THUGLIT Issue Eleven

by Matthew McBride

  "What about food?"

  He opened the wad of bills and peeled off another ten.

  "Thanks," I told him. "Maybe if I put this ten with a ten of my own I'll have enough to eat at Waffle House."

  "Hey!" Randy snapped. "I love Waffle House. Don't let the smell of that place fool ya."

  Randy lit a cigarette and I bummed one from him. Something he didn't like but expected.

  "Here's the deal," he said. "You pick up this car'n you go back to the bar where I met you, OK? Go inside, have a beer. That's it. One beer—fact, you're gonna be drivin cross country, better make that a Shirley Temple. Just in case you get stopped by a cop."

  "No problem," I said.

  Randy wasn't convinced I got it. "One drink. That's it," he held up a finger. "Just give 'em five minutes to make the switch," he pointed to his watch. "We're on a schedule."

  "OK. I pick up the rental, drive to the bar, go inside'n have a bee…Shirley Temple. I have one Shirley Temple, and that's it. That's all I do. Then I come back to the car."

  Randy nodded. He liked to hear me spell it out for him like that. It let him know I was on the level.

  He said, "But when you get back to the car...it ain't gonna be your car."

  "Huh?"

  "It's gonna be a car just like yours—you take it. Key's gonna be in the ignition."

  "Then what?"

  "Be a phone in the glove box. Cheap phone. Throw away. That's how we do things."

  I said that was fine with me. He dropped me off by the door and pulled away. I rented my car and drove to Sam's. I left the key in the ignition when I got out and left a bag with some clothes in the backseat.

  I walked inside and there was Teddy Bear, a huge black man who bounced for Rip Fancy, a one-armed man who owned the bar. Rip was connected to all the right people. He oversaw things, but he was not the kind of guy you could talk to. Teddy Bear you could talk to, and if you had to talk to Rip, you had to do it through him.

  I squeezed by Teddy Bear and nodded.

  "Hey playa," he said.

  Vince, behind the bar, made a drink for a tall brunette. She was a big boned, chain-smoking woman with a bad haircut. She had a neck tattoo of a skull with pink flowers for eyes.

  "Vince," I said.

  He raised a hand in my direction, and, seeing me, reached instinctively for the bourbon, like a good bartender should, then set it on the counter and slid it toward me.

  Then I thought about what I'd promised Randy. That I wouldn't drink.

  I reached over the counter and grabbed a tumbler anyway. Set it on the bar and opened the bottle and poured a few fingers. Admired the bourbon in the glass and shook it. Held it to my nose and inhaled it. The bourbon was cheap, but I took in its aroma just the same. I loved the smell of alcohol in the morning. Anytime really, but there was just something special about that first drink that really channeled my perspective.

  Vince set a beer on the counter in front of me and walked off before I could protest. Or thank him. Either way, two drinks wouldn't hurt. Not with the tolerance I had.

  I twisted the lid and raised the bottle and cold beer filled my mouth. I was parched, and the beer was so good I must be careful.

  Rip Fancy sat at his private table in back and did his best not to let anyone know he was watching. But Rip watched everyone. That was one reason I didn't like him.

  I looked at the clock above a beer-stained sign and wondered if they'd made the switch. I assumed they'd been following me—that someone had been—because this was a big operation. I'd done some figuring. Randy was tight with the Mexicans, thanks to Fishhook Jim, because his cellmate had been Carlos Hernandez, a Mexican who'd been popped en route to Ohio with five kilos of blow.

  Anyone with that much coke was a player.

  Now Randy worked for Fishhook, who worked for Carlos, who worked for his family on the other side. Carlos oversaw the money operation through his go-between, Randy, the man in charge of transfer and delivery.

  That meant Randy was connected, and at his level of involvement, now my level of involvement, any wrong move would get him killed—get us killed—because of what he knew, what I was about to know. I recognized I was in over my head, but I couldn't stop myself. I finished the bourbon and poured a second glass. Thought about how this job could change things.

  Without being told, Vince pulled another beer from the cooler and walked toward me.

  "Thanks."

  I handed him a ten and said to keep it, the same ten Randy had just given me. I then slipped him a five spot for his trouble because I liked to treat my bartender right.

  Vince raised his own glass to mine, said, "Down the hatch," and returned to his other duties.

  Halfway through the second beer and after that next glass of bourbon, which I'd treated as a shot, I could feel the buzz coming on strong and I liked it. As I drank, a plan began to formulate inside my head. A way to turn this thing around and improve my position. The truth was, I couldn't trust Randy and he couldn't trust me. And in the end, neither one of us could trust those Mexicans.

  I had reneged on my promise to Randy, but I didn't care. I was doing him a favor, way I saw it. They needed an American with a clean record, one who wouldn't fold under pressure like a lawn chair, and for three thousand dollars they'd bought the right man. Thirty-five hundred if you count expenses. Plus that ten I'd already spent.

  Teddy Bear walked by and made his way to Rip, who now stood at a pool table and held his cue with his stub. He wore a sock on the end of it, stained yellow with sweat.

  I looked at the clock and finished my drink, set my empty on the bar and left.

  Outside the sun felt warm against my face. I had to squint. That was the thing about Sam's. You'd squint on the way in and you'd squint on the way out. At least that's how it felt after I'd just laid the groundwork for a fine morning drunk, right before I drove a rental car to Texas filled with drug money.

  "What if I get stopped?" I'd asked Randy.

  "Don't."

  I didn't plan to. To be a good smuggler you had to think like a cop. There were some things I'd learned in this business and a few rules I adhered to. One: Do the speed limit, that's essential. Don't give those pigs an excuse to pull you over. The second, and just as important: Brake lights and taillights. If every light worked as it should, and each blinker blinked like it was supposed to, I would not get pulled over—as long as I didn't speed. I would drive the whole way as if there were a cop behind me.

  I saw the new rental, which looked identical to the old rental, in the space I'd left it parked. I opened the door and sat down and closed the door and started it. My bag was in back where I'd left it. This meant they'd moved it from my car to this one.

  I checked the glove box and found a cell phone just like Randy promised.

  I took a deep breath and told myself, relax. Clicked my seatbelt and shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot. The phone rang.

  "Yeah."

  "You got some time to kill now, OK? Couple of hours while we get the car ready."

  It was Randy, and I noticed he'd said 'we,' not 'they,' which meant there were only a few people involved. Which also meant the black Dodge Journey I now drove was clean. This was the car 'they'd' be driving when they followed me to Texas. Two of them. Both Mexicans, according to Fishhook Jim.

  Their plan was simple. They would hide the money in my car and switch me back. Then they'd follow me, in their car, all the way to Brownsville. They'd want to protect their investment so they'd watch the money close. They didn't trust me, but they needed me because they couldn't haul the money themselves. They were Mexicans, and sometimes, most times, two Mexicans in a car was one too many—at least for cops who paid attention—and since profiling was their method of policing, that was a strong temptation.

  The Mexicans knew they would draw attention to themselves, to the car, and that was something they couldn't have, the whole reason they needed a guy like me in the first place.

  We'd trade a
gain in Brownsville. That was the plan. Then I'd wait for hours while they had my car. Then we'd switch back again. This was their system; it was proven to work effectively. Fishhook Jim said they'd done it that way for years.

  "It ain't as easy as throwin' a suitcase in the backseat," he'd said. "To do it right takes time."

  What he meant was; they had to tear the car apart and hide the money. To do this they would gut the interior then reinstall it. That's what took so much time. But I knew where they were, the garage behind Roy's Lanes, and I used that knowledge to my advantage.

  I spent the afternoon at a strip joint called Cowboy Roy's. It was not much better than Sam's, but it least there was naked flesh. Still, despite this fine distraction, I was edgy. I asked the bartender to set me up with a Shirley Temple.

  She brought me something on fire instead and told me they don't serve pussies.

  Frustrated, I thanked her and watched fire dance on the rim. I had to keep my head straight. I watched the girls and listened to music. Wondered what Fishhook Jim would say if he could see me now. Then I thought about him, and how he had come by that name in the first place. It happened before I knew him, when he'd been in his prime.

  Halfway through an eight-year stretch he'd strangled his cellmate with a speaker wire. Jim said he'd done it because he snored, and that he'd hidden that wire inside his piss pipe. He pulled it out with a fishhook that he also stored there.

  After Jim strangled him, he pushed the wire and the hook up inside his urethra then hid his cellmate beneath his bunk. He stuffed the bed with clothes, and it was three o'clock the next day before the body was discovered. By then, the murder weapon was gone—hidden in the alimentary canal of another inmate, one who owed Fishhook Jim a favor.

  I'd been at Cowboy Roy's a few hours when the phone in my pocket chirped. There was a message from Randy.

  Boulevard Laundry downtown. Half hour.

  I knew the place, a dry cleaner, and though I'd never been there myself, it came as no surprise to learn that more went on at Boulevard Laundry than dry cleaning.

  Slamming my empty glass on the counter, I turned and bumped into a guy I'd seen around—a real drinker and a tough guy by the look of it. I apologized, but he ignored me.

  I walked outside and the air had a stench to it. Like the air you would smell beside a dumpster. It was a stench I had grown accustomed to and came to appreciate.

  Beside the rental was a black Crown Victoria with a small dog inside. He sprinted across the seat and barked, then lunged toward the door and growled.

  I gave him the finger as I walked by and the little bastard snapped at me.

  I drove to Boulevard Laundry. There was a row of cars against the building and I could see my rental. I pulled into the lot and parked beside it. Grabbed my bag from the backseat and climbed out.

  I passed two Mexicans on my way in. They were on their way out.

  They walked to the car I'd just parked, climbed in and waited.

  Inside, I set my bag on the floor and pushed it under a chair with my foot. I asked the woman behind the counter for the restroom.

  She said they didn't have one.

  I thanked her and left empty-handed and walked to the rental car.

  I left the parking lot and they pulled out behind me. A minute later I called police.

  "911 what is your emergency?"

  Excited, in a voice near panic, I told the operator what I'd seen. Two Mexicans at Boulevard Laundry had just robbed a man at gunpoint.

  "At gunpoint? Is anyone hurt?"

  I said I didn't know, but shots had been fired. For all I knew the man they robbed was dead.

  "I've got help on the way, sir. What's your name?"

  "I'd rather not say."

  "I understand, but we need this information. I've got police in route."

  "They're in a black Dodge Journey. Heading west."

  "Journey?"

  "Like the band."

  "Sir, I need you to stay on the line. Did they see you? You're a witness, you could be in danger. An officer really needs to quest—"

  I cut her off. "—Two Mexican's with guns, dammit. In a black car. They tossed a shotgun in the trunk!"

  I hung up and removed the battery and the card and threw them out the window. Pulled on Highway 44 and drove west. I could see them behind me, a half mile back. There was a sawed-off shotgun in their trunk that would send them back to jail. Or back to Mexico, whichever was worse—probably Mexico. There was also three and a half grams of cocaine in the glove box, because I liked to do things right. Once police found that sawed-off they would tear the car apart.

  I did everything I could to build a case against them.

  I positioned myself in the middle lane and watched my mirrors. They were a quarter mile back and gaining. It was just like Fishhook promised. Two Latinos in a follow car. Always back there, always somewhere—but where you never knew.

  According to Fishhook Jim, his brother was lazy. That was true, I'd seen this firsthand myself. Randy spent his mornings in a donut shop, his afternoons in a garage. That's all he did, and I was counting on that routine. Then I saw a police cruiser in the distance. It pulled on the highway ahead of me and drove in the far right lane. It waited.

  When I passed the cop he studied me, so I studied him back. Gave him a look that said I was a regular guy in a regular car, gliding down the interstate to a regular destination. Then I looked away.

  He tilted his head and reached up with his hand and thumbed the shoulder mic.

  I passed him and he held his lane.

  That was the thing about smuggling. If a cop got behind you, you played it straight. If you pulled off the road, he pulled off the road—then he pulled you over.

  But an innocent man radiates disgust at the thought of being hassled.

  That was the role I played.

  In my rearview, I saw him watch his rearview, waiting for the Mexicans to pass him.

  When they did, he lit the sirens and pulled them over.

  I stayed in the middle lane and wondered how much time I had. It would not take long before Randy knew. Then he'd come looking for me, and the Mexicans would come looking him—for both of us—something I hadn't forgotten.

  I'd left my bag at the dry cleaners in case they had a way to track me, but I would have to hide the car, and quick, before those bastards found me.

  I made my way to the country, at sixty-eight miles per hour. I wore my seatbelt and used my blinkers. I would drive to a place that was safe and private. Then I'd take that car apart. I would pull out the carpet and rip out the headliner. Do what I had to do.

  I turned right on Highway 50 and drove toward Gasconade County. There was a little bar I knew along the way. Maybe I had time for a drink. Just one.

  I lowered the window and embraced the breeze.

  It was a fine afternoon for drinking.

  Black Pearls

  by Jessica Adams

  From the top of the mast I could see the edge of the atoll and beyond that the blue of the Pacific, the wind whipping up whitecaps that never reached inside the ring of coral.

  The water here was yellow-green where the coral heads grew up almost to the surface. Translucent blue where the coral ended, like looking out at space through the edge of the atmosphere—in the middle of the lagoon, a deeper, clearer blue.

  A small reef shark was swimming in the shallow water, almost at the edge of the sand.

  I climbed down, stopping to see how the view changed, foreshortened, every foot or so. Then the horizon was gone. The sense of freedom slipped away.

  The deck felt hot as coals.

  Tim was down below, standing over the stove. He looked up as I came through the companionway.

  "How was the view?"

  "Fine."

  "Just fine?"

  "It was sublime. There's no point in talking about something sublime. It just is."

  "Whatever."

  Tim took the lid off the pot and steam billowed out. It sme
lled like mung beans. We didn't have much food left, and we wouldn't be able to leave here until the weather changed. We'd provisioned at the biggest grocery store in Taiohae, which was the size of a 7-11 back home. There wasn't much food there either. Everybody had to wait for the packet boats from Papeete. But the wind was right, so we left with baguettes that would quickly grow limp in the salt air, a flat of eggs, fruit (which never lasted long), and some French cheese. We'd eaten the last of the groceries days ago.

  "There's something down the beach. A camp or something."

  He'd put the lid back on the pot and was opening the jar of mung bean sprouts, their skinny white roots tangled, crawling all over each other.

  "Oh yeah?"

  "I saw somebody walking around."

  He had pulled a mass of sprouts out of the jar. He arranged it in a wooden bowl and poured a few drops of olive oil and almost the last of the vinegar over them and started forking them into his mouth without sitting down.

  "There are pearl farms around here," he said. "They said that in the cruising guide."

  "They never talked about pearl farms here."

  "There are pearl farms all over the place out here."

  "I know that. It's just—this didn't look like a pearl farm."

  "What do you think a pearl farm looks like?"

  "I mean, it was a couple of shacks. And a guy wandering around without a shirt on. He was weaving around like he was drunk. I guess it could've been heatstroke."

  "Why don't you go check it out?"

  "I don't want to go over there on my own."

  "I can't believe you still don't know how to use the dinghy motor."

  "I know how to use it. I just don't like to use it. Anyway, that's not why. Something just looks off over there."

  I turned away. There wasn't really anywhere to go inside the boat. I went into the forward cabin and lay down on the bunk.

  All of his stuff was in the aft cabin. It was as far as we could get from each other without going to shore.

  I picked up the book I'd left jammed at the edge of the mattress—random Canadian literature from the last book exchange.