THUGLIT Issue Four (8 page)

He realized his mistake too late to amend it. A bullet clipped his shin. The Old Man pitched forward, landing on the sand with the bag behind him. He kicked the bag back down into the rocks and lay quiet.

“Clever business with the lights,” he heard the Bastard say.

Bullets punched the sand around him. The Old Man kept his head down the way a new soldier does who’s unaccustomed to fire. He’d never seen the Bastard shoot. Was he missing on purpose to keep things interesting?

The Old Man needed to get back to his equipment bag, but that was impossible given that he was pinned down, with the Bastard closing in. He’d need to circle around. He could break for the forest, or he could slip into the water and approach from a different point. Swimming would tire him. Waiting here was no good. A forest run was suicide. He crawled ahead, judging the distance to the log. Paltry cover, but better than what he had now.

He did a soldier’s spring to a standing position and ran all-out. When he reached the log, this strange surge of vitality carried him over it and he broke for the trees at a dead run.

He crashed into branches and fell to the dry mulch of the forest floor. Truthfully he couldn’t recollect bullets chasing him, or the thundercrack of a rifle. The pain in his leg, the sweat beneath his coat, and his overworked synthetic heart—those were real. He could have dressed the wound with the kit in his bag, but his bag was wedged between boulders at the water’s edge.

A network of well-trod paths led around the island. The Old Man could stay off the paths and trample through ivy and undergrowth, or chance the hard-packed dirt. Visibility versus noise. He stuck to the path.

He’d feint, as if to circle around the Bastard’s position, and then double back for his bag. Without the bag he had no chance. He hoped the Bastard didn’t know it. He had a folding knife in his pocket. The Bastard had a gun. Doubtless the Bastard had other things.

The flesh wound aggravated his stride, but didn’t devolve into a limp. His footsteps were silent.

The ground rose. To his left was a still lake. A dancefloor of algae and fallen leaves rested on the stagnant water. To his right the trail led off to the bay named after the dead Hawaiian.

The Old Man thought about that story as he walked. The Hawaiian had been executed for murder, tried by the Hudson’s Bay Company, in the days when the country was a trading post for the British. He wondered how fair the trial had been, a dark-skinned defendant in a company-run post. Maybe someone had taken a dislike to the Hawaiian. Maybe the Hawaiian had offended one of the merchants’ daughters. To be buried in an unmarked grave on a strange island—he’d offended someone.

The ground sparked in front of him. Instinctively the Old Man dove, landing in a soft mess of fern and rotten wood. He started crawling away from the track, turning back to see where the shots were coming from. The sound was too soft for a large-caliber rifle.

Something landed nearby, something fused and burning. He rolled away as it exploded in a gasp of smoke.

Dummies. Firecrackers.

He looked up and saw the Bastard, belted into a hunting hide between two trees on the other side of the trail. He was bringing up his rifle. The Old Man leapt up and moved.

He ignored the pain. He was disoriented. He thought he was heading toward the water. He stumbled over a fallen tree. A bullet blasted away shards of rotten wood. The Old Man dove over, landed, scurried out of sight.

The Bastard was laughing.

Bullets chipped away at the Old Man’s cover. He knew a well-placed shot could slam right through a dead tree. He dug in. He had a feeling the Bastard wanted him dug in.

He stayed there for an hour. If he tried to run, the Bastard would have a good sight on him. And what was in that direction—the water? What could he do there?

Why firecrackers? Why not grenades?

It was a game to the Bastard. Never a duel. The Old Man wasn’t his equal. Hadn’t been even before retirement. He was toying with him. Herding him towards--

He heard something hissing from the nearby foliage. Suddenly the air was redolent with an acrid, sour smell. The Old Man’s eyes watered. Tear gas? Some kind of homemade agent?

His skin burned. He bolted from cover, stumbling. He heard the shots and thought he could hear the bullets passing him, swarms of them, one shot rolling into another.

He was running. He was sobbing. The chemicals burned his throat and nose. He could hear the water. He headed that way.

The ground sloped downward. He slid and stopped. Milky vision slowly returned to his eyes. When it did, he saw he was near the water’s edge. The bottom of the short slope was lined with punji sticks, dozens of them, sticking out of the ground like brown serrated teeth. Coils of razor wire wound around their base. If he hadn’t stopped, hadn’t sensed something was off…

He realized what an idiot he’d been. He’d gone into this as a duel. The Bastard had spent the year arranging amusements for himself.
This
was the game for the Bastard—to make him run this obstacle course, the two of them, stalker and prey.

The Bastard would be behind him, with the rifle, waiting to finish him off.

The Old Man pulled out two of the punji sticks, broke one, tossed the top half and the other stick into the water. He jabbed the broken bottom half back into the mud, and used his hands to create the impression of a limb sliding into the water.

He took up the heaviest thing nearby, a segment of rotten stump, and heaved it into the lake. The splash was underwhelming and it bobbed in the water. But it had stirred up the silt below.

The Old Man scrambled back into the tree line, slowed his breathing, and waited.

He heard footfalls, the crunch of dry leaves. He didn’t look up. The feet stopped. Leaves ruffled near where the Old Man lay. The Bastard was prodding the bushes, looking for traps. With a pained wheeze the Bastard made it down the bank. The Old Man looked up, saw the Bastard kneeling, holding up the broken stick. The Old Man stood up very quietly. He’d already opened the clasp on his blade.

One chance.

The Bastard was below him with his back to him. He took aim and threw. Instinctively the Bastard turned. He’d aimed for the Bastard’s heart. The turn moved a shoulder into the blade’s path. The blade cut into the Bastard. The Bastard fell. He landed on the razor wire and let out a whinny of a scream that would have been funny anywhere else.

The Old Man ran. It was at least two miles back to the rocks. The bag was everything. He could collapse of a stroke or heart failure after. He had to get the bag.

The Bastard had the gun. The Bastard would know the fastest way across the island. The Old Man was unarmed. If he wasn’t fast enough…

Somewhere on the island the dead Hawaiian was buried. Which meant that with every step, he could be walking on someone’s grave.

He stuck to the trail and didn’t pause once for air, not until he was at the edge of the forest. He’d come out farther south than he’d planned. Here there was no grass, no driftwood between him and the rocks.

He started across the open ground. The first shot
pang
-ed across one of the boulders that lay so frustratingly close ahead. He ran all out. A shot tore through his shoulder and propelled him forward, onto the rocks.

He fell, pulling himself over, putting the boulders between him and the shooter. He edged close to where he’d kicked the bag.

The bag wasn’t there. He reached over to probe the crevice where the bag had been, but his arm refused to move. He could feel precious blood soaking through his coat. He looked up.

The Bastard was crossing the beach at a casual pace, obviously in pain. The rifle was in his hands.

“You’re cleverer than you were,” he called out.

The Old Man ignored him. He turned over and used his good arm to feel about in the junctions between the rocks.

His fingers touched the woven nylon handle.

“Now that you’ve got your guns,” the Bastard was saying, “we can escalate things a bit.”

“Didn’t bring a gun,” the Old Man said. His good hand pulled the black weatherproof case from the bag, and he began undoing the clasps.

A desperate shot rang out, hitting the rocks. The Old Man was moving now, the device in his hands. With his teeth he pulled up the antenna.

“Spent the year learning about radio frequencies,” the Old Man said. “Never could figure which one you used. Had to learn how to sweep through them. Technology’s sure something.”

He depressed the device’s lone button and stood up. The Bastard had the rifle leveled at him.

The Bastard didn’t shoot. The Bastard was laughing.

The Old Man’s thumb left the button. He dropped and covered his head. The explosion shifted the boulders and raised the heat and left nothing of the Bastard except dark pieces of bone and gore amidst a spew of blood.

The noise was enough to break the skull.

It didn’t stop, either. The Old Man felt a rumbling. He stood up. He watched a plume of fire leap out of the forest, then another, then more. A sequence of explosions, painting the sky black and red, detonating the island. The mine shafts. The Bastard had wired it all.

The boulders danced as the rocky beach went up in turn. The blast left fires that cooked everything in their wake.

The Old Man crouched and listened to the intermittent rumblings. The sand burned into glass and the trees gave way to geysers of fire and shattered earth. Pressure and terror seemed to meet and fuse. Black sleep rolled over him.

He dreamt of white raccoons.

By Patti Abbott

I began working the counter at Allure Furs the September I was seventeen. I was tired of the lifestyle my measly allowance bought—fed up with being the “poor me” high school girl with no money for a Saturday night movie, a Bon Jovi concert, or a pair of Calvin Klein jeans.  My mother—single and overworked—seemed relieved that I removing the burden of providing such things from her.

Few would have predicted a shop selling expensive fur coats could appear so down-on-its-heels, but Allure Furs managed it, squashed as it was between a dilapidated movie theater with a torn marquee showing second-run films, and a donut shop with a missing “u” in its sign, dating from the 1930's. 
Dont
, as the sign spelled out in electric green letters, turned out to be a fitting warning. The trio of businesses attracted little interest except for an early morning sugar rush and the midnight Saturday showing of
The
Rocky Horror Picture Show
. I was never around for either event.

Allure Furs had no reliable clientele, sometimes managing to elude customers for days. Standing at the bus stop at five o’clock, the incessant hum of the movie soundtracks still rang in my ears, and my clothes carried home the combined scents of popcorn, licorice and yeast. It took no small effort to remove the smell from my clothes
.

My decision to apply for this job seemed flawed almost immediately when my prospective employer came out to meet me. Mr. Polifax was the most hairless man I’d ever seen, and he walked with his midsection thrust out, the rest of him following behind in a slithery crawl. Physically, there was nothing to admire and more importantly, his personality was no better than his countenance.

“Are you sure you can be here by two on weekdays and ten on Saturdays?” Mr. Polifax asked at my interview, brushing the omnipresent yet non-existent hair from his face for the tenth time. “No personal phone calls, no boyfriends visiting?”

Twice, he’d put a hand on my arm, the last time several inches above the elbow. I managed to hide my revulsion well enough to be hired on the spot, learning later I’d been the only one to apply. But Mr. Polifax employed me with the reluctance of a man who’d purchased a bobcat and we gave each other a wide berth as much as possible. He was on the road buying and selling coats much of time. As for me, working the counter at Allure Furs seemed like a better idea than hawking pizzas or filing library books—the sorts of employment my mother had suggested.

My duties included manning the front counter, answering the phone, ringing up sales—mostly from storage fees and the occasional purchase of accessories—never for something as consequential as a coat. The sale of even a muff was reason for excitement.

After the first few weeks, I brought a paperback along.  Hours passed without a single customer coming into the shop. The storage fees must carry the business, I decided—or perhaps large sales took place on the frequent trips Mr. Polifax took. Once or twice, I spotted invoices for furs sold, but those were rare.

“I bet he’s laundering money,” a friend suggested.

I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what that meant. Never again would I enjoy such innocence.

“Iris.”

It was Mr. Polifax, coming out of the backroom in a rush. I jumped, not knowing he was back there, and slid
Flowers In The Attic
under the counter. “Lisa’s down with the flu. I wondered if you might step in for her tomorrow.”

Lisa
was the older girl Allure Furs employed for customers who asked to see a fur modeled or for the runway show Polifax mounted twice a year. She was a skinny blonde who wore too much makeup, staggeringly high heels, and fancied herself the next Elle Macpherson. She seldom deigned to talk to me, preferring the petting she received at the hands of Mr. Polifax and Myrtle and already sported the world-weary look of a middle-aged woman.

“A customer’s coming in late this afternoon. Lisa usually handles it but…” Mr. Polifax looked at me critically. “Can you do something with your hair, Iris? Maybe put it up? No, it’s probably too short for that,” he said, running a hand across the nape of my neck. Every hair stood on end as if commanded. “I’ve never understood why young girls cut off their hair. Well anyway, ask Myrtle for some advice.” He motioned with his head toward the backroom, and then paused, a hand on his hip. “Try to look like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. You might bring that off. Do you know who she is?”

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “That’s the kind of look we strive for. Classy.”

I tried not to glance at the dandruff on his lapels, the worn cuffs on his shirt, the scuffed tips of his burgundy T
hom McAn loafers.

“Go see what Myrtle can do with you.” His hand darted just to the left of my backside before he glided away. Even the air his movement produced was repulsive.

Though Myrtle’s wildly permed hair and penchant for wearing jewelry made from shells, bird feathers, and fish skeletons was hardly a selling point for beauty advice, I walked into the back
room, a place where Myrtle spent her days performing the miraculous bookkeeping tricks that kept Allure Furs afloat. She seemed clueless, suspicious, and ruthless all at once. We’d never had a conversation beyond a discussion of the weather, her cat Lamour, and how I should fill out various forms.

“A wig would probably be the best way to go,” Myrtle said, spinning around in the desk chair. “Can’t do much with that pixie-cut you favor. Glamour needs more volume. Selling furs is easier if they’re modeled by a sexy girl. Men wanted to think their wives will look gorgeous if they buy them a fur. It’s your job to make them believe it. Now, what can we do with you?”

This was by far the longest speech Myrtle had ever made to me. And here I was, within a scant two minutes, receiving fashion advice from a person who looked like an extra for an episode of
Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
I held my tongue. Maybe there’d be more money in modeling because Lisa certainly seemed well-fed and dressed.

Reaching over with a frown, Myrtle yanked open a file drawer, pulled out a ratty-looking auburn wig, and tossed it to me. In the split
-second before I caught it, it appeared a ferret was headed my way. I could smell Aquanet hairspray, disturbed from its years of rest, and possibly something else.

“Of course, you’ll have to play with it, tease it, plump it up. Give it a little flair. Why don’t you take it home? Practice on it. You might even throw it in some Woolite and let it soak for an hour or two. Woolite can do wonders.”

Unconsciously, Myrtle’s right hand went to her own head. “I’ve been known to pull a wig on in a pinch. I may even have worn that one once or twice. Not so many years ago, it was me modeling furs for Mr. P.”

I beat back the impulse to drop it on the floor. It was the faint but noxious scent of Myrtle’s favorite perfume that was coming through along with the Aquanet. Or perhaps the odor of the back office itself, pickled in
Charlie after all of Myrtle’s years at Allure Furs. Mr. Polifax kept her as far from the furs as possible. And even farther from the customers.

I returned later that day, wig in place, makeup on, the highest heels Payless sold jammed on my feet.

“Well, that’s more like it,” Mr. Polifax said, coming out of the back room. “Who’d guess you’d clean up this good? Might sell a coat today after all.” He circled me. “The added height’s terrific. You must top six feet in those shoes.”

He was flush with approval, and when the customer bought an expensive mink an hour later, Mr. Polifax was ecstatic.  “Good work, Iris. You got the knack.” Actually I had gotten off a bit on the show I put on
(to my surprise)—walking back and forth on the little ramp Mr. Polifax called his runway. And I did seem to have the knack for it. The guy had me model furs for almost a half-hour and then bought the second one I had worn. I listened to him with a smile pasted on my face when he told me he could get me a deal on a used Buick if I came down to his lot. I took the card he held out and smiled even wider. This might really work out.

Lisa and I began sharing the modeling duties. “You know when to shut your trap,” Mr. Polifax said, in a rare attempt at a compliment. “Lisa likes to chat up the cust
omers. Sometimes it works, but…”

It was several weeks later that he asked me to come in on a Friday night. “This guy can only make it after eight,” he said, running a nervous hand through his non-existent hair. I wondered if the gesture looked less absurd when his hand had swept through hair rather than air, but I took the gesture itself for a worrisome sign. Just who was this guy coming in at night? And why was it freaking Mr.
Polifax out?

I was somewhat relieved when he added, “Could mean a big sale for us so I’m reluctant to turn it over to that big-mouthed Lisa. This customer’s the silent type.” He squinted as he licked his thumb and flipped through his
Rolodex. “Your mother works Friday nights, right?” He was looking at the card with my name on it now. “Well, I can give you a ride home. It’s practically right on my way.”

Ugh. Would the nastiness of Allure Furs never end? I imagined him cruising my house in the ancient VW bus he drove to cart furs around. “Nobody expects to find fur coats in a piece of junk like this,” he explained.

Friday night, I tried on a lynx and a karakul lamb coat for a tiny man who never said a word. He looked at me or the coat—take your choice—from under barely opened eyelids. After the lynx, Mr. Polifax came hurrying into the back room.

“Look, Iris—just the coat, never mind the rest.”

I must have had my mouth open because he added, “Leave your clothing back here. You know.” He looked me up and down as if I’d already stripped. I could actually feel my clothes falling away in his eyes.

“What would be the point of that?” I said, watching him in the mirror. It wasn’t like my skimpy dress was making the coat fall unevenly. It had no effect on the fur at all. I struggled to make sense of it.

Mr. Polifax turned a bright pink. “This client—well, he’s a little odd—but he’ll probably buy something or make it worth our while if he gets a peek.”

A peek? A peek at what?

“Look, Lisa does it all the time. Well, not all the time maybe, but now and then. I would’ve thought she’d filled you in on it. I’m sure I told her to bring you up to speed. Or maybe it was Myrtle I told to talk to you.” He paused and when I didn’t say anything, continued, “Some men—well, some of then—they like a little show. It greases the wheels for a sale. Harmless stuff really.” He giggled.

I shook my head and he sighed.

“Look, there’ll be something extra in your paycheck next week. Be a good girl and show him the goods.”

The goods. What were the goods?

“What if I do it and he still doesn’t buy a coat? I’ll still get the extra pay?” I wasn’t the fool he took me for. “I’ll get something extra even if he doesn’t buy a fur? Right?” I repeated more firmly. Any girl in her right mind wouldn’t even be considering this stunt, so I might as well push any thoughts of virtue aside. I had “the goods” and he wanted  “the goods.” I wasn’t sure what kind of money we were talking about but it had to be the price of a pair of jeans at the very least.

Mr. Polifax paused again, and then nodded.

“And no touching me, right? He has to keep his grubby little hands to himself!” I was hardly going to allow that nasty man in the other room to put his hands on me.

“Okay, no touching. I’ll be right there, Iris. But if you take such a prissy, superior attitude out there, he won’t buy anything and our little arrangement will end. Lisa’s been trying to get me to give her more hours.” He blinked twice. “She’s very amenable to client requests. She’s a smart one, that Lisa.”

His lips disappeared as he straightened his back, clearly annoyed, and he pushed open the door and left me alone.

The little man was standing in the same spot when I walked out of the back room wearing a hugely expensive sable that only someone my height could pull off. He gave no indication that either it or me was anything special, remaining mostly mute and using his hands to indicate certain moves he wanted me to make. It looked like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. I followed his instructions almost like an automaton—never fully disrobing, but certainly modeling more than the coat.

The show, or whatever it was, went on for about ten minutes, and it wasn’t an entirely dissatisfying experience. I enjoyed watching myself in the full-length mirrors circling the room. The fractured pieces of me, the swirling coat, the man’s face, all crisscrossing the room. A kaleidoscope of images. I was getting better at it all the time, and I can’t say the strange sort of power I wielded over this man didn’t have its reward. The way his features seem to slide off his face and turn to liquid. Desire. That was what it was.

At the end of the show, the small man’s face quickly lost that waxy, liquidy texture and returned to an almost featureless look—stony and fixed. I might have never disrobed at all from his placid appearance. But Mr. Polifax was visibly panting, seemingly ill-equipped to show the customer to the door.

When the door closed, Mr. Polifax sank into the nearest chair and fanned himself. “You did good, Iris,” he said. “You’re a born model. We’re gonna make some money—you and me.”