger window.

  "Need a lift?" he said.

  It was Charlie.

  Matty climbed in. Charlie shifted into drive, but kept his foot on the brake.

  "Where we goin'?" Charlie said.

  "Home."

  "Let's swoop up to Western. Then I'll take you home."

  "No."

  "C'mon! If you ain't gonna be my partner, least I can do is help you out."

  It was easier to appease Charlie than to fight him. For old time's sake, Matty thought to say, but the words were bitter on his tongue. Charlie swerved onto Central, pulled an illegal U-turn, and picked up speed. He had three fingers on the wheel and a beer in the other hand.

  "I love this," Charlie said, turning up the radio. "Just us, the road, some AC/DC." He howled out the window.

  It was 11:45 when they pulled into Western Gas-Mart's lot. Charlie came around to the back and parked next to Lamar's gray Sentra.

  Matty was all nerves.

  Charlie also seemed nervous, but he did his best to hide it.

  "This isn't a good idea," Matty said. "This is stupid."

  Charlie gave him a look. "Don't pussy out on me."

  Out the windshield, Matty watched the sagebrush flail and bob in the wind and snow. Charlie cut the engine, which killed the headlights. Now the orange glow of Albuquerque filled the windshield.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  "That view," Charlie said. "I missed that view."

  He finished his beer and reached behind the seat.

  "Here." He handed Matty something soft, cloth-like. "Put it on."

  Matty said, "I'm not wearing a mask." He set it on the seat between them. "I'm not going to rob him."

  "Fine." Charlie popped open the glove box and pulled out a Beretta. "Least you can do is take this."

  "I won't need it," Matty said.

  "Just take it."

  Matty grumbled, stuffing the gun into his belt. He imagined what he was going to say, how he was going to say it.

  Through the side mirror, Matty watched as half the lot lights went out, leaving them in semi-darkness. Charlie flicked his cigarette out the window. "Closing time."

  Five minutes passed. They watched the city lights shimmer through the snow.

  Then Western's rear door opened. Lamar came out in his puffy winter jacket. He locked the door. As Lamar headed for
his car, he glanced toward the truck parked next to his Nissan.

  Now or never, Matty hopped out of the Ram, closing the door behind him.

  Lamar stopped in his tracks. "We're closed," he called.

  Matty had figured out what he was going say but now the words weren't there. The words had blown away. He almost thought to fuck it, to get back in the truck. But things were set in motion now.

  Matty stepped closer, said, "I want my fucking job back."

  "Matty?"

  Lamar came forward, slowly. He looked tired. A man at the end of a long day, his car keys held before him like a talisman.

  He said, "I can't just give your job back."

  Behind them, the Ram's driver-side door opened and shut. Lamar's eyes shifted to the sound.

  Lamar seemed to realize something then. He took a step back. His face twisted up, he said, "What is this?"

  Matty didn't know, but he felt coming. A light switched on inside him. The air felt electric.

  Without thought, Matty pushed Lamar against the hood of his car.

  "I want my fucking job back."

  Lamar said, "I'm calling the police."

  Charlie came around. He was wearing a Lucha Libre mask and holding a shovel. He howled, lifted the shovel, and came charging.

  Matty tried half-heartedly to stop him, but it did no good. The shovel struck Lamar's head with a terrible thud. Lamar crumpled.

  He lay in the snow, moaning. He cast a confused glance first at Matty and then at Charlie.

  "Fuck, man. Oh fuck," Matty said.

  Matty dropped to one knee, rested a hand on Lamar's leg. He would give anything to fix this, to take it all back. "Let me get you up. Let me help you up," Matty said.

  It was then that Matty saw the glint on steel. Lamar had pulled a .38 from his coat pocket.

  "Get back!" Lamar shouted, his voice slurred, jerking the gun at Matty.

  Matty leapt back, but Charlie didn't see what was happening as he made another running charge with the shovel. There was a flash, a bang. Echoes ricocheted off the clouds as Charlie teetered back, falling to the ground.

  Without thinking, Matty pulled the Beretta from his belt and fired three rounds into Lamar's puffy coat. Lamar lay motionless, still clenching his gun, as blood bloomed beneath him.

  "Fucker shot me," Charlie muttered. He was leaning against his truck, cupping the wound in his stomach. There was blood between his fingers.

  "Fucker…get him in the car!" Charlie said.

  Matty gave Charlie a hard look.

  "Well, look at me! I can't do it! And we can't leave him here."

  Driving Lamar's Toyota, Matty followed Charlie's Ram west. Lamar was slumped in the back seat, breathing hard. Soon it was just their headlight shafts cutting across the snow-swept reaches of West Mesa. Matty had taken the .38 from Lamar's hand and stuffed it in his own jacket pocket. Curled up like a child, Lamar's breathing was increasingly strained. Matty wanted to say something but couldn't think of what. He hadn't meant it to be like this.

  "Sonovabitch," he whispered, clenching the wheel.

  The wind blew fiercely across these wide empty stretches of sagebrush and tumbleweed. They had buried one body out here. Just the one, but one was enough to remember.

  Five miles out of town, Charlie turned right onto a two-track ranch road and Matty followed, bobbing and dipping to the barbed wire gate. Charlie came to a stop and cut the lights. Matty pulled up beside him.

  The back seat was very quiet. Matty tapped Lamar on the arm. Nothing.

  Charlie got out of the Ram, slammed his door, and stumbled over, shovel in hand. Matty rolled down his window.

  "Is he dead?" Charlie said.

  Matty nodded.

  Charlie clutched his abdomen and winced. "I need a doctor. Let's get him in the ground."

  Matty said, "The ground's too hard."

  "What do we do then? Leave him out here for some rancher to see?"

  Charlie shuffled to his left and opened the rear door.

  "Wait," Matty said and climbed out of the car. He stood facing his friend.

  "I keep thinking about something."

  "It ain't your fault," Charlie said, "Who knew the fucker had a gun?"

  "Not that. I was thinking about this afternoon. Who called and got me fired?"

  Charlie straightened, hand still on his stomach. "Somebody must have."

  "Was it you?"

  Charlie laughed. "That's a good one."

  Matty's voice got hard. "Was it you?"

  Charlie said, "Oh, c'mon. You know I… You're my bro, Matty."

  "But you wanted a partner. You wanted me back. How far would you go?"

  Matty held the .38 tightly in his right hand, had it trained on Charlie's chest.

  Charlie saw it. He said, "No, Matty, that's not it. I just wanted—"

  Matty fired.

  The snow came down hard. Still gloved, Matty grabbed the Beretta from his belt and fit it into Charlie's hand. He opened the rear door and returned the .38 to Lamar's clenched claw. He left the rear door open. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

  He thought about driving back in Charlie's Ram. But the tracks he would make. The tracks he would leave. The cops would see the tracks and search for him. He didn't want that. So he walked.

  It was five miles to the city limits. Fed by fear and exhaustion, the night came alive. Shadows gathered behind snowdrifts, close enough to nip at his heels and yet, somehow, just beyond his vision. Matty picked up his pace, ran when he could, falling often. By the time he reached the city, he was beyond sapped. He couldn't feel his feet or his fingers. His mind whirled, sputtered. All he knew was to keep walking.

  When Matty reached Central and 98th, the snow had long ceased and the clouds were breaking. The moon cast the Sandia Mountains in eerie blue light.

  Matty's legs were sandbags. There were no buses, no cars on the road at this hour. Four miles till home, and all he wanted to do was sleep. A truck passed. He thought it might be Charlie, but then he remembered. No truck could ever be Charlie. No truck would ever be Charlie.

  Matty's teeth chattered, clenched. Western's gas pumps cast long shadows in the moonlight. Up the sidewalk was the Aztec Motel. Matty remembered the Navajos. The room.

  He came to the fence gap and crouched through. He came to the room he'd seen the men enter. He knocked on the plywood, shivering uncontrollably.

  "I know you're in there. I need to get warm."

  No one came to the door. Matty pulled at the plywood but couldn't get a grip. So he pushed, shifting the board, getting leverage. A black triangle appeared. A rectangle. Just enough. He climbed inside.

  The room was cold and dark and quiet.

  "Hello?" he said.

  He took off his right glove, pulled a Bic from his pocket, and flicked it to flame. The movement stung, but feeling his fingers was a good sign.

  In the soft glow, Matty saw that the room was empty. Just a bundle of blankets in the corner, empty bottles and cans. They might return, he thought. He hoped they would. Just to have someone there.

  He sat down and flicked his lighter again. He reached for one of the blankets on the pile. It didn't budge. He pulled harder.

  Something was wrong.

  Matty stood up, got a good grip, and yanked. The blanket gave, but it was heavy, heavier than a blanket should be. For the third time, Matty flicked the Bic.

  The lanky Navajo's eyes were wide open, his mouth frozen in eternal rictus. He had died clutching the blanket. Matty stumbled back and dropped the lighter. On his knees in the dark, crying, Matty felt for the lighter but found nothing. He felt his way to the wall. The plywood door. He struck the plywood door with his fist.

  "Please," he cried.

  He lowered his shoulder and barreled, falling forward into the snow.

  The snow burned his cheek. He thought of Charlie, of Lamar, dead in the snow, their final moments steeped in fear.

  Matty ran to the fence and down the icy sidewalk. Ran unt
il his lungs seared. Past Sorgy's, past Mac's, he willed his tired legs home.

  A blush of pink in the east as Matt stumbled up the steps to the front door. He shivered, fiddling with his keys in the half-light. Finally he got the door open and slipped inside. The warmth of the house hit him. He stood on the grate, letting the heat seep into his bones. The bedroom door opened. Alma came out, silhouetted by the light in the hallway.

  "You're a son of a bitch," she said.

  "I just need to sleep," he said.

  Matty woke on the couch a few hours later, went into the kitchen. His body ached. He poured a glass of milk.

  Alma had gone to work. No note.

  Matty sat at the kitchen table. It was 10:20 am. If he had not been fired, he would be leaving for work. Things came back to him. He got to thinking about it.

  No one knew he'd been fired except Lamar.

  In a daze, he brushed his teeth, combed his hair to the side, put on his jacket. He went out into the morning cold and caught a bus. He passed Sorgy's neon martini, pulled the cord at the Aztec. He stood on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette, and watched the bus heave up the mesa. Past the fence lay the plywood in the snow. Alma's words rattled in his head: "You're what you've become."

  The sky was pale blue. Matty saw a police car in Western's lot. He jogged across Central and through the automatic doors. Carla was standing at the register, eyes damp with tears.

  "What's goin' on?" Matty said.

  "Lamar," she cried. "They found blood in the parking lot."

  The cops interviewed Carla in the back office. Then they interviewed Matty. Matty said that he'd left work at 8 p.m. "Look at the schedule. Check the tape." He was glad he hadn't knocked over the chip display.

  When the police were done with him, Matty put on his apron. They'd find Lamar eventually. Killed by an ex-con. In the meantime, the regional manager was heading down from Santa Fe to assess the situation. The shift manager's position would open up. Stocking the potato chips, Matty reminded himself to update his resume.

  AUTHOR BIOS

  Justin Bendell is a writer and teacher living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. A fiction editor for Sliver of Stone Magazine, his stories and poems have appeared in Hayden's Ferry Review, Washington Square Review, Mason's Road, Blink-Ink, and others. He has an MFA from Florida International University and a B.S. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Right now he is thinking about migratory birds, tacos and black metal.