THUGLIT Issue Eighteen

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THUGLIT Issue Eighteen Page 4

by Michael Pool


  He took a personal day, the first one he'd taken since his dad's diagnosis fifteen years ago. Delroy didn't even ask what it was for, just nodded and said, "Don't worry about it. Take as long as you want."

  He parked two blocks over from the cookhouse and walked. Nobody had thought to replace the door and it swung inward with a gentle push. Snagged ends of crime scene tape littered the floor and it seemed like every surface was spread with print-lifting powder. The carpets had been pulled up to show the bare wood and the paper had been stripped off the walls. He had to force himself to breathe, convinced that if he did, he'd start vomiting blood.

  There was a tall fat man in blue coveralls in the living room standing on the exact spot where the Latino had died. He had wild tufts of white hair spraying out of either side of his head and his bald dome was knotted with blue veins. He ran a black box over the wall. It pipped over a section of blank plaster and a red LED shone. He drew a pencil mark, clipped ear-defenders to his head, and fitted a two-handed drill to the spot. He pulled the trigger and it shrilled into motion. He bored a hole in seconds, right down to the support stud. It was loud enough to make Booster hold his ears and cry out.

  The fat man took his finger off the drill trigger and waited for it to run down before he turned.

  "Who might you be?" He spoke like his jaw was wired.

  "Jack Brewster. I'm with the fire department."

  "Vince Marshall. I do electrics." He pushed a long hooked tool into the hole in the wall and fished out a tube of white plastic and wire. "They told me you all was finished. I'll be right out of your hair."

  "It's okay."

  "Nah don't worry about it." He opened his toolkit and tucked the thing into a compartment with a half-dozen identical pieces of white plastic and wires. "I'm near enough sewed-up here anyway." He lifted his case and went outside. Booster watched him all the way into his van. It went down on its axels when he climbed in. He opened a newspaper on his lap and pulled a half-eaten hoagie off the dash.

  Booster went through to the kitchen and opened the door to the basement. It still smelled of fish and garlic down there. The bottom three steps had dark stains, one of them had a handprint right in the center. He rolled his sleeves up and plunged his arms to the bottom of the water tank. He touched metal.

  It was gone…

  …jerked his hands around and..

  …it's gone…

  …felt plastic crinkle under his nails. He yanked it back out and tore it open, threw the shreds into the water. The bag had a few wet patches, nothing too major. He hefted it onto his shoulder and made his way out. It was heavier than he remembered.

  Halfway up the stairs, he noticed another hole drilled into the grey cinderblock wall, two more in the kitchen, another he hadn't spotted in the living room. Vince's van wasn't outside. He'd left his drill plugged into the jack.

  He tried not to run back to his car, tried to keep his steps slow and measured. He made it all of a hundred yards before he gave in and sprinted.

  Four thousand and sixteen crisp green notes.

  Was it worth what he'd done?

  He spread them all over his laundry room floor, looking for one that wasn't a hundred. He spent two hours. He didn't find one. He was so freaked he had to use a calculator to work out how much it was. That made it even worse. More real. He had to type it in ten times before he'd believe it.

  Four hundred and one thousand, six hundred dollars.

  It was worth it.

  He didn't leave a note. Didn't even plan on leaving. He was on his way to the Chevron station to fill the tank for the weekend, maybe pick up a six-pack of Heineken, when all of a sudden it was five hours later and he was on US 395 northbound into Reno.

  He kept to the outer edge of the city, well away from the tourist traps and the pro gamblers, anybody that would make him as an out-of-town mark. He pulled into the lot of a down-at-the-heels casino. He'd heard of the Grand Sierra, the Atlantis, Harrah's, the Peppermill and all the others. But this…well, this wasn't that. The Zephyr was the sort of place people came if they had been blackballed from the real casinos or had nothing else pressing to do with the last days of their terminal illness. There was a girl out front directing people where to park, even though there were only four other cars in the lot.

  He took his bag out of the trunk and kicked it across the floor like it held nothing but dirty laundry, got it good and scuffed with dust. He scooped it up and made his way to the joint reception/cash desk.

  Two out of the casino's three bars were closed down and shuttered. Most of the gaming tables were covered over with maroon dropcloths. A sea of silver hair and sunburned bald spots pecked away at the slot machines.

  There was a wall of coin-op lockers painted with gold glitter by the elevators, somewhere for the guests to stash their bags where they could still see them from the floor. He fed a few coins into one of the lockers, slid the bag in and kicked it home. He took out sixteen hundred and left the rest.

  He drove to a real casino, to check into a room—one with a name Cassie would recognize. Halfway there, he wrenched the fob off the locker key and tossed it out of the window just in case some punk rolled him.

  He'd planned on playing the sixteen hundred out over three days—he lost it in forty-six minutes. Roulette, blackjack and poker took the lion's share and the slots gobbled up the rest. It felt surreal, throwing it all away and being happy about it. He'd have been glad enough to win, but it wasn't necessary for the plan. He'd only come to get the receipt when he cashed the money into chips; it had the casino's name splashed across the top of the strip.

  He was going to show up home with the bag and the receipt. He could see it now:

  "I have no idea what came over me. I just felt lucky. I put it all on your birthday. I told myself I'd stop as soon as I stopped winning. Well baby… I didn't stop winning."

  He'd put the bag on the table so they could count it together. They'd fuck on it, and then they'd go out to the garage and that white Lexus would be there…and if they weren't too tired, they'd fuck in there too. If he kept the story coming quick enough to keep her on her back foot, she probably wouldn't ask questions.

  Now he just needed to hang loose and wait for enough time to pass that she'd buy it. Three days should do it. Three days and a phone call. He'd tell her about the bodies, how it had bothered him more than usual, just needed some time to himself is all.

  He went up to his room and chained the door behind him, lay his head against the wood and sighed. Hands came down around his neck.

  Not Cassie's.

  They spun him into the wall hard enough to knock the picture off its hook, then pulled a sock around his face and up into his mouth. He gagged and tried to get ahold of their arms, push off the door frame and slam his attackers to the ground. Something pressed into his back. He didn't have to see it to know what it was. He put his hands up and let himself be led over by the bed.

  Two men sat in the armchairs by the window. One looked to be in his sixties with huge forward-tilting glasses. They shone white with reflected sunlight and obliterated his face. He had the air of a kindly grandfather. His fingers were covered in loose silver rings that he purposefully jangled together as he folded his hands on his crossed legs. He nodded to the chair that had been turned to face them and the big guy behind Booster pushed him into it.

  "Who..?" Was all he got out before the sock pressed his tongue flat.

  "My name is Elvis," the old man said.

  "Look, I just lost all my money downstairs. I might have a fifty in my jeans…" Booster said. The big guy yanked the sock again.

  "Show him Ry," Elvis said to the man beside him.

  Ry was a lot younger, sporting a hipster beard, suspenders over a Breton sweater and a wool cap that looked like a reservoir-tip condom. He reached down into the Herschel bag between his legs and drew out a laptop. His arms were thick and muscled, though they looked to have been earned from working, rather than three hours a day at the gym.
<
br />   He flipped the laptop around on his knees and pressed a few keys. A video spooled up. It was full color, high up on the wall of Foxglove Avenue. It showed the two dead guys.

  Booster looked up. Vince the electrician smiled down at him, grabbed him around the cheeks and turned his head back to watch. They made him watch himself murder the kid on the floor.

  They made him watch it again.

  They made him watch it again.

  He cracked on the third run-through. He sobbed. He blew snot all over his lips.

  "He was eighteen years old. Anybody tell you that?" Elvis asked, he didn't wait for Booster to answer. "Where's my money?"

  "When I went back for it, it was gone."

  Vince pulled back even harder on the sock and pinned him in the chair. Elvis pushed Booster's legs apart with his own knees and drew a lock-knife as though he was just clicking his fingers. He pressed the tip to Booster's balls and leaned into his face, his breath smelled of new leather. "Where is my money?"

  "Maybe the Narc boys found it."

  Elvis pressed the knife tip harder into Booster's crotch. "Last chance. Where is my money?"

  "Go fuck yourself!" Even Booster was surprised when he said it.

  Elvis looked into his eyes. Booster didn't blink, sure that if he did, he was dead.

  "We can't do him here boss." Ry tugged on Elvis's sleeve like a little boy trying to get his father's attention.

  "Bring the car around." Elvis snapped the knife closed.

  They took the elevator and walked him out through the lobby to the parking lot like they were old pals going to catch a floorshow. They let him ride up front just long enough to drive out to an abandoned lot and then they hustled him into the trunk of a waiting black Lincoln Continental.

  They took his phone, his keys and his wallet. They didn't tie his hands but there was nothing in the trunk to defend himself with, no jack, no tire iron, nothing. He tried to memorize the turns; two lefts, one right, straight on ten minutes. He lost track. His mind and his heart raced and he couldn't keep it straight. It was hot in there, choking, loose gravel and stones pinged off the metal.

  They drove for two hours over rough ground. His muscles cramped and his head ached from bouncing off the bodywork. He'd decided to tell them, to tell them everything. It was the only way he was getting out.

  The car slewed to a stop and feet crunched over the ground toward him. They popped the lid and he had to force his eyes to open. The sky was still light and the three men were nothing but black shapes against it. They pulled him out and set him on his feet. One of them kicked him in the ass and he stumbled away from them into a stand of sickly creosote.

  They were out in the high desert, surrounded by dark shapes of the mountains and screening walls of dust blown by the wind howling through the cracks. The ground was soft and their footprints were crisscrossed with animal tracks.

  "Dig." Elvis threw a tooth-edged military shovel on the ground in front of him. Vince aimed along the iron-sights of an AK-47 decked out in zebra print like an African warlord's assault rifle. Ry had a pair of pearl-handled revolvers tucked into his shorts.

  "I'll tell you anything you want to know." Booster bent to pick up the shovel.

  "That time's gone. We'll find it the old-fashioned way. Now dig."

  "Where?"

  "Down."

  Booster picked a spot out by the rocks and swung the shovel. It bit in easily. His sweat ran. His back screamed. The wind whipped the loose dirt in wide fans that stung his eyes. His plan was to throw the shovel at anybody who strayed close enough, get their gun and make for the car. Except none of them moved. Elvis smoked by the Lincoln and made calls on his cell. Ry sat on a rock and drew patterns in the sand with a stick. Vince's arm got tired and the AK hung from his shoulder by a strap. He noticed Booster looking and motioned him back to digging.

  The hole got big enough to step down into. They shushed him whenever he tried to speak. They weren't going to kill him though. No way. They were going to make sure he was good and scared and then ask him again where the money was. He'd tell them the moment they let him. Drive them right to it if they wanted. He'd had his fun. They'd call a halt soon. No doubt. Any minute now.

  Except he kept digging and digging and the sun hit the downslopes and he kept right on digging until he was up to his thighs. His mouth was dry as brushwood and his palms were blistered and bloody from the shovel handle.

  "Stop." Vince came to the side of the hole, though he stayed just out of range.

  "Wait wait wait…" Booster carried on digging, chipping away at the rocks, throwing up sparks.

  "If boss says it's deep enough, it's deep enough." He kicked stones in with the edge of his boot, spackling them across the back of Booster's head.

  He carried on, frantic now, just one more shovelful, just one more. He clipped the red rocks by the edge of the hole and stones rattled way down into the cracks.

  "Hurry it up!" Ry yelled.

  "You want to do it, pissmop?" Vince called back over his shoulder. The stones were still rattling in the rock, sounding like a tambourine made out of bones. Booster realized what it was a second before Vince. He snapped and reached into the crack to grab it. His hand closed around something sinewy and strong, he threw it before he knew what he was doing.

  The rattlesnake hit Vince in the chest. He squealed and stomped his feet, overbalanced and pitched into the hole. Ry drew one of his pistols and fired, the bullet buzzing overhead. Booster grabbed the shovel and smashed it into Vince's teeth. He gagged as the biting edge hit the roof of his mouth and wrapped his hands around the back of Booster's leg. Another bullet whistled by and thumped into the dirt. Booster lifted his foot and stomped on the head of the shovel. It cut through Vince's jaw to the dirt below. Black blood welled up in his nose and eyes.

  Booster stomped once more with a roar of effort and lifted the AK. Ry was running toward him as he burst up out of the ground. Ry's eyes went wide as he saw the gun. He fell over trying to turn as Booster fired. The rifle butt kicked him so hard, he fell backwards and sprayed bullets into the car door. The alarm went off.

  Urr-urr urr-urr urr-urr

  Ry's footsteps crunched across the hardpack. Booster pulled himself up. Propped the gun solidly against himself and squeezed off one round. Ry's calf exploded in a red gout, and he toppled screaming into the bushes.

  Urr-urr urr-urr urr-urr

  Booster closed him down and put a spray into his back. One of his suspenders snapped and flicked back hard enough to whip his ass. Booster rolled him over with his foot—his eyes were half-lidded and his tongue stretched down onto his chin with a wet bubble of saliva.

  Urr-urr urr-urr urr-urr

  The bullet hit Booster before he heard the shot. It went into his guts and ripped out of his back. He felt a hot, wet lump tented against the inside of his shirt. He fell to his knees and the next one hit him in the ribs. It burned inside. His heart skipped a beat. Then another. Then another.

  Urr-urr urr-urr urr-urr

  Then another. The next beat shuddered through his shattered bones. He howled and spun. Elvis leaned over the hood of the car, both hands wrapped around a flat-grey automatic. Booster fired until the gun clacked dry. The car disappeared in a cloud of black dust and paint chips. He rolled to Ry's body and tore the revolver out of his hand.

  He dragged himself around the trunk of the car and found Elvis crouched in the dirt. His legs were a patchwork of blood and bone flakes. His gun was three feet away. He had a wallet clutched in his hand. He flipped it open as Booster came up on him. It had a gold eagle DEA badge.

  "Don't," he said. "I'll make it worth…"

  Booster put the revolver to his head and fired. His forehead collapsed in on itself. Booster frisked him for the car keys and got in. His stuff was in the bag in the footwell. He found his phone and called Cassie.

  It went through to voicemail.

  "I love you Cassie. I just wanted you to know that. I love you so much. I don't know how m
uch time I have. I tried to do something, I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it was for us. It was just something I did and now it's done and I'm dying. I'm going to try and get somewhere where somebody will find my body. If I do, when they release my stuff to you, there'll be a key you don't recognize. Don't say anything. It belongs to locker four-oh-three in the Zephyr hotel in Reno. There's a present in there for you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

  He wasn't sure how much of it recorded before the second beep cut him off. He wasn't sure if the car would start with all the bullet holes in the hood. He wasn't sure where he was going since the wind had destroyed the tracks.

  He turned the key in the ignition.

  The Fair

  by Dan J. Fiore

  FOREST HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT

  CASE FILE: FH.347.007.94 (See also: FH.347.007.89)

  INTERVIEWER: Detective Damon Gruski

  INTERVIEWEE: Gale Bram (Hough)

  DATE: 10/25/2014

  [Tape's beginning is cut off.]…might've already heard this from Marcy, but when I visited her in the hospital yesterday she told me that, while she was watching the neighborhood kids at the fair play around the merry-go-round, she'd seen something no one else could see.

  Did she tell you this already?

  We haven't been able to speak with Mrs. Melfi yet, no. The doctors…

  Oh, well, she was in her booth. "The children glowed in the bright daylight," she said. "The tiny patter of their sneakers on the playground pavement blotted out all the noise. The buzzers. The bells. The music, laughter and conversation." She told me that what she saw in the kids' shadows running alongside them, it calmed this—"frigid quiver," I think is how she put it—this frigid quiver that had been locked in her ribcage for days.

 

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