THUGLIT Issue Nine

by Jen Conley

  True to his word, Devs emptied the pockets of the three who caught the boot party and tore off their sneakers. The take: $17.25 in cash, three bus passes, one chain (gold in color), one pair of Nike Air Trainers SC Bo Jackson edition, one pair of reject sneakers (AAU USA brand), one pair of Bally suede shoes, three bikes (stolen, to be repurposed), one Casio digital watch, one Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles NES video game (new in box), one blank cassette tape labeled De la Soul 3 Feet High and Rising, one folded WWF magazine, three sets of house keys, two kitchen knives and one box cutter.

  Devs noticed his brother hovering over one of the kids with the others, but Rory wasn't kicking, punching or clubbing. "Why are you just hanging around like a ballbag, doing nothing? Where's the kid that was on foot, the tall skinny one? Rory, Timmy, Eamon! Get some bats and bikes and find that kid. Bring him back here."

  I rode with Rory and Tim through the park, determined to track down the last of their gang. We scoured the entire park and surrounding residential blocks, but the kid was long gone. We returned to the group, who had moved to the junior high schoolyard. Devs and his henchmen were buzzing with excitement, still on an adrenaline high from dishing out street justice. Luca was animated, telling every detail of his story to a rapt audience.

  Devs took our bad news better than expected—he had a Plan B. "Right now, that skinny kid's back on his block rounding heads up to come back at us. They'll be here soon, trust me. This time, my brother goes out on the GT and gets them to chase him here and we do it all over again."

  Rory was startled by his brother's orders. "Tommy, it's over. We got em, got em good. I got a new bike, better than the piece of shit they stole from me. We got our revenge."

  Devs walked over to Rory and snapped back "You're right. We fucked shit up on those kids and got a new bike for you, but you did fuck-all except make me look bad in front of everyone. You're getting on your bike and you're drawing them into the trap, and that's all there is to it."

  "Tommy, I'll ride with him," I said. "Hang back a bit, but I'll have his back if it gets dodgy." Devs nodded.

  I saw a rage began to build inside of Rory Riordan that I had never seen before. I watched as he steeled his nerves. He looked determined to prove himself worthy. Like he made up his mind that he'd no longer be the one who needed protecting. He was going to be his own man. He was going to get respect on his own. Rory hopped on the bike and furiously rode away, leaving me behind.

  As Rory scanned the park looking for unfriendly faces, I followed behind, sensing his heart pounding again like it was back at the fieldhouse. This time it wasn't a coward's heart, begging to avoid trouble at all costs; his heart was pumping blood for battle, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had the look of a fighter, the look of a hunter about him. I was excited and so was he.

  Rory cruised the bike track slowly, impatiently waiting to be noticed by the wrong guys, but he spotted them first. In the distance, Rory saw the kid who got away and raced towards him. He had changed his clothes (to throw us and the cops off, if they were called) and was standing with two others on the corner. They looked like they were waiting for their backup to arrive, so they could kick off part two of the rumble in the park.

  Rory cruised towards the three adversaries. He stopped his bike within shouting distance and called out, doing his best tough guy impression. "Yo beanpole, you and me, let's do a fair one. One on one, no bullshit." I kept my distance. A fair fight would do wonders for my cousin's self-confidence. He looked mad enough to do some damage.

  The tall, skinny one regarded Rory with suspicion as he ambled closer. Rory dismounted his bike, felt for his knife to make sure it was there, and advanced. The showdown began. They remained silent as they drew closer to each other. Rory was stiff and focused until they were within striking distance. Rory moved his left hand to pull the knife from his pocket. Without words or bravado, the tall kid threw a textbook one-two jab and right cross-combination to Rory's jaw.

  Rory found himself on the ground looking up, probably unsure of what had just happened. This was the first time someone other than Tommy or Uncle Francie laid hands on Rory. I imagine that he felt disoriented, and his face was burning hot; that's what it feels like the first time you get dropped by a punch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Rambo knife. The tall kid got on top of my cousin, knee on his belly, and threw a furious flurry of punches, all connecting with his head. I raced towards them to save Rory's ass. Rory used his left arm to push off and make the kid adjust his posture, creating enough distance to use the knife. He swiped at his attacker's stomach with the blade, slashing the new shirt and drawing blood.

  The kid stopped fighting when I got there, he was just holding his belly with both hands while mounted on Rory. I booted the kid in the head, knocking him off, and then connected with some solid punches. He was down. Then Rory started to pound on him—hard, with the metal butt of the knife to his head. I pulled Rory off. The kid was knocked out in a puddle of his own blood. I rolled him on his back and tried to revive him when Rory shoved me to the ground and stood over the kid, shouting, "I did this to you. Look at me, I did this to you." Like a scene from a crap gangster film.

  Rory dropped the knife and froze for a few seconds.

  The rest of our crew arrived on the scene and stood there in stunned silence. Rory stared Devs down, shouting, "Tell Dad what I did. When I get arrested, make sure you tell him how I sent him to the hospital." Devs slapped his brother on the arm and smiled. We celebrated until the sirens started getting louder and everyone scattered, except Rory and the kid he cut and bludgeoned. The ambulance from earlier rolled up on the scene. I dragged Rory away and we ran for it.

  A young cop grabbed us where the Jamaicans played cricket. He made us sit on the ground and told us that the black kid was probably going to make it. This was just going to be a felony assault, not a murder or manslaughter beef—like he was our new friend doing us a huge favor. He demanded to see I.D. Rory had his junior high school card and I, being undocumented, had nothing to show the cop. The cop wrote our names down and asked what happened. I told him some black kids were fighting over bikes, we kept our distance and watched the fight, but the state of us: sweaty, jumpy and bloody, told a different story. Rory's face was so swollen that he started to look like Sloth from The Goonies. I would have made that joke in any situation other than the one we were in.

  When the cop asked me where I was from, I told him Avenue P, but he wanted to know where I really came from. I said I was from Ireland and he kept at it, asking for more details. I told him Athlone, Co. Westmeath, expecting a blank look. But, he'd been there before, during the lunch break of a sightseeing bus tour. My town was the central point between Dublin and Galway where tourists pissed, shat, ate and drank before getting back to their coaches. I pretended to know the pub he had such fond memories of.

  His nameplate said "McGuigan." He was Irish-American and must have seen something of himself in us. Although he had a duty to uphold, something about our faces, our names and especially our accents made him want to give us the benefit of the doubt. He knew we were involved, but he seemed conflicted about what to do with us. I could make out the garbled blare of his police radio: "Citywide Level Four Mobilization Central Park."

  P.O. McGuigan tore the page with our names out of his memo book. "Get the fuck out of here," he said. "Something serious is going down in Central Park if they're calling Brooklyn in—that's my overtime, I don't need you two Micks. Go home and get cleaned up. You never saw me. I never saw you."

  Rory and I were flying high on adrenaline from the thrill of getting away with it. We had to walk that nervous energy off. It was the first time in my life being Irish did me any good. With the right name and face, you could get away with fuck all in this country; there was no going home. We walked to Gerritsen Beach and sat by the water, smoking cigarettes to calm down, skipping rocks, talking about girls, but mostly killing time until we were sure Francie was asleep.

  At half-el
even we went home—Francie always turned in for the night at 9. He'd be long asleep by the time we crept back into our room like burglars. I gingerly opened the front door halfway to avoid the squeaking sound and slid in with Rory right behind me. Rory closed the door with a click and slowly did the door chain. The kitchen light flicked on and Francie was seated at the table, stern faced. He'd been sitting in the dark for who-knows-how long.

  I didn't need instructions. It was time for me to leave the room. I went to the bathroom to clean up before bed. Through the slit in the door I watched Francie stare down his son without saying a word. Rory was getting shaky again, "Da, I'm sorry, I really am, but I did what I had to do."

  "You'll sit down," said Francie, "and shut up."

  Rory complied, sitting opposite his father at the table with his head in his hands. Francie rose and circled the table. It was almost imperceptible, but Rory flinched when his father walked behind him, finally stopping at the refrigerator. He opened it, grabbing something I couldn't see. When he sat back down, there were two bottles of Newcastle in front of him. He cracked them open and slid one across the table to Rory, and half-smiled.

  "Sláinte."

  Catch and Release

  by Harry St. John

  After four months, I find him again. It only takes one mistake—he logged onto his email account. Fiona traces it to a public library in a quaint little town a couple hundred miles away. We're there in under two hours.

  It's a small place, a tourist town in its off-season. I spend an hour driving around it to get a feel for the place. The daylight starts to give out, and I'm about to head back to the motel when I see him walking down the street. I park and tail him.

  He's changed his name—I find that out when I follow him to the bar he's working in and one of the waitresses calls him Dan. He's fallen far. Nathan Rhodes was once a property lawyer. He's twenty pounds lighter than the last time I saw him and he's grown a beard streaked with grey. It really doesn't suit him. He's permanently hunched over, with a slight limp that I didn't mean to give him. I stay out of sight and watch through the bar window for a few minutes as he feeds dirty pint glasses into the commercial dishwasher. His left hand has a quiver that never seems to go away.

  He shouldn't have run. It'll just end up worse for him. But maybe that's my fault. Maybe I should've kept a closer eye on him. Maybe I should've gone easier. If I can get him back, everything will be all right again. Everything will be back the way it should be.

  A glass slips from his hand and smashes on the bar floor. He looks like he's going to cry. I pull out my mobile and tell Fiona I've found him.

  We take him the next night. He doesn't have a car; he walks home when he's finished work, so it's easy enough. Fiona's the distraction. It's dark enough that he doesn't recognize her as she sways down the street, high heels click-clacking. She's bundled up in thick woolen layers, keeping off the chill and disguising her further. I wipe the condensation from the inside of the car window and watch as they approach each other on the footpath. Fiona does a nice job staying out of the streetlights. It's a quiet town on a quiet night and there's no one else in sight. I hope he doesn't make this harder than it needs to be. My skin feels dry and scratchy—I haven't had a good night's sleep in a year and a half.

  Outside, Fiona pretends to stumble. He reaches out, catches her to stop her from falling. It's instinctive. I take the hood and the small woodworking mallet from the passenger seat and step out of the car.

  Nathan's hands are on Fiona's arms, steadying her. I close the distance. Fiona looks up at Nathan through dark curls that have fallen across her eyes. He recognizes her a moment too late. His back goes stiff and he begins to turn.

  I swing. The mallet connects with the back of his head with a muted thunk. He doesn't scream, just makes a nasal moan as he goes down. Now it's Fiona's turn to catch him. She cradles him against her breast as I pull the hood over his head. It's just a balaclava with the eye and mouth holes sewn shut. Best I could do on short notice.

  Fiona slips a pair of zip ties around his wrists and I bind them together behind his back. She looks at me and nods. She doesn't smile. She never does anymore. Her makeup has been applied carelessly, hastily. There's nothing behind her eyes. I can't look at them too long. We each loop our arms under his armpits and drag him towards the '92 Toyota sedan I stole a few towns over.

  He's not out, not completely. His feet drag and kick occasionally. His moans are quiet but getting louder. When he finds his words, he says, "Please, God, no, please." But God doesn't give a shit.

  We toss him in the car boot and take him back where he belongs.

  The farm was my grandfather's. He was a drunk and a son of a bitch and the only thing he did in his whole life was build this shack that sits behind a wall of pines on the steep hillside. There's no electricity—not even a generator. The rats that own the place would probably chew up the cables anyway. Fiona hangs the battery-powered lantern in the corner while I finish securing Nathan to the steel chair that came from the local high school a few decades ago. He's talking, begging, but it's just noise. When I'm satisfied that he can't get away, I stand and tug the hood off his head. He squints at the sudden light.

  Fiona leans against the wall and lights up a cigarette. I want one too, but I don't ask her for one. Truth is she scares me a little. This game has taken its toll on both me and Nathan, but it hasn't touched Fiona. I've grown tired, Nathan's turned into a wreck. But Fiona's still full of the same silent rage she's had since the beginning. We had sex a couple of times, maybe six or eight months ago. You couldn't call it fucking. Not making love, either. I thought it would be therapeutic. Maybe, deep down, I thought she would smell and taste and move like her sister used to. I was wrong.

  I wait a few moments. I think Fiona might want to say something, do something. But she just takes slow, quiet drags of her smoke as she stares blankly at Nathan.

  "Should I start?" I ask her, speaking over the constant stream of spittle-coated pleading that pours from Nathan's mouth.

  She gives a single nod.

  I turn back to Nathan as I bind my hands with gauze and tape. "You shouldn't have run. I told you not to run."

  I go to work on him. Fists only. I keep the blows aimed at his torso. Bruised faces bring too much attention. And if you break a limb you risk lasting effects. Like his limp. That was a mistake, one I made much earlier in this game of ours. Back when the rage burned through me and I couldn't keep myself from reaching for the crowbar.

  That's all gone now. Now this is something more spiritual. A ritual. My fists make meaty, slapping sounds as they collide with his gut. My aim is good. I did a bit of boxing a long time ago, nothing serious, just sparring at the gym. Back in those days, I did a lot of things. Not anymore. Now there's only one thing I do.

  After ten minutes or so—it's hard to tell, I took my watch off before I started—he's no longer groaning. His eyes are lidded and a thick line of drool drips into his beard. His head slumps as he whimpers quietly. I let up and unwrap my hands. The tape is stained red. Nathan coughs a couple of times. Then it's back to the whimpers. He's just saying "I'm sorry," over and over.

  Fiona's finished her cigarette. She passes me a bottle of water from her bag. I realize there's sweat dripping down my face even though it's three in the morning and the shack hasn't been insulated for shit. I take a big gulp of water and pour the rest over my head.

  Fiona and I watch Nathan for a few minutes. He's barely recognizable as the same guy we tracked down more than a year ago. No suit, no swagger, no easy smile. He was never really handsome, not in that traditional Hollywood kind of way, but I suppose that doesn't matter if you've got confidence. He doesn't anymore.

  I half-hoped I'd feel more than this. Back when this all began, back when we took Nathan for the first time, I'd delivered the blows with a savage glee. I thought the numbness that had crept through me in the last few months was just because Nathan had run, that when we found him again all the anger and en
joyment would come flooding back. But there's nothing. I've made him suffer and I don't feel anything.

  "Maybe it's time," I say.

  Fiona looks at me. She knows what I mean. "No. Not yet." Her voice is hard.

  "He's broken, Fi."

  "He can be more broken."

  I'm not sure he can. Him running like that, maybe it was a sign. And it's bringing trouble our way. It took a while, but a few months ago when no one had seen Nathan for a few days, the cops came looking. Looking harder than they ever did when my wife went missing. I don't know if they found anything in his apartment. But all it will take is one lucky break—a glance through his old emails, fingerprints on the bedpost—and they'll make the connection. And then we're done. Surely Fiona must see that.

  "If we keep doing this, he'll snap, and then he'll talk," I say. "He'll decide we're worse than the cops. And if the cops get to him, this is all over anyway."

  Fiona fixes me with a look that I can't meet. Her voice goes low and dangerous. "I thought you loved her. This was your idea. Now you've lost your stomach? Now you want to let him go?"

  Her words are perfectly aimed to inflict maximum pain. My gut twists and turns.

  "I'm not saying we let him go," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "I'm saying we finish this."

  "No."

  The word doesn't come from Fiona; it bubbles from Nathan's mouth. I look over to see him staring at me, muscles straining against his bonds. I thought I'd left him more dazed than that.

  "Please," he says. "Please don't kill me. I'm sorry I ran. I was weak. But please. Please don't do this. I won't talk. I won't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did."

  He's rambling now, the words coming faster than he can get them out. He stumbles over his sentences. I've heard this from him a dozen times, two dozen. Each time we caught him and hurt him before setting him loose again. Catch and release. But I let him talk. Because he deserves that, at least.