Trigger Man

by Richard Futch

  She cleared her throat like an old engine turning over for the last time and I finally had to look. I felt it was the only thing I could do to retain my manhood, the only hope I had of passing whatever fell test the night had placed before me. The only attempt I had at saving my soul. In her thin, palsied hands were several hundred dollars as crisp as when they rolled out of the mint. Her eyes showed the defeat of old age and circumstance.

  Still, the tinny whine of the radio grew from the room behind the curtain.

  Duane took the money with all the emotion aplomb of a statue getting rinsed of birdshit. He never said a word, never wrote out a receipt or in any other way acknowledged the payment; he simply took the money and crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. I tried to concentrate on the smells drifting around, the mushy odor of mildew; a deeper sort of wet smell—collard greens? The reek of sickness and approaching death. The old woman’s mouth continued moving but no sound issued out, or if it did, it was nothing I could hear.

  “Good,” Duane said, backing away from her perch on the stool. The old woman nodded her head like a child to its parent and I knew then I really hated Sautin’s boy. I stood up on weak knees and started moving toward the door. As I did a gust of wind rifled the sheet which covered the entrance to the bedroom and for a single, frozen moment I saw inside. A man who appeared, impossibly, more ancient than the woman lay on a bare mattress amid a cluttered, worthless mess of scattered newspapers and dirty linen. There was hardly enough skin on his head to cover his skull and his mouth was drawn into a toothless O. The radio preacher railed about salvation and God’s infinite grace. Whatever was lodged at the back of my throat refused to go down, and I didn’t look back as I stepped out of the doorway to the cinder block below.

  Chapter 16:The Apartment

  That was the last trip I made with Duane. Everything that was left good inside me refused to be a party to collecting again. On the way back to the apartment I focused on a way to split company. Thankfully, since he didn’t talk much I didn’t have to listen to any of his bullshit. Not that my silence would have overtly bothered him; from his looks I’m sure my feelings were mutual. We were too different, both criminals, sure, but too damn different. I’m just glad it was like that because if we’d fell in with each other Annie would have never had a chance. Being so damn naïve, she would have been easy game…under different circumstances. Like I said: funny how things turn out sometimes.

  In truth, Annie should thank my grandmother for being alive today.

  By the time we got back I had a plan. But to initiate it I had to talk to Sautin alone; show him where my talents would do him most good. I figured him for a man of reason (as long as that reason had to do with personal gain) and having a professional thief handy would be worth a helluva lot more than two common street collectors. I wasn’t ready to dive back into my former life yet but I knew the worm was gonna turn and leave me no alternative. But first things first: I couldn’t live with Duane. It just wasn’t gonna happen.

  I knew where Sautin worked, or more correctly: where his offices were located. He had a trim, waif-like, college-age girl manning the phones but she’d be as easy to get around as a barber fucking over a blind man. What I didn’t know was what time he usually got there in the morning, but that didn’t matter greatly in the general scheme of things. I had a lot to do. Stuff that’d keep me busy the rest of the night.

  The next morning I heard the key fit into the lock and turned in the leather chair facing his mahogany desk to watch Sautin enter. I’d been in the office for about three hours and my spoils were cast about on the floor around his desk. I’d taken the stolen suitcases I’d used to carry the stuff and stacked them neatly against the wall. And my hands hadn’t shook the first time when I got right down to it.

  He didn’t see me at first and when he did his face showed surprise for just a split second. I’ll give him that: the bastard has control. Then he began assessing all the stuff I had piled on the floor (wallets, stainless-steel cutlery, a coupla purses, three cases of imported beer, etc, etc), walking in a vague semi-circle from the light switch to the desk. I faced him across its empty expanse. Like everything else in his pitiful charade the office was strictly for show. I never saw him write down a damn thing. He put one forefinger to his mouth while staring silently at the ceiling and then brought both hands down, tenting them on the desk top, standing there in front of me. “Maybe you oughta tell me about this,” he said and I did.

  ***

  I only went back to the apartment once more after that. Sautin put me up in my own place (the money in the wallets alone was enough for deposits and first month’s rent) and he didn’t require me to have anything else to do with Duane. But only after a long talk about my specialty and the benefits it could provide. And as I talked, Sautin smiled and nodded, eventually agreeing with my terms: a different residence for a different job. Of course he was a little mystified by the fact that I’d been staying in the Salvation Army when I possessed such skills, but I dusted that away with the excuse I’d lost my nerve after being rolled that first night in New Orleans. After all, it was the truth; Sautin’s always been able to smell a lie; I could tell that even then. He laughed when I told him, assured me no one should ever abandon their true talents.

  It was a little over two weeks later when I got the phone call. From Sautin, concerning Duane. It was getting late, close to eleven. I remember the monologue of the The Letterman Show was over and some dog was attempting to dance on his hind legs while its ‘master’ (and I use the term loosely) accompanied it on a tambourine. It was the first time I’d heard Sautin nervous, although that’s not quite it. You see, in a way he’s always seemed inhuman to me, as if he were miming actions from some storehouse of knowledge he possesses. Like a real-life alien, not some Roswell bullshit, the real thing. But I guess it’s his hypnotic voice that covers over the alien so well.

  He said he hadn’t received a call he was expecting from Duane. Of course, I had no idea what sort of business he’d been handling for ‘the Boss’ and that was just fine with me, but obviously I was at least gonna be let in on the ground floor out of necessity. Sautin was in Bossier City hashing out other business, and I’d had a pretty good two weeks.

  Sautin’s phone call wreaked all that.

  Seems he’d been trying Duane’s place for the last few hours and nobody answered. Increasingly odd was the fact that after the third call a busy signal had replaced the incessant ringing. Sautin didn’t actually say it, but I could tell he suspected trouble. I told him I’d go check it out, get back in touch when I found out what was going on. He hinted maybe I shouldn’t go in the usual way, and I told him I hadn’t planned on it. It’s funny, I remember the novel I was reading when the call came: Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton. I didn’t pay it much attention then but it adds to the irony in retrospect.

  I hailed a cab outside my building near the bus stop. The cabbie who picked me up must have just had a fight with his wife or something because he never said a word the whole time, and even though it wasn’t a long ride, it was an eerie one. Almost like I was on the River Styx or something, being drawn irrevocably toward some horrible destination. Maybe it was the cabbie himself; he had a long scar running down the side of his face, and it twisted the edge of his mouth up into a cruel smile. I remember thinking what a drag it must have been waking up to that mug every morning, but we live with what we got. At least he kept his mouth shut.

  He dropped me off a block from the building because I wanted a look around first. See if there was anyone hanging near the shadows, anything suspicious on the street. The busy signal was a bad sign unless Duane had gotten drunk and knocked the phone off the hook, but my dealings with Sautin ran counter to that idea. No, if he knew Sautin was gonna call he woulda been there. Something was up.I did see a couple of drunks and what could have been either a prostitute or a lady who didn’t know any better, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody paid me any mind. I checked the main entr
ance to the building and didn’t see any shadows lingering there. Nonetheless I chose to abide Sautin’s advice. Doing what we do makes a fair number of enemies and I didn’t want any of Duane’s. Besides, the apartment was only on the second floor. I didn’t anticipate any trouble getting in.

  I skirted around the corner, glancing once over my shoulder to make sure no previously unseen shadows were extricating themselves in pursuit. Nothing. The alley running behind the complex was skinnier than most, just wide enough for the city garbage trucks to back in without scraping the sides. The one thirty-cubic-foot dumpster sat at the far end of the rectangle formed by the three adjoining buildings. The apartment butted to the corner where two of the buildings came together, right alongside a metal drainpipe that was fastened to the bricks all the way to the concrete foundation. It was rusty and corroded but if you didn’t mind the smell of garbage and rot-water and had a pair of gloves, getting up to the second floor was nothing. But because the alley was a dead-end and after the ride with the creepy cab driver, I have to admit my heart beat a little faster than normal. My hands were clammy within the gloves. I could feel something bad in the air. The smell got worse the closer I got to the dumpster, but I tried to ignore it, setting my eyes instead on the apartment window. Several lights were on along the back wall but none in his place.

  I scaled the pipe and minutes later, holding my breath, I slithered in through the window. I hadn’t figured on Duane being the type to check his housekeeping very closely and the window was unlatched just as I’d left it. I hunkered down in the darkness, every nerve on edge as I couldn’t see a damn thing, acutely aware of the single sound I could make out in the cavernous dark: the tell-tale buzz of a phone left off the hook.

  After a few minutes I fished the penlight out of my sock. There didn’t appear to be anyone home but experience had taught me never to assume anything. Something didn’t feel right and there was no way I was ignoring that. I played the pencil-point of light around the room at floor-level. Nothing moved nor breathed. I had a knife taped loosely to my right shin but I had no wish to use it. This was simply a check, no more or less than Sautin had asked for. Finally satisfied no one was in the room with me, I slowly stood up, resting one hand on the couch as I played the beam around the rest of the living room.

  Nothing out of place, nothing broken. Just the phone resting on the table right next to the console. A funny place to leave it, for sure, but not something completely out of the ordinary. I slid out of the living room, pulled up at the kitchen arch. Nothing in there but a pile of dirty dishes. Next came the short hallway leading back to the bedrooms. Mine had been on the right; Duane’s was at the end past the bathroom.

  Tomb quiet, tomb dark. I understood where the terms came from, the power of their connotation. I didn’t want to go back there and I couldn’t really say why. I’d been in countless dark houses, creeping around in bedrooms while the owners snoozed mere feet away. I’d robbed a house with a couple fucking in the room down the hall while I drained the safe. Never any big deal.

  Except for the fact that I didn’t want to go down that fucking hallway.

  I crouched low to the floor and moved forward. The penlight cut a slight gash on the carpet and I followed, the buzzing phone suddenly monstrously loud in the dead air. I wished I’d hung the damn thing up but that would have been potential suicide if someone was laying for me.

  The thin shaft of light touched the bottom edge of his door. It was open, not all the way, but enough for me to slip through without touching it when I got there. My old door, on the other hand, was closed. I wagered Duane’d not been in there since I cut out. Best to stick to the agenda, I decided, and covered the remaining few feet, held my breath, and slipped through the door to his room. Stood within its silent vacuum. I kept counting the seconds, steeling my nerves. It keeps the mind trimmed, calm. I stopped counting when the light crossed over Duane’s body. There was an awesome amount of blood soaking the sheets, dripping down to the carpet, spreading to within a couple of feet from where I stood. His eyes were open but he was way dead.

  I immediately snapped off the light and ducked down into a darker spot of blackness next to a closed closet door. I pulled the knife free and held it in my right hand, my eyes straining in the darkness for movement, my ears straining for sound. I started counting again. At one hundred and twenty I eased from my crouch.

  There was no one else in the room; I could feel that. The same sensation hung in the air as the one I remembered in Gran’ma’s room. A vast absence. I pictured the layout and moved left, feeling for the bureau, finding the small lamp on top of it a moment later. I pulled the string and light flooded the bedroom. He was dead all right; goddamn was he. He’d been stripped nude and his hands were tied with wire to his ankles, his feet pulled back to his ass. He didn’t seem to mind the inconvenience, though, even if it did look excruciating. His ass and feet were coal-black, the tips of his fingers and toes too. The nails stood out a dusky, newspaper-white. A dime-sized hole in his forehead and a huge gout of blood on the pillow behind it had obviously been what did him in. But that had, obviously, been at the end. His mouth had been covered in electrical tape so he couldn’t scream, and somebody had done extensive work on him. There were long, jagged cuts on his arms and legs, cigarette burns on his chest and torso. His nose had been cut off and lay on the bed beside him. His eyes held a flat fish-gaze.

  I looked left and right, assessing the crime scene. The room wasn’t disturbed for the most part; it looked about like it always had except for all the blood. Nothing broken, no signs of a struggle. I remembered Sautin telling me the phone had rung for a while before he got the busy signal. Definitely a cool customer, a professional. Or an out-and-out psycho. I remembered the girl in the ice chest and my hands began to shake. That got me hurrying down the hallway to the front door. It opened onto a hallway about twenty feet from the elevator, just down from the stairs, but I had no need to check any of that out. I wanted to see the door itself.

  Flipping the light on in the foyer I bent to one knee. The frame hadn’t been busted, the bolt was still in place. Locked from the inside with the security chain hanging loose. No big deal; neither of us had ever used the thing when I lived there, and I doubted he started after I left. There was no carpet in the foyer and I had probably fucked up any footprints that might have been left in the hallway and bedroom. But fuck it, what’d I care? Sautin wanted me to check it out, well, I’d checked it out. Game fucking over.

  I turned the light off in the foyer, paused before the closed door of my old bedroom, thinking of myself in there with a hole in my head. The god of petty theft had saved me again. Regardless, I reached down and opened the door with one gloved hand. With the light spilling from Duane’s room and the penlight, I didn’t need anything more. It too was undisturbed, the bed made, a little rumpled perhaps as if somebody had sat on it recently. But I’d be pissing in a barrel to assume if anyone had been staying there. I closed the door and crossed the few feet back into my dead ex-partner’s room.

  Nothing about him had changed. His expression said he still had a long while to wait. I walked over, dragging my feet through the carpet to cover any tracks, and switched the table lamp off. Now the sensation of being within a tomb was complete. I felt a shiver begin deep inside my soul and left the apartment the same way I’d entered.

  When I got back to my place I called Sautin on his cell phone. He answered on the first ring, his voice noncommittal; he could have been either in the room next door or on the moon. Nothing in it whatsoever to give direction or bearing. I told him what I’d found and he took the news in deep silence. When I finished he breathed out deeply, a guy calculating his next move. I wonder now if it was more relief than anything else. I don’t know; it doesn’t fit right. I doubt if a character like Duane held much importance to Sautin at all. Regardless, he finally opened his mouth and told me to sit tight, he’d be there soon.

  I did as he said but didn’t sleep. I remember sitting w
ide awake in my chair before the muted television, running the scene through my mind moment by moment during the course of the whole night. I also remember, for the first time, actually beginning to fear the man.

  Chapter 16:The Dream

  The next six months went on with no more stunning discoveries or tragedies, in short, as normal as things get when you’re a thief working for someone like Sautin. At least there were no more dead bodies. Then he began to slip, just a little at first, things so small I didn’t even really notice at first. I was making money, after all, and he generally didn’t get involved in my side of things as long as I kept the money rolling in. Duane was written off like a bad account at the bank; the apartment was emptied by a ‘cleaning crew’, and I never heard anything more about it. I handled my business. Robbing houses, robbing stores. Penny-ante shit mostly, occasionally something more…difficult. I didn’t experience any more panic attacks and basically had free rein to do whatever I wanted. I didn’t read anything for the first time in years either. Seemed I had no room for philosophy or make-believe in my head. In fact, I came to wonder how it had gotten there in the first place. After all, I was, in point of fact, a slum orphan. What need did I have for philosophy?