THUGLIT Issue Twenty-One

by Rena Robinett

"Simple suburban guy. No pets, no firearms. He's got a wife, but she spends most of her time in Haiti."

  "What?"

  "He travels also, but he's home for the next two weeks, alone in that house most of the time."

  "Why are you going to marry a woman if she's going to live in another country?"

  "I don't know, maybe they don't like each other."

  "Kids?"

  "Nope."

  "How do you know he doesn't have a weapon?"

  "I know the guy."

  I didn't know for sure, but it seemed ridiculous to think that Lance Garvey owned a gun. But what did I know? It wasn't like we were friends.

  "Pennsylvania is pretty loose on guns," the hitman said.

  "He doesn't have a gun."

  "All right, I believe you. You want an accident?"

  "Not really."

  "Because less police is better."

  "I'm not against an accident, but a guy breaks into his house and shoots him in the head, that works for me. Is it going to be hard?"

  "No. It's not going to be hard."

  Over the next two weeks, I just put my head down and worked—trying to talk the big companies into helping out a little more. Here's the thing about my job: the clients don't get it. I'm trying to save them. I beg them to let me save them, and they act like they're doing me a favor by spending a few dollars. If you donate free peanut butter to low income schools in Newark, you get the best kind of press, and you give yourself a tax write-off. If you don't, people like Garvey swoop in and write the rules. Where is the next generation of peanut eaters going to come from? The corporations don't seem to realize that this is an existential threat to a way of life.

  The morning of the 27th came—nothing. I followed Garvey on social media, watched him send out little packets of nonsensical emotional propaganda about nuts. Also, recipes for fish—the guy was big on fish. That morning he tweeted "Looking forward to my first visit to the great state of Georgia," then something else about the sanctity of human life. I went back to the payphone and called the hitman's number. It was out of service. Next I called Bruce.

  "I think I know why you're calling," he said.

  "Okay."

  "So it looks like it's not going to happen."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean the guy. No one even knows where he is."

  "I think he might owe some people…an explanation."

  "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know this does not reflect well on me."

  "You're right about that."

  "But I told you at the start, I was just making the intro."

  Yeah, I'm an idiot. I paid too much upfront. I'm like one of those housewives who look up Contract Killer on Craigslist to do in their husbands. So I was heading down to Georgia for the biggest showdown of my life, I was out ten grand of my own money, and I didn't have a prayer.

  The meeting was on Monday, but Garvey tweeted that he was leaving for Raines on Saturday. I also got there a day early, checked in, and went to sit at the bar of a seafood restaurant across from the hotel. Soon I found myself in the middle of an argument with one of those smug southern businessmen who think they're so charming and competent.

  "If they don't eat peanut butter, what do they eat? Baloney? Ham? You got thirty-two million kids eating processed meats every day, you know how many of them will get cancer before they're 40? A lot more than the number who'll have any kind of allergic—"

  "So your solution is just to let those kids die?" he asked. It was hard to believe that a man could talk this way in the heart of peanut country, but that's what it had come to.

  "I didn't say that. But I did say that an overreaction of the kind you're—"

  "So if we have to sacrifice a few kids—so be it. You're a goddamned Aztec. Human sacrifice. That's what you're talking about. You're a monster."

  Straight vodka to the eyes won't kill you, but it does burn. I threw it in his face and watched him clench a fist. But he caught himself in time, threw a twenty on the bar, and left, looking at me like I was the problem.

  And I'll tell you one other thing: the Aztecs had a great culture. They had peanuts, and they weren't ashamed of it. I'd be proud to call myself an Aztec. About fifteen minutes later, Garvey walked into the restaurant. What were the odds of running into Garvey? In a seafood restaurant across the street from his hotel? The only decent restaurant in town?

  The kitchen had already closed, but do you think Garvey could get them to make him a salmon filet? The waitress was happy to stay late. Charm is a powerful force; wounded charm is practically supernatural. I let him eat his meal, quietly, with a book—something with angels on the cover. He spotted me when he was done, just before they brought him the check.

  "Lydia? Is that you?" he said, coming over.

  "Yeah, it's me."

  "It is good to see you again."

  "Sure. It's…" I shrugged, playing it cool. Not openly hostile, not angry. More than anything I was trying to come off as frustrated and overmatched.

  And good God, was Garvey ready to comfort emotional distress. "I hope you understand that I have absolutely nothing against you," he said. "I have a whole lot of respect for you. And over the past few years I've come to like you a great deal."

  Well, what do you do with that? You warm, you open up to him, you respond when he starts to probe, just throwing yourself into the ocean of his eyes.

  "I've got—some things going on in my life," I said. "Thinking about my daughter."

  "I didn't even know you had children."

  "I did. But four years ago, she…"

  "I'm so sorry. I had no idea. If it helps—I understand."

  "Yes, I know you do."

  Last call came, and we went back to his room. Just to talk. We both needed it. So we talked, shared our souls, discussed loss and its purpose in this universe.

  "And my therapist says that I should try writing a letter to her, saying goodbye. I just can't do that," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "It doesn't feel right."

  "Just give it a try."

  I shook my head then shrugged.

  "Can you—can you show me?" I asked. "Maybe just to see another person write the words, that might make it clearer to me."

  Maybe it was an odd request, but not the oddest request you could receive at 1AM from another wrecked soul far from home. He tore off a sheet of Weston Hotel stationary and started to write:

  My dearest girl. I will always love you, but I accept that you are gone from me for life. I also know that, God willing, we will be together again.

  I dumped the cyanide in his drink.

  After that we cried and we hugged. For a second I thought he was going to try to turn the hug into something else, but I was mistaken. He sat back on his chair, exhausted. He wasn't interested in his drink anymore, so I had to propose a toast. I told him that in my country, the most meaningful toasts were drunk late at night and that you had to drain your glass.

  "To eternal love," I said.

  We drank. He got it all down, and we sat together in silence for another minute.

  "What country do you come from?" he asked finally.

  He never said another word.

  I put on my gloves and looked in his bag. He had photos of his daughter in a folder and a few pictures she'd drawn. A lock of her hair? I arranged it all around the letter he'd just written. Then I wiped down everything I'd touched, slipped my glass into my pocket, and left the room. There was no one out in the hallway to see me.

  It was a suicide.

  A sad man alone in a hotel.

  At the hearing on Monday, the anti-nut folks tried to stall—out of respect to a departed member of their team. But the hearing went on. I was careful not to come off as too aggressive, but I had a lot more room than usual. For once I was the likeable one, the human. I attacked some of their figures and talked up the extraordinary benefits of the peanut. And I had the new slides. Planters had just come up with an enriched peanut paste that
they donated to relief workers at refugee camps. There were the kids, smiling, eating thick globs of the stuff off the ends of plastic spoons. Decreased mortality, gain of muscle mass and cognitive functioning. It was strong.

  "Touching as this is, let's try to remember that we are discussing schools in the United States and not refugee camps," countered one of the anti-nuts across the table.

  "With all due respect, I'd like to remind the board that nearly 15 percent of American children suffer from some form of malnutrition," I said. "The single most effective, most cost-effective way to confront this—"

  My speech was interrupted by the squeak of the back door opening. In walked Christie Garvey, just back from Haiti after hearing of the death of her husband. She whispered a bit with the Chairman of the School Board, and he nodded in deference. When I was done, she took the podium. She'd brought slides.

  And, holy donkey fuck, did she look sad.

  Being Fred

  by Travis Richardson

  I wake up in a panic knowing things are bad. I'm not sure what Conner did, but it had to be awful. Turning in bed, I make sure there isn't a dead prostitute beside me. It happened before. There isn't, but a woman has been here. I can see a few long blonde hairs on the pillow. I hope Conner's encounter was consensual.

  I search my hands for traces of blood and sniff them for chemical odors. All I smell is latex and stale sex. Okay, so maybe he didn't do something too bad.

  My phone rings. It's Vlad. Nothing good comes from Vladimir Dvoynev.

  "Hello," I say in a timid voice.

  "It's you." He laughs in a deep baritone. "I was wondering when you'd surface again."

  A chill runs through my bones. He knows all about me, or at least as much as his shrink could pry out of Conner. Vlad doesn't like it much when his top enforcer occasionally goes soft and does uncharacteristically nice things. It doesn't help his organization's ruthless reputation. He indulges me, however, because Conner's work is so horribly thorough.

  "So when can I talk to Conner?"

  "I...I don't know."

  "Hmmm. This is bad, real bad. What is your name again?"

  I don't want to tell him, but I cannot not tell him. He has ways of getting whatever he wants.

  "Fred," I say, crawling out of bed. I'm naked and have scratch marks on my arms. I start to gather the clothes strewn everywhere across the hotel room.

  "Ah, Fred, nice Fred. Here's the deal, Fred. Conner did a wonderful job last night, but not perfect."

  I rack my brain trying to think what Conner did. It was big enough to bring me out of hibernation. All I remember is a dream about Conner driving to several places. Determined to do something for Vlad. What was it?

  "I...I don't remember what Conner did."

  "Oh, I imagine you do, Conner. You are just trying to forget."

  "It's Fred."

  Vlad laughs again, but without the mirth. "I am sending men up to your room as we speak."

  The line goes dead. A microsecond later there is a knock on the door. I yelp in spite of myself. I'm still nude, holding an Armani suit in my hands.

  "Just a minute," I shout.

  The door opens anyway, and two hulking men, Pavel and Yuri, stride in. I'm big too, if I really think about it, but I don't. I just want to be normal and unnoticed.

  "Hey," I say with a squeak. "Can't you see I'm dressing?"

  "Not like we haven't seen your dick before," Yuri says.

  "Hurry up and get dressed," Pavel says.

  What has Conner been doing with these guys?

  I'm taken to a limousine waiting outside a downtown L.A. hotel. They push me inside, where Vlad is waiting. He looks like what you think a Vlad would look like—dark-haired, goateed, and imposing, with a glass of vodka in his hand. The leather interior has VD stitched everywhere. Since nobody else told Vladimir Dvoynev what his initials stand for in English, I resolve not to be the idiot who does. While I might be nice, I'm not stupid.

  "So, Fred, you did a wonderful job as I already said. But there was a mistake."

  He holds up a hand to keep me from interrupting.

  "See, when you captured and dismantled that Armenian fuck… What's his name?"

  "Bagrat Shahumyan," Yuri says.

  "Yes, Bagrat the Braggart. You dropped off sections of him throughout the city in the manner that I requested, sending me the GPS coordinates."

  I feel woozy as my stomach drops. I knew Bagrat. I've hung out with him. He was a dealmaker between AP (Armenian Power) and the Russian mafia. Although he was arrogant and played fast and loose, the guy was intelligent and funny. Obviously, not funny enough for Vlad.

  "The problem is with the last piece of Braggart you buried," Vlad continues. "His left arm with the tattoo of a cross also had a watch on it. Do you remember?"

  "I don't."

  Vlad strokes his goatee. "Perhaps this will help."

  He pulls out a cell phone, taps the screen, and hands the phone to Pavel, who shoves it into my hand. The image on the screen is of a severed arm on the sand. I drop the phone.

  "Pick up the phone, Freddy." Vlad isn't asking.

  I pick it off the floor.

  "See the picture?"

  I nod, knowing if I talk, I might puke.

  "See the gold wristband?"

  I nod.

  "You need to find that watch. If it is a Rolex Rose Gold President, you bring it back."

  "What's a Rolex President? I mean. I know what a Rolex is, but—"

  "The back will be inscribed on the watch that I want."

  "What does it say?"

  He says something in Russian with the words lyubov, Vladimir, and Tatiana. Lyubov mean 'love' in Russian—and Tatiana is Vlad's wife. The thugs lock their eyes on their shoes. Embarrassed for their boss. I want to ask, but know better.

  "Find the arm, take the watch on it—whether it is mine or not—and bring it to me. That is all I ask."

  "But I don't know where it's at."

  "You do. You buried it. Here are the GPS coordinates."

  He hands me a piece of paper with numbers on it. It might as well be in Chinese.

  "I don't know how to use this."

  Vlad looks exasperated. "Your phone. You can put GPS coordinates on your phone."

  I don't know how to use the simplest app. My face must show this as Vlad looks at Pavel, who reaches inside my jacket pocket and yanks out my phone. He swipes and taps the screen.

  "Here," the brute says, handing me the phone back with a map of Manhattan Beach. A blue dot hovers in the middle of the sand. The spot where a severed arm is buried.

  I look up at Vlad. "Why me?"

  "Because you did the work. You should finish it. A man should be able to say he's done his job completely."

  He holds up his hand, squashing any protest I had.

  "I expect to hear back from you in two hours with the news that you have the watch in your possession."

  I swallow hard, trembling, but I must face this monster.

  "And I if don't?"

  "If not, then Pavel will visit what’s her name? Oh yes, Sandra Harrison at that orphanage house you like to visit when you are in your…condition."

  He nods to Pavel, who the opens door and pulls me out of the car into the blinding sunlight.

  I drive west toward the ocean in Conner's ostentatious Mercedes. How I've managed not to retch all over the leather interior is beyond me. Gripping the steering wheel to keep from shaking, I'm a frayed ball of nerves. I don't like the idea of handling body parts. It's not what I do. Conner does that the horrible work. I like doing good things and being around good people. I like watching animated movies, giving Conner's ill-gotten gains to charity, and volunteering at a community center. This job that Vlad is sending me on is not me. Not one bit.

  In case you haven't figured it out by now, I'm part of a split personality: the kinder and infrequent part of Kondrat "Conner" Gregorovich. He's a bad man who does awful things, but he's not a sociopath. If he was, I wouldn'
t exist. I am Conner's way of coping with his evil deeds. Usually when I'm awakened (a.k.a. taking possession of Conner's body), he's done something horrendous. I try to offset the damage by doing positive things in the world. Receiving accolades from folks he doesn't know makes Conner's life awkward, but oh well.

  My do-gooding also disturbs Vlad, even though that psychologist has assured him that I'd never turn against Conner because it would be a form of suicide. Trust me, I've thought about it multiple times, but I can't bring myself to do it. And while I'd like to leave clues to lead the cops to Vlad, it's not in me. It's a huge flaw in my psyche, but it keeps me alive too.

  I take the 110 to the 105, cruising past the Los Angeles Airport. Looking at those enormous planes leaving LA, I think of exiting and hopping on a flight to anywhere. Just far, far away. The problem is that Conner will come back. Usually when I'm asleep, but not always. Sometimes I'm walking in a park or watching a movie and next thing I know, three weeks has passed and my bloody fists are punching a man tied to a chair.

  My life is very disturbing, to say the least.

  Parking in the lot next to the Chevron plant, the ocean is a vast infinity of rippling green-gray that touches a cloudless blue sky. I pop the trunk to see if there is a shovel or anything for scooping sand, but it's spotless. Too spotless, if you know what I mean. Thinking of digging up a severed arm and touching it with my bare hands makes me gag.

  There are a few swimmers and sunbathers, and one guy is beachcombing with a metal detector. At least this place is not as crowded as Santa Monica. I'm looking down at the phone, trying to read the coordinates, when a short Asian man slams into me. I drop the phone. He falls backwards.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, offering my hand.

  His eyes widen like a cartoon rabbit's. Crawling backwards, he searches the sand and snatches something shiny. He darts past me to the parking lot.

  Conner would've tackled the guy or shot him just for acting strange. I feel sorry for him until I notice a few yards ahead is an abandoned metal detector next to a mound of sand and a filthy, watchless human arm. A little boy points at it, screaming for his mother. Turning, I see the Asian man climb into an old orange pickup. As people gather around the arm, I sprint back to Conner's car.