"And how do you suggest we do that?" Richie asks. "We all look like we shouldn't be allowed near kids."
I turn to Miguel. "Any ideas?"
He shrugs. "No lo sé."
"Do you even speak English?" Richie asks.
"Vete a la mierda," Miguel says.
"That means 'fuck you,'" I say. "So I guess the answer is no."
Miguel nods.
I point up at the roof. "Miguel, can you go up there? Me and Richie will search around the building."
Miguel shakes his head.
Which is what I figured. No way is he leaving us both alone together. And he's right, because I was planning on the two of us running away, very fast, as soon as he was out of sight.
"Fine," I tell him. "You and Richie search around the building. Then see if there's a way you can get onto the roof from the outside. I'll try to go in through the front through the school."
"Why do you get the school?" Richie asks.
"Because I look less like a child molester."
"Fuck you. I don't look like a child molester."
"You just said you look like you shouldn't be around kids."
"I didn't mean it like that, you sick fuck."
I press my face into my hands to keep from screaming. More kids are showing up. We're running out of time. I am keenly aware of the raw, hot feeling of the slight wound on my throat, which T. Rex wants to make into a bigger wound. I head toward the school and call out, "Just get moving."
Given the life I've chosen, this is not the first time I've found myself trying to get into a place I shouldn't be. There's a trick to it, and it's easy: Act like you belong there. Don't ask for permission. Don't come up with an excuse. Put your head down. Walk in like you've got a destination in mind. Smile, but not directly at people, because that's creepy.
Most times, people will just assume you know where you're going and let you pass.
Most times.
Three feet inside the lobby, as I'm giving my neck one last wipe to make sure there's no more blood, a plump black woman steps in front of me. She has flat blue-black doll hair, her fingers tipped with long, blood-red nails that look like talons. The nametag pinned to her pink button-down shirt says Rhonda. She's a foot and a half shorter than me, so she's stretching her neck to look at my face.
Her voice booms. "Can I help you?"
Another helpful thing for getting into places you're not supposed to be: Keep a script in your back pocket, just in case.
"Yeah," I tell her. "I'm with the city. Just have to take a quick look at the electric. There was a surge in this neighborhood. What happens is, sometimes that can throw some circuits in a big building like this. Chances are it's nothing. If there's a cause for concern, I come back with a crew and we fix it. Should take five minutes."
None of this makes any actual sense, but I'm betting she's not an electrician. Utility guys are wallpaper. They come in and out of buildings all the time.
It's never not worked.
The woman smiles. "I got you. Show me some ID and then you can head on back."
"Oh, well…"
She purses her lips. "You don't have ID?"
"Well, I mean…"
"So you really think I'm going to let some sketchy-looking motherfucker walk into a place that's full of kids with no proof of who he is?"
"I didn't mean to…"
She sticks a finger into my face. The talon on the end is so long that if she jammed it in my eye, it would surely pierce my brain. "You have exactly until I am done talking to get the fuck out of here, or I am going to call the police —then beat the shit out of you while we wait for them. If you can come back with some ID, then we'll be settled."
"Jesus, I'm sorry."
"And don't take the motherfucking Lord's name in vain. There are children here."
In this moment, I legitimately do not know who to be more afraid of: T. Rex or Rhonda.
I stop running when I'm sure I'm out of Rhonda's line of sight, and I find that Richie and Miguel had better luck than me, the two of them poking around up on the roof.
Richie seems me on the sidewalk and shrugs.
It is a shrug of desperation.
Miguel, though, is looking down into the courtyard, where the kids are now outside playing. The way he's looking makes me think something is up. I walk to the fence and peer in.
The kids are tearing around the playground, bouncing off objects like rubber balls. Their eyes are wide like they're gripped by madness, their mouths rimmed in white powder.
No.
Oh fuck no.
Richie is looking now, too. He calls down to me but I can't hear him, so he takes out his phone. He fiddles with it and then mine rings. I answer and he says, "Dude, I think those kids have our coke."
I look back into the courtyard, find the kids are playing some elaborate game that involves jumping over each other while they screech like dinosaurs. One little Asian boy gets close and he looks like Al Pacino at the end of Scarface after he stuck his face into the mountain of coke. He squeals at me like a pterodactyl before he runs off.
Richie is still talking, the words bouncing off me and tumbling to the ground. After a moment I ask him to repeat himself.
"We have to get the fuck out of here," he says.
"No way, man," I tell him. "We have to tell someone."
"Fuck that. Fuck those kids. Let's get the fuck out of here."
"We're not monsters, Richie."
The phone disconnects. I look up and can't see Richie or Miguel.
I look back at the kids, their faces turning red from exertion as they blast around the playground like they've got rockets strapped to them.
I've done a lot of bad in my life and I've lived with it, but this, I can't let go. They're kids.
And anyway, T. Rex is probably going to kill me soon. I may as well do a little good before that happens.
Rhonda listens to my frantic explanation—that I think the kids have ingested cocaine and she needs to call an ambulance and we should probably get them some water or something, and maybe stop them from running around, I guess?
I don't know anything about kids and their tolerance level for drugs.
Rhonda laughs. "You are some whacked-out motherfucker, you know that?"
"This isn't a joke!"
I scream it at her. So loud that she flinches, and now people are stopping and staring. There are a few parents here now, some of them pushing their children behind them. A few of the dads make their way over to get Rhonda's back.
"Look," I put my hands up, drop my voice, try to turn on the friendly. "We need to help these kids. I promise, call the cops and they can take me away, I don't care. Just call 911 and get an ambulance."
There is now a very large, very angry group of people lined up behind Rhonda.
"The only thing these kids are hopped up on is the powered donuts," she says. "Now, why don't you just stay there, nice and calm, and we're going to call the cops and sort this out."
"That white powder is…donuts."
"Where are a bunch of kids going to get cocaine, mother-" Rhonda notices a kid has gotten close. "-jibjab."
"Umm." Shit. "I think that there may have been a misunderstanding here."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, two of the dads lunge and grab at my arms. I step back and shake them off and now people are screaming and yelling. I throw an elbow and catch someone in the head, then run outside and around the building, where I slam hard into Richie.
We tangle and fall to the ground.
As we're getting to our feet, I realize someone took a bucket of blood and splashed it across his front.
"The fuck happened to you?" I ask. "Where the fuck is Miguel?"
A group of parents come around the side of the building, headed right for us, wielding colorful plastic toys as makeshift weapons.
"I think we should be running right now," Richie says.
"Agreed."
Six blocks later and we think we're
safe enough that we can duck into the alcove of a delivery bay. The block is quiet; there's a bottled water delivery truck parked at the curb and no one in sight. I bend over and put my hands on my knees. Richie sprawls out onto the ground, huffing and puffing.
When I can breathe enough to talk I ask, "Where the fuck is Miguel?"
"Yeah, so T. Rex called him for an update and things didn't sound too good so I figured it was best to make a pre-emptive strike."
"What happened? Is he dead?"
"Possibly. Let's just say he can't fly," Richie says.
"Why are you covered in so much blood then?"
"Well, there was a wrench up on the roof, and I hit him with it, and that all turned into a thing. C'mon man, do the details matter that much? All that matters is he's not coming after us."
Okay. This isn't good.
But it's a problem that could be less severe if we can solve the bigger problem. Maybe T. Rex will go easy on us if we show up with the drugs. We can come up with an excuse for Miguel. Fuck, we can say that Miguel suggested we all make a run for it with the key.
There's an answer here. I can find one.
First we have to solve the case of the missing coke.
I call Melinda again and she answers, says, "You didn't find it, did you?"
"No. We're in a lot of trouble, Mel."
"Is Richie there?"
"Yes, why?"
"Put the call on speaker. I want him to hear this."
I pull the phone away from my ear, fuck with the screen trying to figure it out. Richie asks, "What are you doing?"
"Melinda wants to talk to you."
He smiles. "I told you she wanted to fuck me."
"Shut up shut up SHUT UP."
I find the right button and click it, ask, "Mel?"
"I hear you." Her voice is high and tinny. "Are you both there?"
"We are," I tell her. "What is it that both of us need to hear?"
"Okay, so Billy, I want you to know I feel a little bad about this, because you seem like an okay guy, but at the same time, your brother is a fucking scumbag, so at the end of the day, I don't feel that bad…"
"Hey," Richie says. "I'm not a scumbag."
"Yes, you are," Mel says. "You grabbed my ass three times. Once is bad enough. Twice more after I told you to stop. You know how not-fucking-cool that is? You can't just do that. So consider this a lesson. I never put the kilo in the drone. I'm going to sell it to another buyer. And I'm already out of the state. It should go without saying you won't be able to find me, so, I guess this is goodbye."
"Mel, wait…" I plead.
"Sorry, Billy. Fuck you, Richie."
The line goes dead.
"So…what now?" Richie asks.
"We go. Right now. Don't even go home first. We have to fucking go, Richie."
Richie climbs to his feet, drops his thin jacket to the ground, and pulls off his gray t-shirt, flipping it inside out. "That fucking bitch…"
"Maybe if you'd didn't act like such a dick all the time she wouldn't have fucked us."
"Get real, little brother," he says, pulling the shirt back over his head. "She played us. She knew exactly what she was doing. You think me making a grab at her was the deciding factor? She had a plan from the beginning."
"Bullshit."
"Yeah? She has another buyer? How the fuck is some nerd bitch going to line up a buyer for a kilo of fucking coke unless they did a little legwork? If she had that kind of reach, she wouldn't have needed us in the first place."
That's not an unfair point.
It's also not the important thing right now.
Richie puts his jacket on and buttons it so the blood isn't even visible anymore, save a splash on his chin. I point to it and he wipes at it with the dark sleeve of his jacket. Not great, but better than nothing.
"Let's revisit this," I tell him. "Right now, we have to get gone."
On this much, we're simpatico.
We turn the corner, stumbling in the light of day.
"You know what the worst part is?"
"What, Richie?" I ask. "What's the worst part?"
"This was a good fucking idea. Six months and everyone's going to be doing this. Speed would have been the first."
"You and that fucking name."
"It's a good name."
"No it's not. And when we're settled, in whatever bumfuck burg is safe enough that maybe T. Rex won't find us and kill us, we're going to rent Speed, because I can't believe you haven't seen it."
But Richie isn't walking next to me anymore.
I stop and turn, and he's frozen a few steps behind, his eyes and wide and set, staring at something off in the distance.
Down the block, there's a flash of denim.
AUTHOR BIOS
ERIK ARNESON is an editor at Shotgun Honey and hosts the Title 18: Word Crimes podcast. His fiction has appeared in Needle, Beat to a Pulp, Akashic Books' Mondays are Murder, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and more. He lives in Pennsylvania and can be found at www.ErikArneson.com.
ERIC BEETNER has three novels coming in 2015. For now he is the author of The Devil Doesn't Want Me, Dig Two Graves, White Hot Pistol, The Year I Died Seven Times, Stripper Pole At The End Of The World & the story collection, A Bouquet Of Bullets. He is co-author (with JB Kohl) of the novels One Too Many Blows To The Head and Borrowed Trouble and the upcoming Over Their Heads. He has also written two novellas in the popular Fightcard series, Split Decision and A Mouth Full Of Blood. He lives in Los Angeles where he co-hosts the Noir At The Bar reading series. For more visit ericbeetner.blogspot.com
ROB HART is the class director at LitReactor and the associate publisher of MysteriousPress.com. He's the author of The Last Safe Place: A Zombie Novella, and his stories have appeared in publications like Thuglit, Needle, All Due Respect, and Helix Literary Magazine. His first novel, New Yorked, is out in June from Polis Books and now available for pre-order. Find more at www.robwhart.com.
ED KURTZ is the author of Angel of the Abyss, The Forty-Two, and A Wind of Knives. His short fiction has appeared in Thuglit, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Shotgun Honey, and numerous anthologies including The Best American Mystery Stories 2014. Kurtz lives in Texas where he is at work on his next project, and can be found online at www.edkurtz.net.
BRACKEN MACLEOD Bracken MacLeod has worked as a martial arts teacher, a university philosophy instructor, for a children's non-profit, and as a criminal and civil trial attorney. His short fiction has appeared in various magazines and anthologies including Shotgun Honey, Sex and Murder Magazine, LampLight, Every Day Fiction, The Anthology: Year One and Year Two: Inner Demons Out, Reloaded: Both Barrels Vol. 2, Ominous Realities, The Big Adios, Widowmakers, Femme Fatale: Erotic Tales of Dangerous Women, Beat to a Pulp, Splatterpunk, and Shock Totem Magazine. He is the author of the novel, Mountain Home, and a novella, White Knight. He recently signed with Macmillan Entertainment to produce a new book, Stranded, which will be released by Tor. You can find that and more of his work at http://amazon.com/author/bracken.macleod
MARK RAPACZ is an editor and partner with the neo-pulp press Burnt Bridge and the founder of its imprint Blastgun Books. His short stories have appeared in a number of publications, including Plots With Guns, Revolver, Dark Corners, The Booked Anthology, and Best American Nonrequired Reading 2012. His novel, tentatively titled Foreigners, is forthcoming from New Pulp Press. He and his wife currently live in the Bay Area where he continues to write stories.
DEVON ROBBINS Devon Robbins lives and writes in rural Utah. His stories have been published in Bloody Knuckles, ThunderDome Magazine, and The Molotov Cocktail, among others. You can find him on twitter @devon_pirates.
SCOTT LORING SANDERS lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. In 2014, he had a story included in Best American Mystery Stories, as well as a story in Issue 14 of Thuglit. He's published two novels with Houghton Mifflin, was Writer-in-Residence at the Camargo Foundation in Cassis, France, and has been a two-time fellow at the Virginia
Center for the Creative Arts. He's published several mystery stories in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, and has a new story forthcoming in All Due Respect in Spring '15, as well as a new essay in Creative Nonfiction, March '15. He teaches Creative Writing at Virginia Tech.
TODD ROBINSON (Editor) is the creator and Chief Editor of Thuglit. His writing has appeared in Blood & Tacos, Plots With Guns, Needle Magazine, Shotgun Honey, Strange, Weird, and Wonderful, Out of the Gutter, Pulp Pusher, Grift, Demolition Magazine, CrimeFactory, All Due Respect, and several anthologies. He has been nominated three times for the Derringer Award, twice short-listed for Best American Mystery Stories, selected for Writers Digest's Year's Best Writing 2003, lost the Anthony Award both in 2013 AND 2014, and won the inaugural Bullet Award in June 2011. The first collection of his short stories, Dirty Words is now available and his debut novel The Hard Bounce is available from Tyrus Books.
ALLISON GLASGOW (Editor) is rubber and you are glue.
JULIE MCCARRON (Editor) is a celebrity ghostwriter with three New York Times bestsellers to her credit. Her books have appeared on every major entertainment and television talk show; they have been featured in Publishers Weekly and excerpted in numerous magazines including People. Prior to collaborating on celebrity bios, Julie was a book editor for many years. Julie started her career writing press releases and worked in the motion picture publicity department of Paramount Pictures and for Chasen & Company in Los Angeles. She also worked at General Publishing Group in Santa Monica and for the Dijkstra Literary Agency in Del Mar before turning to editing/writing full-time. She lives in Southern California.
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THUGLIT Issue Sixteen Page 12