Big Pulp - the magazine of fantasy | mystery | adventure | horror | science fiction | romance



 
Greg Lee’s stories have appeared in Back Alley Webzine and Samsara: The Magazine of Suffering. His story “Recycled Guilt” placed in the quarter-finals of the fourth quarter 2003 of L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest, and his “Under the Pressure to Succeed” won the 1997 Colorado Language of Arts.

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A Thug Like Me
(continued)

I get maybe thirty minutes alone with Heidi. Then Gus himself shows up. The big boss never shows up. That would have been alarm number six if I hadn’t already made up my mind twenty-nine minutes ago on how I was going to play this.

“How’s it going, old man?” Gus says from upstairs. New, yellow light spills in from the cellar stairwell, and I can see his hearty pear shape casting the most anti-heroic silhouette down on the wall before us.

“Good,” I lie. “Bring the boys down. She’s ready.”

I hear a shuffle of feet as Gus, the two thugs, and at least two more come marching down. “What’d I tell you,” I hear Gus bragging to his right-hand man, Martin. I’m sure it’s Martin—he never leaves home without the guy. “Mac is the best.”

The cellar suddenly becomes very crowded as they all beset her like a semi-circle of piranhas. The two thugs from before, as well as Gus’ left hand man who’s name I never caught, immediately begin to undress Heidi with their eyes. They don’t know who she is. But, of course, Gus knows. If Gus saw their faces, he’d cut off their fingers.

I can see a wave of utter relief hit Gus’ face when he sees the girl unharmed. “That didn’t take long at all. And you didn’t put a scratch on her.”

“I prefer it clean,” I say, and that’s no lie. Now it’s show time, and even though my pulse is off after the fuzzy, mechanical rabbit, my composure is ice. I casually walk up to Heidi, who’s either doing a grand-stand performance herself, or is genuinely scared out of her wits—probably a bit of both—and I carefully wrap my fingers around her throat. Her eyes respond instantly, bright, glossy, and Bambi-like.

“Tell him what you just told me,” I say. Then, deep inside, I begin to pray.

“I…I…don’t know…” she starts, but something’s wrong. She can’t get anything else out. New tears quickly join her moist cheeks, and her chest starts to tremble, like she’s hyperventilating. “I…I can’t…”

“Come on!” I shout. “No more games. Out with it!”

She breaks down then, and I can feel her moist cheeks on my wrist as she bows her head and cries.

“Mac, what the hell is this?” Gus’ left says. When I turn, all of the men have bewildered looks on their faces. Only Gus looks as broken as the girl. He’s doing his best to hide it. I hate to see Gus this way.

“Damn it. Martin,” I spit. “Give me your silenced piece.” I reach out for it, my other hand still around the girl’s throat. He looks questioningly at Gus, whose face has just turned stark white.

“Mac,” Gus starts to whisper, but then he catches himself. He knows we’re in too deep now. That’s why he called me. I’m the one who’s used to wading through this shit, not him. That’s why I’m the specialist. He’s going to trust my call. That’s why I’m here.

He looks at Martin, and then takes in a big, deep breath, like he’s about to go venture the deep-end of our scum-covered pool. Then, he gives a solemn nod.

Martin pulls out his gun. It’s the nicest piece among the boys. He’s got the long barrel of a silencer already screwed on—one of the many reasons why he’s Gus’ right.

I let go of the girl’s throat, and place the barrel carefully against her forehead. Her eyes sharpen when she feels the cold metal, and her crying instantly stops, like she has a light switch inside her brain. I’m impressed.

“For the last time,” I shout. “Tell me where…”

Then we are all deaf. Never fire a gun underground. Trust me on that.

It would have been a different story if I had pulled the trigger with Martin’s gun. Still holding it against her head, I fired my pistol out from under my jacket, straight into Martin. Even without his shooter, I know he’s the most dangerous, so I drop him first.

Before the others can even gasp, I kill the rest. Whirling, I fire my pistol at the thugs on the right, and Martin’s pistol at the thugs on the left. They all go down in a hail of gunfire. I’m not the best of Gus’ thugs in a firefight, but we’re practically standing within arm’s reach of each other in this tiny cellar, and I have two full clips versus their holstered guns and slack jaws.

A ragged breath’s length later, only Gus and I are left standing. His eyes are wide, and the blood has completely deserted his face.

“You’ve been good to me, Gus,” I say, but I soon realize that I can’t even hear myself. I guess that Gus must have read my lips or my face, because he only vacantly nods in response.

I put one in his head, as merciful as I can be. Gus slumps to the ground like all of the strings holding his rag doll body up were cut at once. Snip.

“And I’m sorry,” I whisper, but again no one hears me.

Twelve hours later, Heidi and I are across state line number three, into Louisiana. This will be hour thirty for me without sleep, but my passenger is sawing logs in a fetal position. She hasn’t stirred for hours and I’m envious. Just looking at her adds ten pounds to my eyelids, but I don’t stop. I don’t dare. Not yet.

I had always dreamed about this day. Never did I have silly illusions about becoming the next Gus and making it big in the crime world—all of the little Murphy’s running around doing the shit work while I got rich and fat, sitting on my throne of drugs, booze, and women. That wasn’t for me, and never once did I think it could be. No, if I wanted to one day vanish—and I had fantasized about this day for years—I needed to be someone who could vanish. A Gus couldn’t just vanish.

My fantasy was to one day grab that day-pack I had squirreled away, take my modest but small fortune taped underneath my bathroom sink, and throw it all into my old ‘87 Camero I had stored away off-site in a container no one’s ever seen before. I would just drive west, maybe to Mexico or California, and get as far away as I could.

A Mac like me could disappear as long as I didn’t do anything stupid. My job was all about the stupid—getting back what wasn’t rightfully theirs and dealing with people whose greed got the best of them. If I didn’t burn any bridges, I could just vanish. If I didn’t do anything that would put a price on my head, no one would care enough to follow. Like run with money that wasn’t mine.

Or shoot a Gus in the head.

When I find an old motel that looks like it could quite possibly be abandoned in the outskirts of Baton Rouge, I decided it’s time to stop. I’m not sure how much longer I can last, and the steering wheel’s starting to look mighty comfortable.

She’s still out when I go pay for our room with cash, but she’s yawning and rubbing sleep from her eyes when I get back. I toyed with the idea of carrying Heidi up to the room like a father would his eight year old daughter, something real sweet and paternal like, but she wakes up before I get the chance. I wouldn’t know how to do it anyway, so it’s just as well. Also, she’s still looking at me like I’m a mad man. She doesn’t know me, who I really am, and I have decided to keep the connection between her mom and me a secret. Either the right moment hasn’t arrived yet or I haven’t found enough courage. I honestly can’t tell which.

Gus didn’t know about me and Heidi’s mom, Rachel. No one did. Even though we were kids back then, just a pair of stupid teenagers with raging hormones and puppy love, we were careful. She was the daughter of Sonito, from Northside—we had to be careful. I was young, not suicidal. If he had known, Gus wouldn’t have sent me. If he had known, I would never have known Heidi here even existed. Part of me hates him for not knowing. Part of me is thankful—for Heidi’s sake, at least.

The hotel room looks like one of the dungeons I usually work in—or, used to work in, I suppose—and I laugh when Heidi wrinkles her nose.

“It’s just for a couple hours,” I assure her. “Then we’ll keep rolling west.”

She looks at me with her mother’s hazel eyes again, and I feel a string in my heart reverberate. “And how long will we keep running?”

I shrug. “Until it’s safe, or when you want to stop. But it isn’t safe yet.” Back in Miami, I imagine that people have just started to notice that Gus and his boys are missing. I didn’t do anything amateur-like, like torch the house as I know Murphy would have, so it might be a while before they find the bodies. I also wiped down everything Heidi and I touched as we left. As for the gunshots? Well, Gus picked that location for a reason. People in that neighborhood don’t look around when there are gunshots. If we’re lucky, when the police eventually get called to investigate the smell in a week or two, they’ll think it was a Sonito family retaliation.

I drop Heidi’s luggage on the uneven bed. It’s a large, black duffle bag that I know holds either a brick of cash, drugs or both. I noticed that her eyes haven’t left the bag since I took it out of the trunk.

On our way out of town, we stopped by her ex-boyfriend’s place and picked up what Gus and probably half of the Miami underground were after. Valdez or Sonito property, I imagine. Like always, I just don’t want to know, and I would have rather left it to rot too if Heidi hadn’t begged. She told me that Valdez’s boys had gotten to the boyfriend before her, and the bag was all that was left of her old life. I wouldn’t have been a great father—I cave too easily on everything.

I pat the bag warmly for her to see. I know she still hasn’t figured out who I am or why I saved her, but I imagine that she thinks it has a lot to do with the bag. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. Try and get some sleep.”

We both hear the activities in the next room, something kinky and loud, and she gives me a queer look.

“Just try,” I say again. I snatch up my day-pack and head into the airliner-sized bathroom.

Normally, after a job, I shower. I know it takes days to get gunpowder residue off your person, but I’m old fashioned and usually try anyways. I initially went into the john to do just that, but now that I’m slumped against a wall of mildew and god knows what else, I find that I’m just too damn tired. I look at the old and crackled face in the mirror and realize that I should have run years ago.

I want to reminisce. I want to bring up memories of Rachel, to remind myself of why I did what I just did, but I’m too tired.

I can’t even remember Rachel’s face right now—all I see beneath my eyelids is Heidi’s face soaked in tears. God, when was the last time I saw Rachel’s glowing face? Fifteen years ago? I didn’t know about Heidi then—how could I? Rachel was so beautiful that day…even lying in a pine box with a summer’s dress on and her bosom ceasing to rise and fall. I vaguely remember a little girl there crying, a red face soaked with tears, a confused little girl who didn’t belong at a crime-family’s funeral. Do I really remember that, Heidi back then, or did my imagination just fill in some gaping holes?

I settle with splashing water on my face. I even toy with the idea of changing my clothes—hell, I should do it just so I can burn them in the morning—but my clumsy fingers can’t even undo the buttons on my shirt.

When I come out of the bathroom, my sack under my arm, Heidi levels my gun at me.

“You sick old perv,” she spits. She’s holding it like an amateur, like she fears it rather than respects it. It’s obvious that she’s surprised by the weight, but still does her best to keep it upright. I can’t even remember when I put the thing down. “I will never be your little whore!”

I see that she’s come to a conclusion about why I helped her. Though she couldn’t be farther from the truth, I can see why.

“No, wait,” I say, putting my hands up slowly. I start to chuckle. She’s so cute with a pistol. “You don’t understand.”

And I guess she never will. It’s like god himself took a Louisville Slugger and tried to knock my heart right out of my chest. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m in the air, flying backwards. Then I see the muzzle flash. Then I hear the explosion. It’s like my brain couldn’t register all that just happened, so it decided to show me the pointers in slow-mo instant replay.

I crash off the wall, feeling something behind me crunch, and then I’m falling.

I don’t know why I can hear this time, but I can. I should be deaf. She had two pistols to choose from, and she chose mine instead of the silencer. Silly.

“I’m so sorry!” I hear her crying over me. In the corner of my eye I can see my pistol tossed aside. Everything’s going blurry, and the fire in my chest is drowning me alive. “God, I’m so sorry!” she says again, but it’s like she’s a thousand miles away, and getting farther and farther with every heartbeat I feel aching in my chest.

It’s funny that the first thing that I realize is that my hands are tied behind my back. Not “Where am I?” or “Am I really alive?” but the nasty cords someone used to tie my wrists. They bite deep into my flesh, and I wonder if I’m bleeding. I can’t feel my fingers.

The second thing I notice is that I have no strength. Not even enough to lift my head up and see who’s in front of me. Yes, I have to lift my head, I realize. I’m not face-down on shag brown carpet anymore. I’ve been propped up in a chair. How long have I been out? How long have I been dead?

“Wake-y, wake-y, Big Mac,” I hear a shrill voice say, like a kid adventuring into puberty. “Time to pay the piper, old man.”

The voice sends a river of ice water through my veins, but not because I’m surprised to hear it. Somehow I expected it. Somehow I knew it would come to this.

“Murphy,” I’m amazed I can flap my lips but not lift my head. I feel his cold talons dig into my chin, and he lifts it for me.

“So good to see you again.” He gives me his decaying, yellow grin. Then I feel that ridiculous knife of his bury itself into my chest, right where the bullet struck me.

My body convulses like he just hooked up my nipples to a car battery. “You fuck!” I shout. “You’re supposed to ask me a question first!”

The knife pulls back. Oddly, the pain instantly stops. It feels distant now, like a pin-prick. “Okay, you want a question? Here’s a question: Why’d ya do it, Mac?”

Thump. The knife goes right back in. Same spot, like he’s a surgeon. I shake hard in the chair I’m tied to.

Murphy’s laughing now. “She’s not even your kid, man! You threw away your career, your life, for some punk that ain’t even yours!”

He pulls the knife out again, and my body stops shaking. “No,” I whisper. “You don’t understand…”

“Of course I understand, Mac,” Murphy says. Stab. “This is all some silly guilt trip that started eighteen years ago, right? Left poor old Rachel alone so you could pursue…what? Lots of money? Wealth? Happiness? How much does a guy like you make, Mac? How much shit can you buy in a month? And you still got regrets?”

I’m shaking my head feverishly now, like I’m a delusional drunk in denial of the truth. Maybe I am.

“You threw away your whole life for a girl that doesn’t even look like you!”

“But she’s Rachel’s!” I suddenly scream. “She’s Rachel’s daughter! It doesn’t matter if she’s mine! She could have been! If we hadn’t lost the baby, she could have…”

Stab.

“But she’s not,” Murphy laughs. “And even if she was yours, she wasn’t worth throwing your life away for. Look at you! She left you for dead after you saved her ass. She’s just a thug. A thug like you and me.”

“No,” I whisper. Stab. More convolutions. “She wouldn’t have been! She wouldn’t have been if…!”

“If what?” Murphy says, pulling the knife back out. “If you had chose Rachel instead? If you had been around, been a dad instead of a thug?” Murphy laughs. “She’s a thug. And a stupid thug. Look at all you did for her, and she’s still going to get pinched.”

It takes me a long moment to realize what Murphy’s saying. He sees the light in my eyes and nods. “Yeah. She left your body in that motel. With your gun. The bullet will match that gun, which will match your fingerprints and hers. And then that gun of yours will match the pile of bodies in Miami. You know that girl has gotten her fingers inked before. She’s got a week maybe before Miami’s finest send them over, and then she’ll have her very own turn on the electric chair. Good save there, Mac. You sure know how to choose them.”

Everything’s getting blurry again. I look up at Murphy, my eyes suddenly very tired. His face is starting to smudge like an oil painting under a hair dryer.

“So if you still want to save her…” Murphy continues. “Better get your ass moving.”

He sinks the knife into me again, like he’s trying to jump-start my cold, dead heart.

I feel the carpet on my cheeks as much as I can smell it, and in the distance I can hear my Camero roaring to life. I try to get up, stumble, fall, and then try again. Like a dying fish I flop back onto the floor. God, it feels like there’s a bonfire in my chest, and it’s spreading.

The most I can manage is rolling over, and that alone takes a world of effort. Like an idiot, I slide a finger into my shirt and feel where the bullet struck me. Yeah, I’m wearing a Kevlar vest. If I had told you earlier, it wouldn’t have been much of a story, but let me assure you that getting hit with a 9mm point blank wearing a vest is no light matter. I know I’m lucky to be alive. Very lucky, assuming I can still pull through this. Internal bleeding and all hasn’t been ruled out. I wonder how many ribs are broken.

I roll my head right, and I see a shiny, copper cylinder. 9mm shell casing. Imaginary Murphy was right—she’s an amateur. More amateur than he is.

I swim through the pain and struggle to get moving. I got to be quick. I can’t hear the three or four person orgy in the other room anymore, and that certainly means they phoned the cops. If I’m going to save Heidi, the police can’t find a body here, or any guns. If they come and all they find is a little blood and a broken wall mirror, they won’t have enough. That CSI shit is expensive.

I gather up both pistols, the spent casing, and my day-pack. The girl was kind enough to leave me my retirement fund, though I doubt that it was intentional. No time to wipe anything down. I cracked my head and bled all over the wall when Heidi shot me, but that can’t be helped now, and it certainly won’t look like enough to keep the police interested. At the very most, they’ll think it was just a drug deal gone wrong and both parties fled. I stumble out the door in less than thirty seconds.

Strolling down the street, I see the first police cruiser roll up with its gumdrops in disco mode. I can’t walk too straight—the pain is so bad I’m amazed I can even walk at all—so I try to feign a hangover rather than a bullet wound. An amateur would hide or maybe put his head down and try not to make eye contact. But the thing to do here is to be like anyone else. Look. Rubberneck. I stop, watch the cruiser roll by, and get my full gander as I watch him park. In the parking lot I just struggled through not three minutes ago, the cop pops his door open and rushes inside my room with a hand on his hip iron. Then I move on. Casually. Modestly.

I move on.

I don’t know what happened to Heidi after that. Hopefully her days of being a criminal—a thug, as Murphy would have put it—are over, and she’ll use whatever she thought was worth throwing her life away for on something smart and inconspicuous, like stock in Microsoft. I wish her the best, though I pray never to run into her again.

As for me? Well, I’ll survive. I always do. No one’s come for me yet, and I count my blessings every day. I can’t exactly say that I’m making an honest living and doing the American Dream thing, but I’ll get by. Old habits are hard to break, I suppose.

Just no more Murphy’s for me. No more being a thug. I’ve moved on.

 

A Thug Like Me by Greg Lee 1 2
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