THUGLIT Issue Seventeen

by Steve Bailey

  They brightened again when Oscar asked the bartender to fill their wine glasses. They were, after all, on vacation.

  Oscar clinked their glasses again before speaking to Hicks in French. They'd always spoken French to avoid eavesdroppers. "Why are you so sullen, my friend? Does it have to do with the reason why you are here? And don't lie. You've never been a good liar, at least not with me."

  Hicks responded in Spanish. "Those women are Canadian and might understand French. Switch to Spanish instead."

  Oscar obliged. "You were always the careful one, weren't you. I suppose that's why you're in line for your own office now. I hear the Dean may place you in New York."

  Oscar may have heard it. Hicks knew it, but saw no reason to admit it. "Nothing's been settled yet."

  "Fuck modesty, my friend. You're going places." He toasted Hicks. "Salud." He drank.

  Hicks didn't drink. He intentionally looked at Oscar's glass a second too long before he looked away. He made sure Oscar saw him do it.

  Oscar caught it. He furrowed his brow as he slowly pulled his drink away from his lips once more. Hicks could read his look. Why was he looking at the glass? What's so special about…?

  The retired Ringmaster's expression softened as old instincts kicked in. Hicks watched him piece it all together:

  Hicks' sudden arrival in Argentina.

  The new drink while he was in the bathroom.

  The drink itself—amaretto.

  The stirrer in the glass.

  Oscar slowly set the glass back on the coaster. His hand barely trembled as he pulled it away. "Yes, you are very good, aren't you, my friend?"

  Hicks winced. "Not good enough. You came out of the bathroom before I could remove the stirrer."

  "That should have tipped me off, but I never thought…" Oscar's eyes narrowed. "Yes, it would have to be you, wouldn't it?"

  Hicks let him draw his own conclusions.

  "I presume you used arsenic. That is why you suggested amaretto. To hide the taste of the poison."

  "I suggested amaretto because it's your favorite. And because this had to be done tonight."

  Sweat popped on Oscar's upper lip. He patted it dry with the back of his hand. An elegant gesture of a dying man. "Why?"

  "The Dean wanted it that way."

  "The Dean?" Oscar took a step back like he'd been slapped. "The Dean? After all I've done for that son of a bitch? After all I contributed?" He got a faraway look. "But why?"

  Hicks sloshed the amaretto over the ice in his glass again. Oscar's fate had been sealed days ago by one tiny word. "Malta."

  Oscar's expression changed once more as he silently mouthed the word.

  Malta.

  He looked around blankly; the divorcees long-forgotten though they were sitting behind him. So much had changed since he'd spoken to them only a few moments before. Everything had.

  Oscar shook his head. "Malta? After all these years? How did he know?"

  "Your role in it just came to light," Hicks told him. "Someone got a letter to the Dean that implicated you in the whole fiasco. He checked the contents of the letter against accounts of what happened and decided it was genuine."

  Hicks winced as he slowly turned his drink on the coaster. "The Dean had to rebuild a lot of bridges after Malta. A lot of good people died. I'd be lying if I said he didn't lay out a pretty convincing case. Even I couldn't come up with a defense for you after that. In the end, your record wasn't enough to change his mind." He looked at his friend. "I wish it had been. I mean that."

  The elegant man sagged. "Malta. After all this time. Fucking Malta."

  Hicks knew Oscar could repeat it a thousand times and it wouldn't change the outcome.

  He let Oscar's new reality wash over him. He'd been poisoned. He was going to die very soon. He had chosen this miserable life long ago. He'd reaped the rewards and the pleasures. Now he had to suffer the consequences. There should be no complaints.

  Then Oscar shook off his gloom and righted himself. "Who chose the method?"

  "I did," Hicks admitted. "The Dean was going to lure you to Rio and have you tortured to death. He wanted you to die on Brazilian soil, not Argentinian."

  "Bastard." Then, a new thought came to him. "But why didn't you warn me? I could've run. I could've had a chance."

  "Your world has been barrooms and bedrooms," Hicks said. "Where would you go that we don't already know? You're not a field agent. Hell, I don't think you've even fired a gun since the nineties. How long before they caught you? A week? And when they did, you'd die strapped to a chair in a basement someplace." He nodded at the glass. "At least this way is a bit more humane."

  Hicks watched the logic of everything he'd just told Oscar settle in. He'd been with the University longer than Hicks. He'd seen how they operated. He knew how vindictive and cruel the Dean could be when he chose. And the fiasco on Malta had made him more vindictive than normal.

  Oscar asked, "How much did I ingest?"

  "More than enough to make the end come as quickly as possible."

  Oscar shook as a breath escaped him. He swallowed. "Nothing about arsenic poisoning is quick, my friend."

  Hicks didn't deny it. Both men had seen what arsenic poisoning could do. The retching agony. The indignity and the pain. Such images were impossible to forget. The sounds even more so.

  Oscar closed his eyes as he looked up at the ceiling. If Hicks had known him better, he would have thought he was praying. But men like James Hicks and Oscar Alavera knew they had long since been abandoned by any gods above or demons below.

  When Oscar looked down again, his eyes were wet, but he was not crying. "I suppose I have had a good run, eh? A man who screwed for a living and got well paid for it. A life of pleasure at the expense of the wicked." He even smiled. "You know, I would have been fifty-nine next month. Few in our line of work can say that."

  "And even fewer in our line of work can say it with such honor."

  "But you will, James. Men like you always seem to abide, whereas men like me…well, why waste time on settled business? There's nothing quite so morbid as a dead man discussing death."

  "Is that another old Argentine saying?"

  "That's my saying, friend." He took his drink from the bar and worked up a grin. "Do you think I have enough time to entertain these two pigeons perched behind me?"

  "You've barely got enough time to make it back to your place."

  Oscar stopped mid-sip. "But I only live around the corner."

  "I know."

  Hicks took Oscar's glass before he dropped it. He owed him that last dignity, at least. He didn't want Oscar's last night in his favorite bar to end like that. He didn't want him to be remembered as just another old drunk who'd spilled his drink during a bender.

  Oscar cleared his throat. "Well, it's nice to see you're as efficient as ever, even after all these years."

  Hicks realized his own voice was thicker than he wanted it to be. "I'd say I'm sorry, but it wouldn't make a damned bit of difference."

  "No. I suppose it wouldn't. Not now."

  Then Hicks saw his old friend rally. Like a veteran actor ready to retake the stage for the final act, Oscar shook himself and straightened his sport jacket. He pulled his tie higher on his neck and smoothed down his hair, though not a single hair was out of place.

  He turned on his heel to the divorcees and said, "Senoritas, I hope you will forgive me, but I just realized I am late for a previous engagement and must bid you both a very good evening."

  Blondie offered a boozy snicker. "Is nature calling again?"

  "In a way, senorita, I suppose it is." He bowed slightly at the waist and told the bartender to put all their drinks on his tab. Hicks knew Oscar was a regular of El Cambalache, so the bartender didn't complain. Oscar always paid his bills.

  Oscar turned to Hicks and said, in Spanish, "You'll forgive me if I don't say goodbye."

  Hicks slid off the stool and placed his arm around Oscar's shoulders as if giving him a hug.


  Oscar bristled as Hicks spoke into his ear, "Still having trouble sleeping?"

  "I have for years. You know this. Why?"

  "A handful of sleeping pills won't stop the arsenic, but they'll kill you before the arsenic does."

  Oscar took a step backward and blinked at him.

  Hicks said, "Why should a life of pleasure end in pain?"

  Then, Oscar embraced Hicks and Hicks hugged him back.

  When Oscar drew away, he took him by the shoulders. "If they had to send anyone, I'm honored they sent you."

  Oscar pulled away and walked out of the bar the same way he'd walked in; his back straight and his head high as he stepped out into the warm night air.

  Hicks looked at the door for a while, ignoring the divorcees' attempts to get his attention. He tossed some money on the bar to pay for his drinks. More than they cost, but he didn't care. Anything to get away from that damned place.

  He went outside and caught the end of Oscar's shadow on the sidewalk at the corner. Hicks knew he was walking up the hill to his apartment. San Telmo wasn't the safest neighborhood in Buenos Aires, but it was among the most authentic.

  Just like Oscar Alavera.

  Hicks crossed the street and remained in the shadows as he watched Oscar unlock the front door of his building. He waited until a light appeared in the third floor window he knew to be Oscar's apartment.

  Hicks pulled out his handheld and made a phone call on the University's closed, secure network.

  He dialed the Dean's direct extension. The Dean answered almost immediately. "Is it done?"

  Hicks looked up at the window. "It will be very soon."

  "My records show you didn't bring the arsenic we sent you. Did you improvise?"

  "Yeah. Don't worry. He'll be dead by morning."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I know the man. It's taken care of."

  It can't look like a murder," the Dean reminded him. "It has to look natural."

  Hicks wouldn't tell him it would look like a suicide. Just another lonely old drunk who took a bottle of sleeping pills one night. A predictable death for a man who'd always lived for pleasure.

  But he wouldn't give the Dean that peace of mind. He owed Oscar that much. "It'll look natural. Nothing will appear in the autopsy."

  "Thank you, Ja—"

  Hicks killed the connection and pocketed the handheld. He watched Oscar's window for a while. He didn't know how long, but he stayed there until he saw the light go out. He waited longer still, alone in the shadows, waiting to see something else. He didn't really believe in such things. But sometimes, hope wasn't a bad thing.

  When he waited long enough, Hicks began to walk back to his hotel.

  Oscar had been wrong about one thing. He'd become a pretty good liar after all. And Hicks damned himself for it.

  AUTHOR BIOS

  MATT ANDREW is a recently retired U.S. Marine and has recently completed two deployments to Afghanistan. He currently works and lives near Dallas, Texas, and has fiction upcoming in Blight Digest and with Eldritch Press.

  STEVE BAILEY spends his days as a school teacher in Eastbourne, a seaside town in the U.K He spends his nights chasing his dream of being a crime writer. "A Box of Horses" is his first published work.

  GALAL CHATER was born and raised in New York City's West Village. An accomplished musician and small business owner, he's honored to call Thuglit his first foray into writing unprofessionally.

  LANE KARESKA's work has previously been published in Berkeley Fiction Review, Sheepshead Review, Flashquake and elsewhere. Sirens Call Publications recently published his novella North Dark. His undergraduate degree in Fiction Writing is from Columbia College Chicago and his MFA is from Southern Illinois University.

  TERRENCE MCCAULEY is an award-winning writer of crime fiction. His first thriller Sympathy For The Devil will be published by Polis Books in July 2015. Polis is also republishing Terrence's first two crime novels set in 1930 New York City. In 2008, Terrence won the TruTV 'Search for the Next Great Crime Writer'. In 2014, he won three New Pulp Awards for Best Short Story, Best Novel and Best Author. Terrence has had short stories featured in Thuglit, Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol. 1 and 2, Atomic Noir and Big Pulp among other places. He recently assisted with Grand Central Noir, an anthology where 100% of the proceeds go directly to a non-profit called God's Love We Deliver. A proud native of The Bronx, NY, he is currently working on his next work of fiction. Terrence is represented by Doug Grad of the Doug Grad Literary Agency.

  EDDIE MCNAMARA is an NYC based writer. He loves pizza, Jim Thompson, ramen, Flannery O'Connor, Netflix, punk rock, and all things 1950s. His work has been published in Penthouse, Thuglit, All Due Respect, Shotgun Honey, Flash Fiction Offensive, Blight Digest, Crime Factory, J Journal etc.

  JUSTIN PORTER is a schmuck grown in the rich doit of New York City. Seriously. Fuck that guy.

  DAVE REDDALL is a house carpenter living on Cape Cod. His stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Over My Dead Body, Thrilling Detective, Mouth Full of Bullets, and others. He was nominated for a Shamus in the short story category.

  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 shortlisted 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 and his debut novel The Hard Bounce are now available.

  ALLISON GLASGOW (Editor) has been married to that prick Todd Robinson for seven fucking years. But do I get an award? NoooOOooo…

  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.

  "A fascinating, fast-paced spy thriller for the modern age, equal parts techno-wizardry and old-school tradecraft, and featuring a terrorist plot that reads like its been ripped from the headlines, SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL is an exciting first entry in what's already a gripping intelligence saga."

  OWEN LAUKKANEN, New York Times bestselling author of The Professionals

  "Jordan Harper is the real deal with his visceral voice and napalm prose style. He's penned a brutal but beautiful book of stories with words that cut like a kaiser blade."

  FRANK BILL, author of Donnybrook and Crimes in Southern Indiana