THUGLIT Issue Sixteen

by Devon Robbins

  "We've heard all this before," he says.

  "If the client has questions, we need to answer them with some degree of confidence," I tell him.

  "It's a test-run. What the fuck is there to know?"

  "Just…shut up and listen."

  Melinda is tapping her foot, arms crossed over her chest again, one eyebrow severely arched. "Are you both done?" she asks.

  Richie twirls his hands like a Vegas magician revealing a trick. "Proceed."

  Melinda turns to the board, scrawling a string of numbers in tight, neat handwriting. "So again, here are the basics. The drone has an effective range of ten miles. That's five miles out and five miles back. At that range it can carry up to five pounds. Any more than that is going to impact battery life and make it harder to maneuver."

  She's still writing numbers. I don't know how they correspond to what she's saying, but I understand the bullet points.

  "Owning and flying a drone is legal," she says, turning back to us. "FAA regulations say you can't fly them over four hundred feet or let them out of your sight. Since we need to fly it over four hundred feet and let it out of our sight, the trick is not getting caught. That's why we'll be flying these exclusively at night, when they'll be harder to spot."

  Richie raises his hand.

  Melinda points to him with the marker. "Yes, Richie?"

  "What if the client needs the package during the day?"

  "Then ask the client how much they would like going to prison for a very long time. The chance of the drone being intercepted in mid-air is exceedingly low. If law enforcement sees it, they're going to follow it to the destination."

  I raise my hand.

  "Why are you raising your hands? Just ask your questions."

  "Sorry." I tuck my right hand into my left armpit. "Will it be a problem, flying this thing at night?"

  "The camera has an infrared lens kit. Won't be a issue."

  "And you've tested it?" I ask.

  Melinda nods, a smile creeping across her lips. "Dozens of times. Perfect every time."

  "Can we see it?" I ask. "The drone."

  Richie leans forward. "Yeah. Let's see this thing."

  Melinda places the dry-erase marker on the lip running along the bottom of the board, and walks to the door at the back of her office.

  The next room is big and smells like motor oil. Industrial metal shelves line the walls. They're stacked with odd bits of metal, things with wires sticking out that look like they were torn out of larger things. In the center of the room there's a massive table, big enough to sit twenty people for dinner. On one corner of the table, something is draped with a white sheet, creating a landscape of peaks and depressions.

  Melinda pulls the sheet aside to reveal a matte-black dome, the size of a medicine ball cut in half. Jutting out from four corners are posts that point up, with miniature helicopter wings attached. Underneath, there's a small compartment, which the whole thing rests on like a pedestal.

  Richie reaches out to touch it and Melinda smacks his hand. He pulls it back and rubs it. He's smiling now, probably because he thinks she's flirting with him.

  From the look on her face, she is clearly not flirting with him.

  "So what if the cops do manage to grab this thing?" I ask. "Can they trace it back?"

  "It's a custom job. All the parts were purchased from different distributors, and all the serial numbers have been filed off. Everything was paid for through Bitcoin. I'm not saying they can't definitely trace it back to me, but it would take so much time and effort they'd probably give up halfway though."

  "At that rate, playing it safe, how many of these things can you build?" I ask.

  "Two a month. Maybe quicker as we get more money through the door."

  "I thought it would be shiny," Richie says. "Like a racecar or something."

  Melinda shakes her head. "We don't want it to reflect the light."

  "But wouldn't it look cooler?" he asks, putting his arm around Melinda and clasping her shoulder. She tenses up as if a roach crawled on her, then steps away with enough force to knock back Richie's arm.

  "First, don't touch me like that," she says. "That is not fucking okay. And if you're not going to take this seriously…"

  Richie goes from wannabe-suave to alpha-predator like a switch has been flipped. "Don't forget, you came to us about this, okay bitch?"

  I get between the two of them. "Both of you, stop. Let's agree on something." I point to Richie. "We don't have the knowledge or the tools to do this, and we need Melinda. So be nice. It doesn't take any effort to be nice."

  I turn to Melinda, who has a smug smile wrapped around her face. "And you." The smile disappears. "You can handle delivery but you can't get the product. This is a mutually beneficial relationship. It has the potential to be very beneficial, because if this takes off, we'll have the market cornered. So let's all just chill, okay?"

  Melinda nods. I turn to Richie. He nods, not taking his eyes off Melinda.

  "Great," I tell them. "Richie, go get the thing."

  He lingers for a moment, huffs out his nostrils, then dashes out of the room. He comes back and slaps a package wrapped in brown paper—the size and shape of a brick—down onto the table in front of the drone.

  Melinda pulls out a small scale and places the package on top, lets the weight register. She says, "One kilo. Two point two pounds on the dot. Perfect."

  She's very clearly speaking to me and ignoring Richie now. Which is fine, whatever.

  "What are we getting for this again?" Melinda asks.

  "A grand per run, at least five runs per week," I tell her. "That's to start. It's a non-exclusive agreement. We can take on more clients if we want, as long as they aren't direct competitors to the first guy."

  Her blue eyes light up. "Holy fucktown."

  Richie smiles. "Yeah. Holy fucktown is right."

  Melinda gives him a forced, tight smile.

  The city is quiet, frozen in that moment between last call and the breakfast rush, when it's just empty cabs and bread trucks. I quicken my pace, glance back to make sure Richie is keeping up. He's still groggy, hands jammed in his pockets, head down.

  Richie yawns wide and says, "We need a name."

  "For what?"

  "The business."

  "What are we going to do, take out ads? We don't need a name."

  Richie jogs a little to keep pace and come even with me. "We should call the company Speed."

  "Like the movie?"

  "What movie?"

  "Are you fucking kidding? What movie? Keanu Reeves. Sandy Bullock. Speed!"

  "Never heard of it. Is it one of those goofy fucking indie films you like so much?"

  "It was one of the biggest action movies ever. With the bomb, on the bus?"

  "I got nothing," Richie says. "Anyway, I still think we should name the company Speed. Get it? 'Cause we're delivering drugs." He puts up his hands and does air quotes with his fingers. "Speed."

  We stop at a corner to let a cab barrel past us. "That's a little silly," I tell him.

  "I'm not done. Also, we're delivering them fast, right? With speed. It's slick. Kinda modern, right?"

  "What we have isn't a company, dumbass. It's a clandestine drug delivery service. The absolute last thing we want in the world is to advertise what we're doing."

  "Well, fuck you. I'm calling the company Speed. People will call us up and say 'I have the need for Speed.' Like in Top Gun. Now that's a movie."

  "Okay, Richie."

  We walk in silence for a bit, trudging up the avenue until we get to the street we're looking for, and hang a left.

  Richie says, "I think Melinda wants to fuck me."

  "No she doesn't," I say.

  "Jealous?"

  "Not jealous. Just living on planet Earth. Anyway, she doesn't seem like your type. She's cute but she looks like a mouse. You like women with a few more miles on them."

  "She looks like a hot fucking mouse I'd like to see naked. Mayb
e after we get all the pieces in place on this, we can talk about going out for drinks."

  We stop in front of our destination, a blank brick walk-up hidden away in Hell's Kitchen. We stand and wait. I think the camera set into the corner of the doorway refocuses, but I'm not positive. I tell Richie, "No mixing business and pleasure. We stand to make a lot of money if this takes off. Let's not fuck it up. Just this one time, let's not fuck something up."

  "What, you think I can't handle my shit?"

  "No, I know you can't handle your shit."

  The door buzzes and we push through and climb the darkened stairwell toward the roof. "You don't even know what you're talking about," he says.

  "Richie, if you could handle your shit, you wouldn't ask my opinion so much, and we both know if you didn't ask my opinion so much, you'd be dead or in jail for a very long time now."

  "Whatever. Shut up."

  We make it to the doorway leading to the roof and I reach up to knock, but before my fist can land, the door swings open.

  The guy who opens the door is dressed in denim jeans, a black t-shirt, and a denim coat. The guy flanking him is wearing the exact same outfit. They're both thick in the arms and generally unpleasant to look at for too long. They step to the side and let us pass. We step out into the calm cool air to see a young Latino guy in basketball shorts, a tank top, and a neon windbreaker, perched on a stool.

  The guy on the stool looks at us and says, "So you two dummies are the runners. You know it's way too early for this shit, right?"

  This is the first time we're meeting in person, instead of through intermediaries. He doesn't introduce himself. He knows he doesn't need to. I don't know his real name, but people in this neighborhood call him T. Rex. The implication is clear.

  "I can explain that," I tell him.

  "My favorite coffee place wasn't even open," T. Rex says. "I had to get a Red Bull. Red Bull tastes like an asshole that's been dipped in cotton candy."

  "Just…hold on. That's part of the presentation."

  "You have a fucking presentation? Did you bring a PowerPoint? Do I need to set up a projector?"

  "No, give me a minute…hear me out."

  He nods, pulls a pack of Newports out of his shorts. He gets one between his lips, lights it from a crumbled book of matches, and puts his hand up. Says, "Go on with your presentation then. I want to see this thing work and then I want to go back to sleep."

  Richie looks at me and begins to say something so I hold up my hand. He shrugs and walks toward the edge of the roof, to look down onto the sidewalk. I stand in front of T. Rex and check my watch, reach toward my pocket, and the two guys in denim flinch. I slow down a little, pull out my phone, and dial the number I've got queued up.

  Melinda picks up and I tell her, "Launch it now."

  I stick the phone back in my pocket.

  "You know how hard it is to move product around the city," I tell T. Rex.

  He drags, blows out the smoke, and stares at me with slate eyes. A tall apartment building looms out of the darkness behind him, lights in the windows twinkling like stars.

  "Especially since 9/11," I continue. "You can't carry through the subways because there are searches. Taxis and gypsy cabs are a workable solution, but they're not foolproof. A little traffic and you get jammed up, or a dispatcher sends the driver to a different neighborhood and they're out of rotation. Bikes are okay but they're slow, and anyway, drivers don't care much for people on bikes. Accidents happen. That can be dangerous with the product they're carrying."

  T. Rex nods. The wind picks up and he zips his windbreaker. "You don't need to convince me of this. I know it makes sense. What I need to know is if this is going to work."

  "It'll work," I tell him. "We fly them at night, and as time goes on and we develop more of these, we can ship more than keys. We can send out product that's already been cut and bagged. We might be able to ship other items, too."

  "Like what?"

  "Anything under five pounds you don't want to get caught carrying."

  "Like a gun?"

  "Maybe. Do guns weigh less than five pounds?"

  "How the fuck should I know?"

  Richie is back now, and the way his face is twisted I know he wants to say something smart, so I put my hand up, again. Deals go best when he stays quiet. "We can figure all that out. We're open to testing anything once the system is in place."

  "And exactly how long does this system take?" T. Rex asks.

  The soft whirring tips me off, and thankfully it fits the drama of the timing. I step back and the drone floats softly to the roof's gray tarpaper, right between me and T. Rex. He tilts his head and smiles as the rotors come to a stop.

  "That was launched from two miles away," I tell him. "You tell me if that's fast enough."

  T. Rex gets up and tosses his cigarette behind him, sending up a spray of sparks as it taps off one of the thugs in the denim, who doesn't budge.

  "That's fucking tight," he says. "Let's go to a diner and get some eggs and sort out logistics. I'm not even tired anymore. Now I want to work. Give me my kilo."

  I drop to my knee and reach for the knob on the compartment on the bottom of the drone, and find that the door is hanging open.

  My heart twists into a knot hard enough to tear. I reach inside and feel the empty space and I must whimper or gasp because everyone is suddenly staring at me.

  "What's wrong?" T. Rex asks.

  "Nothing, I just…"

  Suddenly his body is eclipsing the speck of sun on the horizon, and now I see exactly where the nickname comes from. "Don't fucking tell me my key isn't in there. Don't you fucking tell me that."

  "It must be…hold on…"

  Hands grab at me from behind and I'm thrown into the brick wall housing the roof access door, the air snatched from my lungs. One of the denim soldiers is holding me, and without much effort. The other is holding Richie in a double nelson, and T. Rex is pressing the blade of a knife against my throat.

  "What the fuck is this?" he asks. "You trying to rip me off?"

  "It's not like that—let me just call our girl. Find out what happened."

  T. Rex stares at me for so long that I think he's decided to kill me and is just imagining it before he does it. Then he pulls the knife back from my throat, nods to his goon, who lets me go. I stumble away, pulling out my cell.

  I take a few paces when Richie yells out. The guy holding him is squeezing and T. Rex is holding the knife and shaking his head. I step back toward them and Melinda answers.

  "Yeah?" she asks.

  "Did you, like, forget to put the kilo into the drone?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean there's no key in the drone."

  "What do you mean there's no key in the drone."

  "I mean exactly that, Mel. Exactly the thing I just said."

  Silence on the other end. T. Rex's knife catches the light of the rising sun.

  Mel says, "The latch. The fucking latch might have come undone. There was a bird, and I had to bank hard around a building—it might have fallen out."

  "You…no. No."

  "Look," she says. "It's still early. I'll send you a map of the flight path. Maybe it's still there. If you leave now…just go. I'll send it to your phone."

  I close my phone and look at T. Rex.

  He must have gotten the idea, because once again I'm against the wall, the knife back to my throat. He's so close that when he speaks, flecks of spit slap me on the face.

  "Forty thousand dollars," he says. "That's what that key is worth."

  "We can get it," I tell him. "It might still be where it fell out."

  He presses the blade harder into my neck. I feel something hot that might be blood.

  A trickle running down my skin.

  Yes, that would be blood.

  "She thinks she knows where it happened," I say.

  T. Rex stares at me a little more and I think I feel an increase of pressure on the blade. Wonder how much it h
urts when someone cuts your throat. Death looks quick in the movies, but those are just movies.

  Then he backs away.

  "Go," he says. "Your brother stays until you get back."

  Richie looks at me with pleading eyes. There are few guarantees in this world, but I know if I agree to this, Richie is dead. Because even if T. Rex has the best of intentions right now, which I doubt he does, Richie has an incredible talent for taking good intentions and turning them the other way.

  "I need him. We're better working together."

  T. Rex sighs. "Fine. Take him. But you take Miguel, too. I'm not even going to threaten you. It's not worth the energy. You know you're dead if you don't turn up with it."

  The denim-clad thug holding Richie—presumably Miguel—smiles and lets go. His teeth look sharp, but that might just be the fear fucking with my vision.

  The sun is nearly up now, the clouds washed orange and yellow. I pull out my phone and open up the map app. There's a pulsing red dot right near where we're standing. This is where Melinda said the drone banked.

  In front of us is a very tall building. One of those new buildings with no character that seem to be springing up everywhere now, just flat blue glass and steel. It's shaped like an L, with a foot sticking out that can't be more than two stories. At the base of the building there's a fenced-in courtyard full of playground equipment.

  At the end of the block there's a steady stream of parents dropping off toddlers. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the building's little foot, we can see kids' toys, bright pastel paint, crude finger-paint drawings pinned to the walls.

  "Dios mío," says Miguel.

  Richie asks, "What?"

  "It's a preschool or something," I tell him.

  "You mean these kids got our coke?"

  "Keep your voice down, Richie."

  "So what's the plan?" he asks.

  Okay. If the key fell here it's either in the courtyard, somewhere around the building, or up on the roof of the school. It can't be on top of the main building; Melinda said she had to bank around it.

  "We need to canvass the area, and we need to get up on that roof," I tell them. "We can check it out and it'll give us a view down into the courtyard."