Getting Ugly

by Mike McCrary

Two G-Men watch, soaking it all in. Cooper stands behind a tech, paying close attention to everything the young lad does. Shitty coffee in hand, they listen in on the crime lords’ penthouse suite conversation.

  Cooper’s blood pressure flares at the words Big Ugly.

  Over his headphones he strains to listen, wanting each and every word. He presses the headphones tight to his ears with his fingertips as Bosko says, “Big Ugly. That’s a name I’d love to fuckin’ forget.”

  The tech, too young to know what’s what, asks, “Who? Big what?”

  Cooper doesn’t bother explaining. “Grab me a cup of coffee, would ya?”

  “Cooper, you’ve got a full…”

  “How about you get the fuck outta here.”

  The tech understands that. He gets up immediately, thinks of asking how Cooper wants his coffee, but thinks better of it and exits. Cooper takes a seat, and with laser focus pushes the headphones even tighter. If he could shove them into his brain, he would. He picks up a small mic that gives him a direct line into Waingrow’s hearing aid; a nice link to Waingrow’s head whenever he wants it.

  Cooper listens in as Doren explains. “A degenerate named Brobee stumbled across Big Ugly. Simply blind luck and, after some negotiations, he has agreed to lead us to him.”

  Cooper speaks low into the handset. “Clear your throat if you hear me, butt fucker.”

  Waingrow grinds his teeth. He thinks about how long he’s been at this game and never got picked up on anything. Nothing. Not one damn thing. Then, at his age no less, he gets tagged on some bullshit gambling bit. Just because some bitch got nervous and blabbed. He broke one of his steadfast rules: always pay for pussy. Paid pussy keeps quiet. But Waingrow got soft; he actually liked that waitress with the green eyes and big knockers. And what does he have to show for it? He’s sitting here with these good people, people he’s known forever, and he has to fuck them.

  He’s forced to snap out of his pity party as he hears Cooper in his ear again. “Hello, butt fucker? Clear your throat if you hear me. Butt fucker?” Waingrow clears his throat, clears his head, then says, “Think we all can agree our lives would be better if we never met Big Ugly.” He hates himself, but the table bought it.

  Bosko sounds off, anger-fueled tears about to flow. “Soulless, shady, fucking…”

  Cherrito interrupts. “Motherfuckin’ misery master is what he is. There’s no God while Big Ugly roams the earth.”

  Bosko raises his right hand; he’s missing three fingers. “Monster took my digits.”

  Doren regains control of the table. “True. We’ve all lost something to Big Ugly.” Nobody there has to dig too deep to recall a favorite Big Ugly memory.

  There was that sunny SoCal afternoon in a Ralphs parking lot when some heavy-hitting, gun-toting bad boys took down an armored car in a broad daylight. Guards were on the ground hog-tied, bags of money being thrown into a getaway van. It was an easy peasy job for Bosko’s people. Until a wall of bullets carved them all to hell. Bosko’s men dropped. No last words. No death rattle. Just a pile of dead bad boys. All the carnage was done by a lone, at the time anonymous, “Dark Figure” who scooped up the money bags and took off without a trace. A mysterious thief of thieves.

  Then there was that time at Cherrito’s little grow house outside of Manhattan Beach. He had a team of topless immigrants working day and night, surgical masks over their faces, gloves over their hands, nothing over their chests. Mixing. Bagging. Processing. A goon with a sawed-off manning the door, an accountant with an industrial money-counting machine to keep track of the stacks upon stacks of dead presidents.

  Then, without warning, a knife slammed down through the top of the goon’s skull, blood spurting out like Old Faithful. The accountant took a few pops to the face from a Colt. That same Dark Figure grabbed the bloodstained money, but before leaving wiped the crimson hundreds across the surgical mask and bare breasts of one of the trembling immigrants. He wanted someone to tell the tale that time. He whispered in her ear simply, “Big Ugly was here.”

  Waingrow tells the story of how his brother was in the comfort of his own bedroom, banging a very attractive girl who he paid good money for, when the Dark Figure showed up, stopping his brother mid doggy-style. Didn’t even let the man finish. The Dark Figure handed the girl a stack of cash and escorted her to the door. Waingrow’s bro tried to go at him, but he got bitch slapped back onto the bed, where he could only look on terrified, frozen by the sight of the Dark Figure holding an ignited blowtorch. He held the torch in one hand, a thick, blood-caked chain in the other. Brother Waingrow’s screams echoed, his fingers gripping the mattress, chest split open and toes charred from the torch. He told Big Ugly everything he wanted, and more. Gave up safe houses, drop spots, jobs, account numbers, phone numbers, addresses…you name it. He gave up enough info for Big Ugly to sink his teeth in and really go to work. Big Ugly thanked him, and set the bed on fire.

  When this conversation about Big Ugly’s deeds started, the stories were deliberately spoken, clearly told. Now, they start to turn into lightning fast blips of description as floods of memories burst out—memories they’ve all pushed far back in their heads in order to just get through life. CliffsNotes versions of Big Ugly doing dirty deeds are spit out left and right, everyone talking over the top of one another, one sentence overlapping the next.

  The time two of Bosko’s best earners got cut to chunks by a samurai sword in Santa Monica.

  Waingrow’s Irish Bar downtown blown to shit by the rhythmic pumping of a 12-gauge in the hands of skilled killing machine. The bartender was tagged point-blank, the top half of his body found across the bar from his legs.

  The chainsaw story on La Brea.

  An axe was used here.

  A baseball bat used there.

  Hemo-soaked money shoved into bags.

  Suitcases.

  Trash bags.

  Guns loaded… then unload.

  Doren slams his palm hard to the table commanding everyone’s attention. The table falls silent, all eyes on Doren as he points a finger to the burns and scars that litter his face, neck, and hands. He doesn’t bother pointing out the wheelchair. “No one has lost more than me.” His stare is cold. Dead. Black. The table gives a silent nod out of respect. Doren continues, “This man. This thing…” He trails off, unable to finish his thought.

  Cherrito jumps in. “The last time we heard from Big Ugly, he went rip-shit fucking riot. He killed a hundred and four of our people in less than twenty-four hours. Emptied our pockets…”

  “Then disappeared,” says Bosko. “Went ghost. Nothing. Not one fucking blip for fucking years.” He turns to Doren. “What do you propose?” Doren takes a moment, wrapped up in his thoughts. He rubs his disfigured hands across the smooth table. He can’t feel it, hasn’t felt anything in his hands for years, but imagines the cool feeling of fine craftsmanship along the granite. He gets lost thinking of all the things he will never feel again, all of the things that were taken from him.

  Taken by that man.

  That monster.

  That disease.

  “Doren, what do you propose?”

  Doren looks up and, as calm as he can says, “Assemble a crew and execute Big Ugly.”

  Looks fire around the table, eyes dancing at the very thought of it. Bosko asks the question on the tip of everyone’s tongue. “Kill Big Ugly? One might consider that a futile enterprise.”

  Cherrito adds, “Dangerous man. Not one to fuck around with. Go at him, go strong. Swing and miss…God help us all.”

  “Big Ugly can lay down a ton of unpleasant,” agrees Bosko.

  Waingrow thinks, amen to that shit.

  Doren attempts to calm the room by breaking it down the way only a true leader can. “Vengeance is a great motivator, but should never be the only motivation. We are men of business. He took lives, but also he took assets, our liquidity. According to my accounting, he got away with just over one hundred and sixty million of our hard earned dollars.
Any of you recovered from that economic setback?” Stares burn around the table.

  That would be a no.

  “He has to have kept that money close. We have ties at every Swiss bank, every bank in Belize, Mexico. That’s too much money to not draw attention. My proposal? We each nominate some of our own to man this crew so that we are all fairly represented. Choose your best. They will go kill this man and find what’s left of our money.”

  The table chews on that for a second. Bosko is the first to speak. “Requires a special breed.”

  “Requires serious loco fuckers,” mumbles Cherrito.

  “For incentive,” Doren adds, “We give this crew twenty cents for every dollar returned to us.”

  From his spot against the wall, Rasnick zeros in. Something big going on behind those eyes of his, something that Doren said has set his brain ablaze.

  Waingrow does the simple math. “Two hundred K per million? That’ll motivate a motherfucker or two.”

  “With a kicker,” adds Doren. “The one who puts Big Ugly’s head on this table, I’ll give one million personally.” The criminal round table allows this to make a lap around their heads. Doren goes on. “We have to move. We have hours, not days. To put it mildly, Big Ugly is a flight risk. My representatives are ready.” He motions and Rasnick, Vig and Oleg step up, looking like they could chew raw meat off the bone. Doren gives the table his final words. “I know we’ve had our differences, but it brings a smile to my face knowing that we can meet as men and form a plan to destroy this disease. This will work. It will work, and heal a lot of pain from our pasts. Friends, I ask you with an open heart and mind… in or out?”

  Cooper cracks an ever so slight smile as he listens in on Doren’s proposal. Ideas are taking hold in Cooper’s big brain. A giddy feeling tingles in his stomach.

  In the suite Bosko, Cheritto and Waingrow share a look.

  Bosko gives his answer. “In.”

  Then Cherrito. “Fuckin’ A Wally World, all in.”

  Everyone looks to the member who hasn’t chimed in yet. Waingrow. He picks at his hearing aid, uncomfortable, fidgeting like a child that needs to pee.

  “Jesus,” Cooper says as he fumbles with the handset that provides the link to Waingrow’s ear. He grips the mic and speaks as clearly as possible, explaining to the crime lord as he would an infant. “You’re in. You are so fucking in. And guess what, sport, I got a representative you will nominate.”

  Waingrow shifts in his chair, hating this. Cooper doesn’t care what Waingrow likes or hates. “Asshole, speak up or die in prison.”

  Waingrow gives up. “Yes. Of course, I am in.”

  Doren rubs a burn on his wrist with a satisfied grin. He was pretty sure that everyone would come to their senses, but you never really knew with this group. “I have a Gulfstream fueled and ready to go where the degenerate leads. Have your people ready in two hours.”

  In the van, Cooper tosses the handset, runs his fingers through his hair. His mind zooming from zero to a hundred.

  Rasnick leans against the wall next to Oleg and Vig, catching his smile before it spreads too far across his face. The men in this room don’t appreciate smiles from their hired muscle; they question smiles, wonder what the hell is so damn funny. Rasnick keeps his thoughts to himself, but there is some serious planning going on in his head.

  8

  A rundown, shitbox apartment building in the dead of night.

  The SWAT team—tactical gear, laser sights, alpha dog attitudes— glides stealth-like from car to car, getting closer and closer to the apartment. A beefy team member applies a ram to the front door, which explodes into splinters. The team storms in, and muffled yells come from inside: Motherfucker! this and Don’t fucking move! that. All punctuated by controlled machine gun bursts. A spray of blood splats against a window before the glass blows out, then dead silence. It’s over before it started.

  The SWAT team comes out spreading around high fives, yuk-yuks and fist bumps. From behind a van steps Rasnick, Oleg and Vig nowhere to be seen. Rasnick leans in and whisper-yells to two of the SWAT guys. “Buster! Talley!”

  Buster and Talley, who happen to be brothers, break from the rest of the team. Talley’s a 6’5” brick shithouse of a man, while Buster is a five-foot nothing sparkplug, but surprisingly strong. His lack of height, coupled with older brother Talley’s defensive end body, has Buster in a classic Napoleonic twist.

  Talley squints at Rasnick, then smiles with recognition. “Your case over?”

  “Mom know?” Buster asks.

  “No, I’m still on the job,” says Rasnick.

  Talley winces. “You should call Mom, man.”

  “Shit bro, you can’t be around here,” says Buster. “You get made hanging with your cop family? Not good.”

  Rasnick puts a hand up to stop the verbal barrage from his brothers. “Got something huge and no time.” His brothers are all ears.

  In a small house, their mother’s house, Buster, Talley and Rasnick sit around a kitchen table, its beaten up wooden showing the signs of raising three boys. Chunks are missing, with words carved by butter knifes on the top. Things like, Buster sux, Talley sux dicks and Go Lakers. Currently the table is home to guns, a box of Ritz crackers, a twelve of High Life, and a heaping pile of coke. Talley snorts a line, passing a pink pig shaped cutting board to Buster.

  After a hard sniff, Buster grunts, “How much you thinking?”

  Rasnick does the math in his head. “Even if he blew half of it, there’s got to be eighty plus million. Maybe fifty on the low side.”

  “Fuuuuuck.” from Buster.

  “That’s what I’m saying. I go in first with this crew. I’m so up their ass, they have no idea I’m a badge. You two show up, we dead the lot of them, grab the cash, and be done with all this low tax bracket, law enforcement shit.”

  Talley likes the idea, but has concerns. “That’s lotto dollars, no doubt, but you’re not talking about just matching six numbers man. This lotto ticket carries a gun.”

  Rasnick sits back, taking a swig of High Life. “Granddad, Pops, our uncles…all cops. We’re stuck in a damn cycle, an endless loop. No way for this family to get above it. This how you want to spend the next twenty years?”

  “Not me dog,” says Buster.

  Talley gets it, but he’s always been the most sensible of the three. “I hear ya, man. But this Big Ugly thing? You don’t even know where you’re going. So how do we get to you?”

  “Not sure yet. That paranoid shit stain, Brobee, he’s going to search us all before we leave. No cells.”

  Talley thinks, then pulls a 9mm Beretta and slides it to Rasnick. “New thing. Has a GPS in the grip in case we lose it, get kidnapped or some shit.” Talley’s way of letting his brother know he’s on board.

  Buster’s eyes glow like wildfire. “Fuck yes. We’ll track you, roll in like cowboys from hell, and put some fire on those motherfuckers.”

  Talley rolls his coked-up, pie-eyes to his younger brother. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up? We’re gonna roll in like cowboys from hell.”

  “Fuck you, prick.”

  Talley loves pushing buttons, keeps it going. “Maybe we can hold our TECs and gats sideways. Rat-a-tat-tat. Bust some caps in a nigga’s ass while pumping NWA, idiot.”

  Buster is beginning to get offended. “Why do you have to talk to me like this?”

  “You keep yapping retarded banter.”

  “Your attitude is horrible,” Buster fires back.

  Rasnick breaks it up. “Please stop.” Takes a big coke snort. “We do this together, like family, and we can do anything we want for the rest of our days.”

  Talley lets the Buster bashing go, for the moment. He thinks, adding it all up. “Doren, those guys…they’re going to know something’s up when you don’t come back.”

  Rasnick pats his gun with a grin. “I gotta plan for that too.”

  Buster get it, loves it. “Fuck yeah. Boom!” Snorts a line as his exclamation point. Tall
ey rolls his eyes again, fighting the urge to lay into his brother. Calmly he says, “This crew you’re going in with, what’s the roster?”

  “Doren has me with two standard, off the boat Eastern Bloc boys, Oleg and Vig.” Rasnick goes on to describe the rogues’ gallery that will make up the crew, telling the story about when Vig and Oleg unleashed on a BMW at a red light at the corner of Melrose and Fairfax one Saturday morning. They left the poor souls in the BMW bloody, mangled, twitching and flopping. Rasnick calls them the vodka and AK crowd. “They’re good boys.”

  “Then there’s the pair Bosko is bringing in,” says Rasnick. “Good God.” He recounts the day Bosko sat behind a desk across from Pike and Patience, both of the twenty-somethings pulsing with an unnerving, psycho-fueled energy. Still, a cute young couple though. Patience twirled a gun with her right hand, while jerking Pike’s junk under the table with her left. If Sid and Nancy and Bonnie and Clyde had a foursome, these two nut jobs would be the product. Their claim to fame was this job they did where they had the tellers and customers face down on the floor next to the dead security guards, while in the back room Pike and Patience had sex on top of a massive pile of cash—actually bumping uglies on the money were stealing. They sat the scared shitless manager against the wall, apple on his head, and forced him to watch. Pike blasted the apple off of the man’s head, all while never breaking is love stroke. Patience loved it. Weird sex, killing and money…that’s what Pike and Patience are about. No particular order.

  “Next is Cherrito’s man, Chats. From what I hear Chats is, well…Chats is everything that’s wrong in the world.” Rasnick takes a hard swig and fills his brothers in.

  Chats sat cross-legged next to a rusted bathtub in a busted up motel bathroom—a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, new level of filthy kind of place. A scar runs down one side of Chat’s face, his left eye dead and glossy. Another scar runs along his neck. His chilling, rock-hard stare focuses somewhere out in the void as he tears at a grilled cheese sandwich.

  There’s a dead body facedown in the toilet. A large burlap sack shoots up from the tub, muffled screams seep out as the sack shifts wildly. Chats doesn’t blink, doesn’t even bother setting down his sandwich. He whips out a tactical knife and rips a single slice, cutting through the sack and the throat of the poor bastard inside with razor precision. The sack drops back down into the tub with a thump, crimson pouring down the drain. Chats calmly nibbled his grilled cheese.