THUGLIT Issue One (12 page)

Her hand falls light on my arm. I push her away until she puts both arms around me and pulls me close and I’m crying like a baby on her shoulder, tell
ing my life’s story to a twelve-year-
old girl.

Audrey.

The money.

The bloody reprisal.

All of it.

Twenty minutes go by before I can pull myself together. Jenny’s stopped humming, but doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t tell me everything will be okay.

Before leaving, Jenny hands me the envelope. I follow her to the door and see a car waiting for her. Sergeant Brice at the wheel of a navy blue unmarked. He gives me a wave. I hold up my hand and watch the two of them drive away into a bleached-out horizon.

I open the envelope. A school photo of Jenny. Her dark brown hair in pigtail braids with something passing itself off as a smile drifting across her pale face like clouds moving across the sun. She’s trying to tell me everything is all right, only those baby blue eyes deceive and fail to contain her innocuous lies.

I turn my eyes up to the bright sky and then to the brilliant colors of white blossom oleander and rusty crotons growing in my own and neighboring lawns. The sun is warm on my face. 

I put the picture back in its envelope, go inside and lock the door. When once again safe in the darkness of my bedroom, I slip Jenny’s photograph into Audrey’s book and proceed to drink and pray and hate myself into a sweet and bottomless oblivion.

*****

Two months down and the cycle repeats itself. I try to right the wrongs. For myself. For others. I hope life will work out for people like Jenny at least.

I live off my hope.

Exercise has taken the place of hate. No, nothing can fully take the place of that. I try, though. I take long runs and I lift weights and I sweat out the anger. Some of it, anyhow.

I’ve talked hours with my old Sarge over beers and bourbon. Brice confessed how he knew it was me who found the Hughes girl. Said it wasn’t easy. The girl couldn’t give a useful description, save for he was black and tall and had dark wet spots the size of silver dollars on his knees. And he stunk like hell. That was all she remembered. The detectives chalked up her fuzzy memory to post traumatic shock. The girl was safe, the bad guys were dead and the case was put in the back of a random file cabinet somewhere downtown.

Only Brice put the timing of my exit from the force and Jenny’s scant description to work. He knew the whole story that morning I stood in his office. My knees. My car. My fetid smell. But he let it die a fast death on an official level.

A few weeks later he showed my picture to the girl and now the three of us hold a secret bonded in blood.

And against doubts new and old, I still pray to God, Falconer in my hands, Audrey in my hands. My knees will never stop bleeding and the terrazzo floor will always be cold and hard. But I continue waiting, knowing full well that God and Morpheus and booze will never let me have her. I know this. 

I’ll live out my days and nights reaching and grabbing for her in a blood red world left untouched evermore by a clean white sun. Audrey, only a few steps away, but never within reach. Her smile. Her clean sweet scent. Her iridescent green eyes and soft brown skin.

Halcyon days are gone forever.

Spinning free.

b
y
Johnny Shaw

Violence Cortez is not a subtle man. His nickname, neck tattoo, body language, and facial expression all communicate the same thing. The same word. The same danger. Nothing clever or open to misinterpretation for this guy. Violence is violence.

Closer to a yellowjacket than a rattlesnake, Violence has a reputation for his no-quit tenacity, rage-fueled insanity that makes him avoided as much as feared. The kind of erratic personality that makes everyone nervous, that can turn a good night bad. Violence likes to brawl, an avid hobbyist, needing little more than a sideways glance to start round one. If that’s your kind of fun, all the power to you. But most folks would rather have a good time.

Most folks, but not Scrote Henning, Violence’s only friend. Somewhere between a sidekick and a toady, the inseparable duo spend their evenings mining every ounce of havoc from the night and a whiskey bottle.

But when the front door of the Top Hat Saloon swings open and Violence stomps in alone, the last thing the bartender Marco is thinking about is Scrote, figuring he’ll show up soon enough. Marco says a soft prayer that Violence doesn’t aggravate the hangover that he’s been nursing all day. Sometimes all you can do is hope your trailer is standing after the tornado. You can’t run, hide, or fight a force of nature. You can only have enough good luck to survive it.

Marco cracks open a Coors Light, sets it on the bar just as Violence sits, and acts like he’s happy to see the dumb psychopath.

“You seen Scrote? Scrote Henning?” Violence asks.

“There more than one Scrote?”

“Don’t know. Could be. You seen him?”

Marco shakes his head. “Ain’t seen him since when you two were in. What was that? A week, ten days?”

Violence nods, his eyes never leaving Marco’s. “You sure you’re telling me the truth?”

Heat rises to Marco’s face. Having his word challenged is not something he trucks with easily. But looking at Violence—eye twitching, breathing forced—Marco douses the flames with a big splash of What The Fuck Are You Doing?

“Got no reason to lie,” Marco says through a strained smile.

“Everyone’s got a reason to lie,” Violence says with his own smile, albeit one that would make a child cry. “Just saying. You’re pals with Scrote, kind of. Maybe he tells you to tell me you ain’t seen him. Like that. You being a friend.”

“We ain’t friends, really. Just a guy I see. A guy who comes in the bar. If you don’t know where he is, I sure as hell don’t.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Can’t find him. Ain’t heard from him in days.”

“Maybe something’s wrong?”

“Sure as hell is. Because when I find him, I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”

*****

Violence Cortez and Scrote Henni
ng leaned against Scrote’s Fili
pino-blue
Toyota
pickup in the parking lot of the FastTrip, drinking tall boys and chucking the empties in the truck bed. Neither would go so far as to call it a ritual, but since Violence got back from up north, this was how they spent their Saturday nights. Other than the casinos, there wasn’t much else to do in
Indio
. And neither man had extra money to gamble.

“Some people just got more luck than others. More good luck. More bad luck. Luck wouldn’t be a word if it weren’t a real thing.” After ten beers, Scrote always leaned toward philosophizing and pontificating. He wasn’t smart, but he had ideas. “We, the two of us, you and me, we’ve always had bad luck. Not our fault none of the things that happened.”

“I don’t buy that shit.” Violence spit on the ground. “I ain’t no puppet, got no choice. I control me and mine. Big difference between bad luck and a fuck-up. Give me a smoke.”

Scrote dug out his pack and handed it to Violence. “Just saying, if I wouldn’t’ve had the bad luck three years ago—Connie coming home early on the one day I was finally able to talk Sinnamon off the pole at Hot Lipps and back to my house, then I’d still be married and a regular dad and all. Like getting struck by lightning. Bad luck. Couldn’t be anything else. I mean, you remember Sinnamon. Not like I had a choice.”

Violence shook his head and lit the smoke, but let Scrote continue.

“And you, you're saying it wasn't bad luck the cops pulled into the parking lot of Dirty Pete’s? Just as you was punishing Israel Ramirez for being an asshole—or whatever reason I’m sure he had coming?

“He said Poison rocked harder than Metallica.”

“Exactly. Capital offense. On any other night, Izzy just would’ve took that beating. No harm. Free ambulance ride. Stitches and plaster. But soon as a cop sees a guy pummeling another guy with a stop sign, they know they can frame him on some bullshit charge. Bad luck got you four years for assault.”

“And an extra year for destruction of county property.” Violence laughed and gave his buddy a hard slap on the back. “You’re an idiot, Scrote. A straight-up retard. But God love you, you’re always ready to take a buddy’s side. No matter how stupid.”

Violence held up his can, Scrote tapped his against it, and they both downed the remainder of the beers. The clang of empty against empty signaled their need for more.

*****

Violence drives past the FastTrip, but there are no cars parked out front. No sparkly blue pickup, that’s for sure. It’s Saturday night. It’s where Scrote should be. Hell, it’s where Violence should be, drinking and shooting the shit. They never even had to call to meet up. It was their routine, tradition. Now Violence is sure that Scrote is avoiding him. And if Scrote isn’t dead in a ditch, he’s going to wish he was.

Other than drinking with Violence, Scrote only has one other thing in his life. Strippers. But Violence can’t remember the name of the dancer that Scrote is banging. What is it with that idiot and strippers? It’s probably the tits. They all have tits. And that’s a big deal to a guy like Scrote.

Violence can’t even remember her stage name. Always something spelled all squirrelly. He might even know a stripper named Squirrelly. He knows a Kanddee. A Lexxxi with three x’s. And most of the spice rack: Sage,
Cayenne
, Saffron, Pepper, Cumin, and of course, Nutmeg. Hell, what does it matter? Not like he can look it up in the phone book. But he can head over to Hot Lipps. He knows her by sight, tramp stamp and all. Eventually, Scrote will show up. That’s where the tits are.

Violence smiles as he turns right on the next street, thinking about tits and punishment.

*****

Scrote pulled three bags of Fritos off the chip rack. Violence knocked them out of his hands onto the floor. Neither man bothered to pick them up.

“What was that for?” Scrote asked.

“I ain’t gonna smell Frito breath the rest of the night. Smells like a rendering plant. Might as well fart in my mouth and get it done with.”

“I got to eat. I’m hungry.”

“Jesus Christ.” Violence scanned the store and pointed at a display of cookies. “Grab some Oreos or Chips Ahoy. Anything but Nutter Butters. They’re worse than Fritos.”

“I was more in the mood for savory,” Scrote said with a bit of pout, but he walked to the cookies.

Violence set his two six-packs of tall boys on the counter in front of the bored teenager. “And a pack of Marlboros.”

“You should buy a lottery ticket. I can prove my point,” Scrote yelled out behind him.

“What point?” Violence said, watching his buddy dump an armload of cookies on the counter.

“About good luck and bad luck. I’ll bet if you buy a lottery ticket, you won’t win nothing. Because you got bad luck. Born under a bad sign, like that. If you had good luck, you’d win, right?”

“Not exactly scientifical. One try? That wouldn’t prove diddly-shit, dumbass. Most people don’t win. You saying most people got bad luck.”

“From what I can see? Yeah. The world is mostly bad luck. There’d be more people living in mansions, driving nice cars, if people had good luck. Shit, how many you know that got jobs? Ain’t done time?”

Violence turned to the teenager. “The beer, the cookies, and one of them scratchers. The one with Elvis on it.”

Back at the truck, Violence and Scrote each shotgunned a beer, followed by a beer chaser. Scrote pulled out a sleeve of Oreos and they had a contest to see how many they could fit in their mouth, laughing through the black crumbs.

After he chewed and swallowed, Scrote said, “Aren’t you going to check your ticket?”

Violence shrugged and pulled it out of his pocket. “So if I win a free ticket, does that mean I have good luck?”

“Only if that ticket wins. Money is the scorecard for good luck. More money you got, more good luck,” Scrote said, “but I’m telling you, we’re both cursed, brother. You’ll see.”

Violence dug his fingernail into the lottery ticket and scratched. There were six numbers. He had to match two of them. The most he could win was $50,000 dollars. He scratched them in order.

The first three:

$2.

$100

$10,000

“What if I win two bucks? Barely feels like nothing. Hell, the ticket cost me a dollar. One dollar profit don’t really seem like good luck.”

The second three:

$50

$5

$10,000

“Well, fuck me. I think I won,” Violence said, blowing some of the silver dust off the ticket.

“How much?” Scrote asked, leaning in to take a look at the ticket.

“Ten thousand bucks.”

“Did you have to match two or three?”

“Two. It says right here,” Violence said, pointing at the instructions at the top of the ticket.

“You won,” Scrote said softly.

Violence read the instructions at the top of the ticket two more times. “I just won ten motherfucking grand, you silly son of a bitch. Who’s got bad luck?”

*****

Violence cruises past the enormous Mexican working the door and stomps into Hot Lipps. The crowd is surprisingly sparse for a Saturday, mostly loners with eyes focused on the bored, too-skinny addict on the stage. The drunk campesino that accidentally bumps into Violence doesn’t know how lucky he is. Violence is so focused that he only stomps on the guy’s foot and gives him a sharp punch to the liver, letting him off easy.

As the poor bastard pukes and collapses behind him, Violence walks to the bar and orders a beer. He scans the stage and scattered audience through squinted eyes.

The deejay lowers the volume of “Dr. Feelgood” and as the boy-shaped stripper on stage collects the loose ones, he rolls out his patter. “All right, boys. Give it up for Credenza. Man, I’d like to get in her drawers. Am I right? Now we got something extra special for you, a terrible twosome, a deviant duet, a…two naked girls. Let’s hear it for Domminno and Jeniniana.”

When the girls reach the spotlight at the pole to shake their asses, Violence doesn’t recognize either of them. Violence drinks his beer and tries to enjoy the show. The girls can dance. He likes that they still got some baby fat on them, too. Makes them look real, not all fake and artificial and plastic. He can imagine that there’s plenty to hold onto.

He can feel his rod getting stiff, but that only angers him more. Just another thing that he has no control over. The familiar pressure of fuck-or-fight is building, that’s for damn sure.

He can’t help but turn his head every time the front door opens, but it’s never Scrote. It’s either a dude who keeps his eyes to the floor or a group of drunk dudes playing grabass with each other and acting like they’re seeing tit for the first time. He hates those guys. It’s like they don’t see how special a place like Hot Lipps is. Like they think it’s some kind of joke.

When Violence got raised from
Chino
, the first place he went was a strip club. He wasn’t ready to get laid, but he just needed to see a live, naked lady. It was scary and therapeutic and sacred. The girls didn’t want nothing but money, and for that they helped bring him back into the world. It was beautiful.

Now he finds himself staring hate at three thick-necked jocks in Ed Hardy shirts and backward baseball caps. They’re goofing on the dancers, making barking sounds. They’re just what he needs. Picking on some little guy wouldn’t be satisfying. But three gym punks, this should be interesting.

Before he even knows it himself, he’s standing over the three jocks’ table. “You boys consider yourself lucky?”

The three boys look up at him, scoping his prison ink. One of them glances to the bouncer, who is distractedly texting.

The biggest of the three speaks up. “What? What do you want?”

“Do you think you got good luck or bad luck?”

“The fuck? We’re here to watch the strippers. Not to talk to some faggot about whatever the fuck. Go away, asshole.”