BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled

by Garnett Elliott

  "These lungs lookin juicy, Doc." Ralphie pushed on a thick slice of lung with a gloved finger. "Like a soaked sponge."

  Ross craned his neck, got a glance at the tan tissue. Nodded. "Edema."

  Ralphie continued slicing. "The heck that lecture on anyways?"

  "Ovarian tumors. Radiologic, pathologic correlation." Ross held the stomach, snipped with scissors. He abruptly stopped, whistled.

  Ralphie tabled the knife. Looked over.

  "Well lookie here." Ross flicked at the stomach contents with a finger. "Goody bags."

  Ralphie got alongside. A better look. "Holy crap. That what I think it is?"

  "Yesiree." Ross stretched the stomach walls, parted them. Better exposure. Looked like a wet leather purse stuffed with soggy cigar butts.

  "Coke or smack?"

  "Gimme that basin," Ross said. "Probably heroin, given the pulmonary edema."

  "Mierda." Ralphie presented a silver metallic bowl. Ross grabbed it. "How many there?"

  "Don't know. Twenty, twenty-five." Ross plucked out the oblong capsules with forceps, plopped them into the basin. "Bet there's some in the small bowel too."

  "Look like them stuffed Greek grape leafs," Ralphie said. "I like them shits."

  "They're okay. Wouldn't want to eat one of these suckers, though."

  "The high of your life, eh?"

  "Then death," Ross said. "Stomach looks pretty distended. These here are all lodged in the duodenum. Guy obstructed at the gastric outlet."

  "Ate too many, huh?"

  "Not just that. Check this out." Ross held up a flattened baggie between pinched fingers. "Ruptured."

  "Damn," Ralphie said.

  "Got a huge blast of heroin. Gastric mucosa sucked this stuff up like a starving vacuum. Straight to the bloodstream."

  "How many grams each a those things?"

  "Think about ten."

  "They packed with condoms?"

  "Usually. Seem more advanced, though." Ross fingered a capsule close to the light, squinting. "Some sort of latex. Sometimes they layer it with cellophane, maybe put on a wax coating. Whatever Javier did, it failed."

  "Stupid chico. Pendejo."

  Ross slid the basin on the counter, cupped the colon, massaged gently. "Sigmoid feels a bit lumpy. Probably has some stuff packed in there, too."

  "Man, he loaded. Still gonna crack his head?"

  "Sure. Gotta be complete. You know that."

  "Right. I'll crank it up. Get it going." Ralphie crammed a stained wood block under Javier's neck. Angled the head up and forward. Got a scalpel. Put metal to hair and skin. Sliced the scalp from ear to ear around the back of the skull. Peeled the tissue forward with force, tearing connective tissue, twisted it upside down over Javier's face. Pulled the Stryker saw from a drawer, plugged it in.

  Ralphie clicked a button. The saw whirred to life. The sound dropped a pitch as it sunk to bone.

  Ross continued clearing the stomach. After a moment, Ross chopped a hand at Ralphie. "That the door?"

  The saw stopped whirring. Ralphie threw a questioning look. "Que?"

  "Thought I heard a knock."

  "Didn't hear nothing." Ralph clanked the saw to the table. Pulled off his mask. Floated it to the counter. Went to the door. He peeked through the small square tinted window at eye level. Squinted. Two guys in suits. Didn't look familiar. He cracked the door.

  Ralphie said, "Sup."

  "We're from the FBI. Need to talk to you."

  "Bout what?"

  "That patient there."

  "In the middle of the autopsy."

  "Don't matter. Racing against time here."

  Silence.

  From deeper in the room, Ross: "Who's that Ralphie?"

  "Says FBI."

  "Fifteen minutes, okay?" Ross didn't take his eyes off Javier. "Almost done."

  "We need to talk to the doctor in charge." The guy stared down Ralphie. "You him?"

  "I'm the diener"

  "The what?"

  "Diener. Pathology assistant."

  "Great." The guy brushed past, a little elbow jab for Ralphie. "Can't wait."

  The door swung shut. The other guy waited outside.

  Ross stood beside the body, gloved hands out in front, neck twisted, looking over. Tugged the mask down around his neck. Ralphie stood by the door, hands at his sides, fists balled. The guy stood between them, closer to Ralphie, hands clasping the lapels of his coat, grinning.

  Ralphie sensed something wasn't right. "You guys usually wait till we're done. Give us our respect."

  "This is a very unusual circumstance."

  The guy reached into his coat. Came out with a pistol. Held it up, looking at Ralphie. "9 mm Semiautomatic. Fifteen round clip. Can put a few in you. A few in your boy there, just like that. Like a little sing song. Even have a few left over."

  "What the fuck?" Ralphie stepped toward the guy.

  "Easy, hotshot." The guy leveled the gun at Ralphie's chest. "What are you? The doc's secret service boy? Huh?"

  Ralphie hesitated.

  The guy looked around, made a scrunched up face. "Man this room smells nasty."

  Ralphie leaned in. "You just turn the fuck round it bothering you so much." Jerking his head to the door.

  "Okay wiener man. Whatever you are. You a big hotshot, right? We here for our shit. We need our shit like now. You got our shit?"

  "You ain't getting no shit, amigo."

  "Ralphie," Ross said, voice different now, softer. "Let the guy talk."

  "Smart move. Guess that's why you the doctor. Can make this easy or hard. Actually I wanna make this quick cause the smell is killing me. Don't wanna get no cancer or something breathing this shit. Doc, can I get cancer breathing this shit? Well I guess not or you wouldn't be breathing it, right? How the hell you work like this?"

  "Who're you guys anyways?" Ralphie said.

  "You don't worry," The guy said. "No. Know what?" He looked over at Javier, thought about the heroin, nodded. "You just call me Scag. Okay?"

  "I got a better one," Ralphie said. "How bout Pinga?"

  "Funny." Scag relaxed on his heels, spun quickly, cold-cocked Ralphie across the head with a handful of metal, a spray of spit arced the air. Ralphie crumpled. Met the tile floor. Ralphie struggled, a little dazed, got onto an elbow, took a kick to the head with a steel-toed boot. He stayed on the floor, out cold, on his stomach.

  "Like I was saying, Doc." Scag massaged his knuckles. "How you work in this shit?"

  Ross didn't move. He spoke deliberately, stone-faced. "You. Get. Used to it."

  "Not me. Nope. Never get used to this nasty shit smell. Guess that's why I never went to med school huh, Doc?"

  Ross squinted. Evaluated Ralphie. "Whatever."

  "You know? I seen dead bodies before. Was okay with it, but never like this with all the freakin lights and guts hanging and everything. All naked, opened up. Creepy shit, man."

  "Another reason I guess you didn't go to medical school."

  "That's it, Doc. You enjoying yourself now. What I like to see. Nice and easy. I bet you can guess why I'm here. Being you all smart and shit, huh? You get my shit from Javier?"

  "I got it, yeah. Who the fuck are you anyway?"

  "Wow. You say 'fuck'? Man you gettin' nasty. Don't think I ever hear a doctor talk that way. All street and shit. You allowed to do that, Doc? Say 'fuck' and 'shit'?"

  "Actually, that would be intercourse and feces. That's what you would learn in med school."

  "That's nice with the words and all. You really teaching me nice. All the big science words. Glad I came today. Now you don't worry 'bout who I am. I'm Scag, remember? Let's just say the Big Boys sent us."

  Ross inhaled. Wondering if he was pushing it. "Fine."

  "Fine. I like that. Starting to get into the whole thing now. Things are gonna go just fine. Now Doc, you think you can teach me a little more shit while I'm here? Like a little bonus or something? Maybe teach me some amatomacal shit or something?"

 
"If you like. Be glad to help out. Better the world some."

  "Man, you funny. A funny cool doctor. Street doc. Ain't that a riot?"

  "Just take the stuff, okay? It's right here."

  "That all of it?"

  "Think there's more in the colon. Was just about to retrieve it."

  "Retrieve it from the colon? Like the ass? Retrieve? I like that, too. Man, I learning all sorts a shit from you. We'll wait, Fuckface."

  Scag approached the table. Had his back to Ralphie. Leaned in to better see in front of Ross. Kept a slight distance.

  Ross slowly, mechanically, picked up the blunt-tip scissors from the counter, started to cut the top wall of the sigmoid colon along its length. As if he were cutting a sheet of wrapping paper.

  Ralphie stirred on the floor. Rubbed his head. He glanced Scag. Made a mad crawl, like some rabid animal. Grabbed Scag around the knees, pushed off, hooking his hands, squeezing and pushing.

  Scag lost his balance, tipped, reached for air, tumbled over. Cracked his forehead on the table edge, sending the pistol skittering across the floor. Scag's hand had hooked into Javier's vacant chest cavity, dragged the body half off the steel, so that Javier's head, chest and arms were dangling. Stiff arms overhead now.

  Scag landed on his back, face to face with Javier. A gush of viscous body fluid poured from Javier's chest cavity, splashed onto Scag's face and neck. He didn't move.

  The door burst open. The other guy rushed, gun drawn, looking around. Trying to figure what the hell was all the racket.

  "Hold it!"

  He saw Scag. Supine, unconscious. Forehead gash. Ralphie climbing to his feet, turning. The guy reacted, from the gut, pumped off a round. Sent Ralphie to the floor, against the wall. He sat still, his shoulder looking like fresh ground beef.

  Nervous, the guy looked around, agitated, said to Ross, "Come on man. Just gimme the shit. Give it to me. Let's move it. Move it!"

  "Okay, okay." Ross tried to calm things down. Don't get shot. "It's not all out yet. There's a bunch in the colon. Was just going to cut it out."

  "Come on come on, then. Cut it out. Get it to me." He leaned. Beckoned Scag. "Yo. Get up, man. Get. The. Fuck. Up."

  Scag stirred.

  Ross watched.

  Ross knew this was it. His only chance. He cupped a load of small intestine. Both hands. Webby mesentery. Unraveled, floppy loops of wet sweet Italian sausage. Lifted it. Sent it flying. Slammed the guy's face. Encased his head. He let out a muffled yell. Reflexively dropped the gun, hands grappling. He danced back, arms flailing, as if fighting some alien octopus.

  Ross turned swiftly, like a dance move. Lifted the long steel knife from the counter, an automatic reaction. An uncharacteristic throaty savage yell. Jabbed forward as if holding a dueling sword, buried the blade in the guy's neck, right through a mushy sausage segment. Ross stood frozen, arm still extended. Watched the guy stumble around drunkenly.

  Gurgling. Oozing. Ross couldn't help but think which structures his weapon had traversed. Probably just below the level of the vocal cords. Maybe through thyroid cartilage. Esophagus? Thyroid isthmus? Pretty damn good placement.

  On the floor, Scag was coming around. Rubbing his eyes. Moaning. Face and shirt slick with wetness. Mumbling fast. Something along the lines of getting Javier's shit.

  Scag's partner pedaled in reverse, crashed back-first into a glass cabinet. Ross slipped into the cooler, thudded the heavy reinforced door.

  Scag glimpsed through burning eyes. Grabbed at the basin full of heroin capsules. Frantically stuffing his coat pockets, moving quickly, starting to hear some commotion in the hallway. Trying to get all his shit.

  He spotted the gun. On the floor. Swept it up, took a step to the cooler, grabbed the handle. Tugged. It was stiff. He banged the door, said out loud, "Get you next time, doctor asshole." He started for the door. Freedom. He skidded on the wet tile, almost lost his footing.

  Hand gripped door handle. That's when he heard it.

  It was Ralphie, from across the room. Weak. "Yo, amigo."

  Scag looked round, turning his head first, slow motion-like. Knew he was in a bad position. His back to the main action. Swung his body. Then the gun-arm. Knew it wasn't going to be fast enough.

  He glimpsed Ralphie. Just a flash, a fleeting image like a fuzzy bad dream. Sitting against the wall, shit-eating grin. One arm limp, the other outstretched, reaching for its life. His fist tight, crushing the pistol. The black metal glowed in the harsh light.

  Ralphie ticked his head at the gun. "Think you forgot something."

  Glenn Gray's stories have appeared in numerous online magazines and print anthologies. He lives in New York.

  The Death Fantastique

  John Hornor Jacobs

  She had a tattoo on her right breast that read "le morte fantastique." After they fucked—fucked hard for forty minutes and in every position he'd ever performed or even seen before—Efram lay on the motel's broke-down mattress and listened to the air conditioner tick and hum while he inspected her body, running thick fingers over her skin.

  "What's that mean?"

  "What?"

  "Your titty. Is that French or something?"

  She smiled, weakly, and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Efram liked the way she looked, wary, big-eyed and delicate, like she'd spent too much time indoors when she was a girl. She had some bruising here and there, but nothing that didn't come with the business.

  "Means a 'fantastic death.'"

  "I got that much. What's that mean, though?"

  He balled thick fingers into a fist and then opened them, as if he'd caught an insect and then released it just to be sure he'd caught it in the first place. He didn't like to be talked down to, not by men or women. Not by trim like her. But there'd been too many misunderstandings in the past that ended with blood, screaming, or prison, so now Efram asked questions. Enough questions to know when no more questions were necessary.

  "Hon, I don't know. It looked cool. The tattoo guy said it meant to come. Like it was French for creaming your jeans." She lit a cigarette and then gave a little laugh, blue smoke coming from her nose. "But I found out later, that wasn't what it meant. It's pretty, though, ain't it?"

  The tattoo arched over her breast, fluid script, with little flourishes and florals and a bird worked into design, as if descending to seize the fruit of her nipple, plum colored and erect in the cold air blowing from the conditioner.

  He wanted another beer, but he couldn't leave her here.

  "Time to go, Melissa."

  She looked at him, squinting her eyes.

  "You trying to get rid of me?"

  "Nah. Just want some more beer, and you can't stay here without me."

  "Why, you got some blow or something?"

  That was exactly what he had, a brick of it, blood spattered and fresh from New Orleans, waiting for Gene Corso to pick up, but the Dew Drop Inn in El Dorado, Arkansas, wasn't high on Corso's priority list and there was some understandable heat involved with the merchandise. So, Efram had to babysit the shit while it cooled. A week or more, from on high.

  He grunted, sat up and found his jeans, tugged them on. "Nah. A ton of Krueggerands." That sounded cool. He'd heard the boys talk about the coins they nabbed from a B&E in Little Rock.

  "We can't stay a little longer?" She sat up in the bed, pulled the covers over her breasts, pouted, changed tack and cut him sexy looks, batting the lashes. Then she rolled her eyes and laughed.

  "I need a beer."

  "I can make you forget all that, honey." She laughed again. New to tricking, maybe. Nervous. Still new enough for there to be some laughter left.

  "Cost me more?"

  "Sure. Nothing's free."

  "I need a beer."

  She lay back down, put an arm over her eyes. "Gimme the money then. Ray-Ray'll want it right when I get there."

  She rolled on her side and sobbed once, a lonely, desperate little girl sound. He pulled on his jacket, withdrew his wallet and th
umbed the bills, counting, and then dropped the money near her face. She grabbed it, levered herself up from the bed and stomped into the bathroom.

  She showered but didn't wet her hair. Efram thought about the logistics and reasoning behind that as she dressed, pulling on the tube top and tight skirt. Why do you take a shower if you're not gonna wash your hair? Because you got some localized dirt, maybe. Between your legs. Most whores he'd been with were content to piss after a tussle.

  He sat on the bed watching her while she touched up her makeup in the mirror. When she put on her heels, Efram realized how small her feet were and felt a moment of sadness that she had to live like that, fucking strangers, but the moment passed and they went out into the motel parking lot, bright with the buzz of halogen lights and swarmed with insects.

  * * *

  Tin-roofed and directly across the highway from a rank smelling bayou, the tonk was called The Shoehorn and had a down-beat blues band garbling Muddy Waters and Albert King while middle-aged women, running to fat, waited tables in outfits that were obvious knock-offs of Hooters waitress garb, the porn-star roller derby look. The building buzzed with neon beer signs and stank of stale beer and cigarette smoke but promised to stay open until 5 a.m. When the band stopped for a break, Efram heard the cicadas whirring heavily in cypress beyond the thin walls. A patron fed dollar bills into the juke-box, breaking the drone of insects.

  He sat near the front plate glass window with a view of the parking lot and ordered a beer. Melissa went to a back booth and sat down with a thick-set, mulleted man.

  Efram drank his beer, ordered another, and watched the TV in the reflection of the barback mirror, trying to puzzle out the reversed words. He wasn't surprised when the big man slid up to the bar and sat down next to him. Ray-Ray, most likely.

  "So, you enjoy your little party with Melissa?"

  Efram looked at the man. He was missing his eye-teeth and had jaundiced skin, but was bull-thick and young enough to be stupid and careless. His mullet curled in greased ringlets and his leather jacket creaked when he moved.

  "Yeah. It was a good time, you know, cake and punch and shit." Ray-Ray looked puzzled so Efram said, "Pin the tail on the donkey."