by J. L. Abramo
Burly folded under the pressure and broke Donny’s gaze. He pawed through the mess on his coffee table until he found a pack of smokes, the box crushed but one bent cig remaining. Lighters were easier to find. The low table held no fewer than three.
Donny watched as Burly lit up and blew nervous smoke at the ceiling. He would no longer meet his eyes. The room stank of sweat and unwashed dishes in the sink, the chemical tang of smoked drugs clung to the fibers of every surface.
Burly was an excellent candidate. Already in trouble with the law. His third strike coming up. Donny thought: say he’s busted again. He can pull out this chip—tell them when and where the deal is going down. He gets a free pass and Jimmy get a bus ride and an orange jumpsuit, then a cellmate and a fast lesson in the importance of lubrication.
Plus now Burly’s body language. His anxious smoking, his twitchy body. Red flags. Spinning sirens. Neon signs.
Burly really needed to scratch his balls. He really needed to hit a rail of powder. He really needed a cup of coffee. Mostly the itch south of his sack, though. A thin sweat broke out on his lip. His feet wouldn’t stay still. He felt like a third grader who needs to pee but can’t interrupt the pledge of allegiance.
Donny’s hands unclasped. The gun hung loose now.
“Why’d you do it, Burly?”
The cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. “Do what?”
“My fucking brother, man.”
“Wait...wait, you think I sang?”
“Tell me why.” Donny raised the gun. Burly’s naked torso concaved as if a few inches further away would make the difference between life and death. “Who had it over you? What deal did you cut? Make me understand.”
“I didn’t rat on Jimmy, or anybody else. Jesus fuck, Donny. I would never.”
“What was the deal? Stay out of jail? Jimmy took your place, is that it?”
“Listen to what the fuck I’m saying, Donny. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do shit.” The itch in his crotch had gone away. All senses were on hold while his adrenalin pumped furiously, his breathing constricted, his skin went cold and the pale blond hairs stood out like a field of electricity had run through the room.
“You couldn’t be a fucking man and do your time. Your time, Burly. Now Jimmy has to do it?”
“Donny, you got it wrong. I didn’t—”
First shot went in between two ribs. Missed the heart. White bone poked out through the hole. Exit wound sprayed blood. Burly dropped his cigarette leaving a thin column of smoke rising in front of him. The second shot cut the smoke into swirls as Burly’s chest sprouted a second bloom of red, this time over the heart.
Burly’s mouth hung open. He took a short stagger step backward, stepped on his cigarette ash and felt it singe his skin.
Donny rushed him, teeth clenched and angry spit splashing out. “That was your time to do, Burly.” Donny put out a hand to stop Burly from falling to the ground. He held his skinny body up as color drained from the traitor’s face. Donny noticed Burly’s eyes were no longer bloodshot as his heart stopped pumping.
“Bet you wished you’d taken the time in joint now, huh? Better than time in a hole in the ground.”
He placed the gun on Burly’s chest, wedged between the two of them. His eyes were wide, his eyelids straining open until they were sore. He squeezed the trigger a third time. Felt the heat of the blast against his own skin, but left the gun there and took the burn.
Donny eased Burly down to the floor, let him drop the last foot. When he hit, he didn’t move.
Donny stood, looked at his hand. The hand he’d held up Burly with was smeared with blood from the exit wounds. His shirt was stained too, from their embrace. Burly dead—it didn’t help everything, but Donny felt better. Like scratching an itch you’ve been desperate to get at.
He arrived home, the place he used to share with his younger brother. Jimmy came to live with him when he started working for Don. Two years of community college hadn’t equated to a job for Jimmy. His options were the street, Mom’s basement or beg Donny for a job and a room.
Donny peeled off his shirt and draped it over the arm chair in the living room, careful to keep the bloody side turned out so it wouldn’t stain his furniture. The bright red smears had soaked into the cotton and the dark grey of the shirt turned the blood black and shapeless.
The burn on his chest was red and swollen, black in the center from the muzzle flash. It would heal, but he went to the bathroom to swab it with antiseptic and tape it over with gauze.
While he worked, he heard the door open. For a second he forgot where he left the gun. The kitchen counter, he remembered. Down a hallway and fifteen feet from where he stood. Bad move.
“Donny?” came a familiar voice. His mother. A woman who never let on if she knew about Donny’s work or not, but she’d let it be known that she didn’t approve when Jimmy went to work for Don. And she sat front row at every day of Jimmy’s trial.
“What are you doing here, Mom?” Donny came down the hall, anxious to cover the gun. He found her running a finger over the dark stains on his shirt. She checked her finger. Away from the fibers of the shirt, the red returned, highlighting the whorls of her print. She looked up and saw her shirtless son with a red welt marking his chest.
“Donny, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Mom. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” She looked at his wound then motioned back to the shirt. “This is not your blood.” She looked over his shoulder at the gun resting on the kitchen counter.
“What are you doing here, Mom?”
She nodded her head down to the empty bags in her hands. “I’m here to clean out some of Jimmy’s things. He wanted some stuff. A few books. He’s allowed, you know. Or you would if you ever went to see him.”
“I’m helping Jimmy in my own way.”
“Jesus, Donny, is that was this is?”
Donny stepped forward and swept the shirt off the back of the chair. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What did you do?”
“I said don’t worry about it.”
“Donny, I swear to God almighty. I asked you to look out for him. I don’t want to believe what I hear about you. What some people in the neighborhood say. But, Jesus, Donny...”
“Whatever I did, I did it for Jimmy. He’s in fucking prison, Mom.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Yeah, well, the guy who should’ve been there instead just got his sentence.”
Donny grabbed the gun off the counter and hid it under the balled up shirt in his hands. She’d already seen it, he knew, but somehow it was better to keep it out of sight.
She dropped her bags. They fell to the ground with the sound of wings on dying birds. Brown paper and soft canvas piled at her feet, rooting her to the spot.
“Tell me what you did.”
Donny cringed at the choked sound in her voice. She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t see this. Shouldn’t know.
But she was and she did.
“Mom, just leave. Please. It’s all over. It’s taken care of.”
“What is?”
Donny squeezed the shirt between his hands until it bled onto his palms.
His mother swallowed back her tears. “What’s taken care of, Donny?”
“The one who sent Jimmy to prison. The one who took your baby boy away. Now, didn’t I do good? Do you want a fuck like that running free while Jimmy stews in a cell?”
Tears ran down her face, dropping heavy from tired eyes. “That’s not your blood,” she said again. “It wasn’t your blood to take.”
“He was a rat,” Donny said. “He set Jimmy up. He called the cops.”
“No, he didn’t,” she said.
“Mom, no disrespect, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. This is my business now.” Donny coiled to explode. “You’re right. Everything you ever said about me was right. All the stories, it’s all true. And I don’t care what the fuck y
ou think about me because I know I’d rather be the kind of guy who puts things right after my brother gets royally fucked over, than some wimp who sits back and does nothing.”
After his time in Burly’s apartment, he didn’t think he had any rage left in him but it turned out he’d kept enough in reserve. Now he was tired. A weight pushed down on his shoulders.
His mother stood firm, tears streaking her face and following the deep contours carved by worry. “He didn’t call the cops...because I did.”
Donny felt his chest tighten. “What?”
“I called them, Donny. I didn’t want your brother working for you. I talked to him about it several times before he moved in here. I told him what you were. And I knew I couldn’t reach out to you and ask you to let him go.” She wiped her face dry. “I’d rather he be behind bars and learn his lesson than to stay with you and end up dead, or worse...turn out like you.”
Donny thought of his vow—to kill whoever sent Jimmy to prison. His rage returned again, burned at the edges by betrayal. His heart felt squeezed, an angry black fist pulling on it.
“Tell me you’re lying, Mom.”
She shook her head no.
His hands gripped into fists. Locked in them was the gun. She hadn’t moved. She stood watching her son and knowing how he felt to learn someone who was trusted had broken that trust. She knew the pain of feeling the bond of family torn like a tendon connecting you to someone else.
“I did it, Donny. And he’s better off. He only made one mistake and that was trusting you. He can come back from that. But you...nobody can save you now.”
Donny raised the gun.
In the time between his finger on the trigger and the bullet leaving the barrel, Donny already started to scream. “No.”
The sound of his regret was swallowed by the explosion in the chamber. He couldn’t believe what he’d done as he watched his mother’s body jerk backward with the impact. Her thin shoulders, her slightly stooped frame—it all turned and collapsed as if someone had severed all the connections between her bones at once.
Her eyes closed as she fell. Her body gave way to the act of dying. A spot of blood grew on the front of her sweater and as she fell away Donny could see the dark stains left behind by the exit wound.
He ran forward, dropping the gun and rushing to her with his wadded up shirt pressed hard against her chest as he tried to slow the blood from coming. Her eyes stayed closed. She wouldn’t look at him.
He spoke to her, pleaded for forgiveness, for her strength to fight the pain and go on. They would work it out, he’d pay for his mistakes, he promised. But she was limp in his arms.
His shirt soaked more blood until he couldn’t tell what was Burly’s and what was hers. Fitting, he thought. Blood is blood once it’s been spilled. Doesn’t matter who it belongs to. It’s only the blood that binds us while it flows through veins and passes down, from mother to son, that matters in this world.
Everything else is only a stain.
Back to TOC
SEVEN SPANISH ANGELS
Riley Miller
One Week Ago
This will be my last criminal performance.
She gets in touch first, a one-line email that pings my business account. I’m gonna need to see some of those references, she writes. A simple signature line too: Melody. No introduction. No explanation. I’m drawn to the mystery, the woman who resists that instinctive female impulse to over-explain.
After forwarding the requested documents, my follow-up questions are simple. I ask about her situation. Which of my services interest her. My tone is terse. Businesslike. Still, there’s a lot riding on her answers. Around them, I will build my character. Around them, I will create my script. That familiar excitement zings through my gut at low voltage, a hint of things to come. I only get this feeling when I’m about to land a new part.
That night I get my answer. My husband’s loaded, she writes. But I don’t want to be with him anymore.
She’s a legitimate client. She’s given me just enough, but no more. The vague ones, the careful ones—they’re the ones who employ me.
I write up her invoice for Package 2: The Kidnapper. After I’m done, I allow my mind to wander.
It’s a habit I’ve had since the beginning: picturing my clients, wondering if they are pretty. I pull out a short stack of photos. Not everyone had let me take one—after all, it’s a dangerous game we play. Still, there’s something about a visually inspiring leading lady—a muse—that adds zest to my craft.
There’s no way to know about Melody yet. I haven’t even heard her voice. But still, I picture her as a blonde. Tall, with long feathery hair and an athletic body.
Three Days Ago
My gun’s next to the sink—handle facing me, barrel towards the water-stained wall. Having it close by keeps me in character.
Next to it, mustaches in three shades of brown wait to be chosen, like puppies in a pet store window. They crowd the bottles of dye and liquid adhesive. On the other side of the counter, a trucker hat proclaiming Jesus Saves balances on top of my Stetson. Next to them lay my blusher and eyelashes set—but that’s just in case I get a Package 4: Sister Act. Package 4 is rare.
First: a shave. Then, I try on a brown newsboy. One glance in the mirror—faded in the way only a low-rent apartment mirror gets—tells me it’s too hipster for this gig. Maybe I could wear it backwards for a badass vibe? I try it, then toss it back into the pile.
I have a gray wig halfway settled when my phone dings. It’s Melody. The message reads: One hour. Tom Horn’s.
Her bar choice inspires me and I extricate the Stetson from the pile. The missing piece clicks into place and I’m not looking at myself in the mirror anymore—I’m lookin’ at my character.
I’m all yours, darlin’ I type back.
Along my jaw, I paint on a five o’clock shadow, covering the smoothness I can’t seem to grow out of. Afterward, a young Jack Palance stares back at me, and I tip my hat at my reflection, wide blue eyes shining with confidence.
I don’t know if Tom Horn’s is more famous for its beer or its burgers. One thing’s for sure: it’s red meat all the way, as expected from a bar named after a famous outlaw. I once saw someone order a veggie burger here, and the server laughed so hard she turned red.
Still. For the promised land—one flowing with liquor and cheeseburgers—there’s never enough women. Dudes can be five thick at the bar, and only a few women dot the crowd. More often, the few who come in here hover near the back of the room.
Not so tonight.
A woman sits at one end of the bar. Even the back of her head is shapely—hair wavy and blonde, curving down her bare back, smooth as a sand snake. I’m drawn to her without being sure it’s Melody. Still, a cowboy can hope. She’s perched on the edge of the bar stool, leaning forward, finishing her drink. Nonchalant. Cool. Casual.
I channel outlaw. Strolling forward, I rest my arm on the bar, angling my body so it blocks the rest of the room. I say, “Ma’am?” elongating the middle syllable while my gaze travels over her bosom, telling myself that I’m staying in character.
She taps her empty glass. “I’ll take a gin and tonic. Extra lime. If’n you’re buyin.”
Gin and Tonic. Our code words. She’s my girl, and my heart squeezes out a few extra pumps in appreciation. I adjust my pants so the large belt buckle catches the light. “Jenson. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
We’ve already got the bartender’s eyes—not because he ain’t busy, but because Melody’s one to attract attention, especially in a place like this.
I ease into my southern dialect. See, I’m what they call a method actor, and if I’m John Wayne, she’s every bit a blonde Maureen O’Hara. A younger me couldn’t have landed a babe like her, but now? The older, smoother me knows all the right lines.
If only my high school girlfriend could see me now. She thought I was goofy. Hell, I’d show her goofy.
Craigslist brought Melody and me
together.
Here’s the thing about being a criminal. At least, what I’ve figured out in the couple of years I’ve been at it. Referrals work best, making both my client and me more secure in our business relationship. Besides, I prefer designing my own gigs. But when my creativity’s low and money’s run out, I run an ad seeking a partner in crime.
It’s short. Simple. Bizarre enough that most people think it’s a joke. Kids are the main ones to respond.
But some know an opportunity when they see it. Like Melody. She’s smart, and standing this close to her, I think she might be my favorite leading lady yet. She leans extra close as we talk, and her fingers on my arm are warm, inviting.
After a few drinks, she says, “We should probably finish planning at your place. Too many curious ears.”
The tiny voice in my head that says, You’re goofy, is silenced by her red lips and her fingers trailing over my arm.
Thirteen Minutes Later
Melody wanders around the kitchenette while I pop open another beer. Her eyes are heavy, intense. There’s something about her that seems familiar to me. Kind of cheesy, but she’s like coming home.
“So this is how criminals live?” she asks, eyes wide.
Although it gives me a little thrill that she thinks of me as an outlaw, I consider correcting her. I’m an actor, baby. I’ll tell her eventually.
I come up behind her while she opens my fridge to grab a beer for herself. As she’s closing the door, she pauses in front of her chrome reflection.
She looks at me over her shoulder while combing her long hair out with her fingers. Gorgeous and low maintenance too? I’ve hit the jackpot with this girl.
“Can I keep you?” I ask, losing my drawl for a moment. I don’t remember the last time I felt this way with a woman. They all seem like girls compared to her.
She saunters closer and curls her fingers into my hair. It feels good, her fingers stroking one of the only real things about me. My clothes? My ’stache? My accent? All part of the act. My hair though. It’s one hundred percent Pert Plus real.