THUGLIT Issue Seven

  THUGLIT

  Issue Seven

  Edited by Todd Robinson

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in the works are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  THUGLIT: Issue Seven

  ISBN-13: 978-1492297222

  ISBN-10: 1492297224

  Stories by the authors: ©Joe Clifford, ©Christopher E. Long, ©Ed Kurtz, ©Michael Sears, ©Edward Hagelstein, ©Marie S. Crosswell, ©Benjamin Welton, ©Justin Ordoñez

  Published by THUGLIT Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the Author(s).

  Table of Contents

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  Mouthbreather by Joe Clifford

  Pegleg by Ed Kurtz

  The Last Job by Justin Ordoñez

  Two Sides of the Same Coin by Christopher E. Long

  Cinders by Marie S. Crosswell

  Quiet Dell, 1914 by Benjamin Welton

  The Neighbor's Dog by Edward Hagelstein

  Chum by Michael Sears

  Author Bios

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  Hey gang,

  Gonna take a break from the usual piss and pith that I use these intros for to take a second and dole out some respect.

  We lost a great one last month.

  Some might say we lost the greatest.

  Elmore Leonard shed his mortal coil on August 20th after 87 years on this planet. During that time, he blessed us with 45 novels that have become the standard not only in American crime writing, but for anyone who picks up a pen in any capacity.

  Without his work, his influence, the magazine you're looking at right now would not exist.

  Pure and simple.

  You will be missed, Dutch.

  Elmore "Dutch" Leonard

  October 11, 1925—August 20, 2013

  IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:

  — It's not you, it's me…and possibly those hired killers.

  — Don't test Brotherly Love.

  — The bodies in the Dell, the bodies in the Dell, Hi-Ho, the Merry-O, the bodies in the Dell.

  — FriendZone Level: Jedi master.

  — Calling it your "last job" is just asking fate to kick you in the balls.

  — Doggie wants a bone…

  — You're gonna need a bigger boat.

  — Some thieves don't have a leg to stand on.

  SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!

  Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug)

  08/31/13

  Mouthbreather

  by Joe Clifford

  People thought I did favors for Kim because I was in love with her. But girls like Kim don't end up with guys like me. Not in grade school, not in high school or in life. Somebody had to take care of her, though. For as pretty as Kim was—she could've been an actress or model—her life was a mess. Wasn't entirely her fault. The drinking and drugging might've been, but bad luck seemed to follow wherever she went. Transmissions dropped out, she'd lose her job, boyfriend's parole would get revoked.

  Kim and I grew up in the same trailer park in the flats of Copperhead Canyon. As kids we'd hide in the dry riverbeds, throwing rocks at cars, stoning lizards in the reserve. She was the first girl I ever saw naked, but not on purpose. In 7th grade she showed up drunk and vomited on herself. I carried her all the way home on my back. Over four miles. I had to undress her, wash her up before anyone found out. Felt like I'd been doing that most our lives, shouldering her burden, trying to get her clean.

  No one understood. Certainly not my wife, Rene, who didn't like us being friends. My wife said looks had nothing to do with it. She said Kim was a bad person, as ugly on the inside as I was on the out.

  Which is why I lied when Kim called from the bar late at night saying she needed me to come down there.

  Kim occasionally tended at Wounded Knee, the bar down the road from Mesa Community Tech, drawing a steady stream of frat boys, hammered and horny. Although Mike Edsel, the bar's owner, would have to be pretty desperate to ask, since Kim certainly drank any profit. She was slurring her words, wasted as usual, belligerent. I tried to get specifics but she kept ranting about some "asshole." I figured a college kid wasn't taking no for an answer. The way Kim dressed—tight tees and teeny shorts—she invited the attention.

  When I came back to the bedroom, Rene was snoring, the book she was reading, the pornographic one all the wives are reading these days, was rising and falling with her heavy bosom. Hoping to slip out without a hassle, I tried to slide on my pants standing up, but that's hard to do because of my size. Out of breath, I sat on the bed, which jostled Rene awake and caused her to grunt.

  "Stop breathing through your mouth," she blurted. "Who's calling this late?"

  I told her Stevie Orzo was having a roof rat problem and needed me to come over.

  "At almost midnight?"

  I explained rats don't much care what time of day it is. She shot me a suspect glare, but that seemed to satisfy her enough. She picked up her book and strapped on her reading glasses.

  I phoned Stevie once I got on the road and told him not to take any calls from my wife or house phone.

  "Kim?" he said, matter-of-factly.

  "She's having trouble at the bar."

  I heard him sigh on the other end.

  Even at midnight, the asphalt retained the day's heat. You could taste the melted tar and creosote. There were no streetlights on this section of the North Highway. I kept my eyes peeled for coyotes. They were a real problem in these parts. At least once a week somebody brought their car into the garage, asking me to pound a dent or hang a fender because they'd hit one. Coyotes crossed the road all night long, like Mexicans scurrying over the border. Last thing I needed was to smash my truck into one of the dumb beasts and have to explain to Rene why I was going the opposite direction from Stevie's.

  "How long you going to do this, buddy?" Stevie asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Be Kim's off-white knight in shining armor?"

  This was Stevie's sense of humor, a poke at me being half-Apache.

  "OK," Stevie said when I didn't respond. "I won't blow your cover. But you ain't helping by always bailing her out."

  "Should I let her get assaulted?"

  "I ain't talking about tonight, man. You're already on your way. I mean—you need to let her fall once in a while."

  "And what if she can't get back up?"

  He waited. "At least she won't be able to pull you down with her."

  When I steered into the gravel lot, it was practically empty, the Wounded Knee dark—which was weird, Saturday night being when bars do their best business. I could see Kim's rusted two-seater with the taped plastic window parked kitty-corner beside Mike Edsel's truck. A pair of trash barrels had been toppled, garbage strewn where coyotes had been scrounging for meat scraps from the grill.

  A muffled argument raged from inside the bar. Tugging at the handle, I found the door locked. I cupped my hands and peered through the glass. I saw two figures, one of them obviously Kim—you don't mistake legs like that. I yanked on the door harder. Heavy footsteps followed by a sliding deadbolt. Mike Edsel stood there, forcing a friendly grin, an icepack pressed to his head, which appeared to be bleeding.

&n
bsp; "Hey, Slim," Mike said. That's not my name but everyone calls me that on account of me being so large and on the heavy side.

  "How you doing, Mike?" I said.

  "Not too good." He glanced over his shoulder at Kim, who'd taken a seat in a booth, smoking a cigarette and smoldering. A whiskey bottle and bowl of nuts rested in front of her. You could feel her rage from the other side of the room as she cracked pistachio shells with her teeth. Broken shards of glass littered the floor, little liquor tide pools reflecting the moonlight through the windows.

  "What happened?" I asked him.

  Kim craned slightly, blonde mane tousled, mean sneer painted on her lips, that rabid look in her eyes.

  "Just get her out of here, Slim," Mike said.

  *****

  Kim had a tiny trailer at the end of Old Post Road No. 12. I'd helped her with the down payment a couple years ago. It was pretty cheap on account of nothing but wasteland surrounding it for miles. I tried to get her to talk about Wounded Knee, but she didn't respond with more than "unh uh," staring out the window at the passing brush and cacti.

  I'd planned on just dropping her off, she didn't seem much for company, but when I pulled up, Kim acted like it was a foregone conclusion I'd be coming inside.

  Her screen door dangled by a hinge as though someone had recently tried to kick it in.

  I grabbed the frame and lined up the screws. "I'll come by later and fix this for you."

  Kim brushed off the suggestion and headed straight for the freezer, retrieving a bottle of Potter's. She offered it to me, even though she knew I didn't touch the stuff.

  "That's right," she said, "you people can't drink. Makes ya mean, huh?"

  She cracked the seal, guzzling it down like cold water on a hot day.

  The trailer looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months. Unwrapped condom packages, drained fifths, crushed cigarette cartons you get for cheap from the reservations.

  Kim leaned against the counter, arching her back enough to display her stomach. She pushed out her big, round breasts.

  "Want to tell me what happened at the bar?" I asked.

  She gazed out the kitchen window. A lone coyote bayed in the distance.

  "Kim?"

  "Fuck Mike Edsel," was all she said.

  "Aw, Mike's a good guy. And he's your boss. You shouldn't—"

  Kat spat a nasty laugh. "Not anymore, he's not."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you retarded? Just what I said. He's not my boss. I don't work at the Wounded Knee."

  "You quit? Or you got fired?"

  This was not good. The bar was Kim's only source of income outside of her state assistance. The shifts she cobbled together were under the table. I didn't want to think what she'd do now.

  "Mike Edsel raped me," she said, calm as if reporting a tire sale at the Wal-Mart.

  "Huh?"

  "You heard me." Her eyes narrowed beady. "That fucker raped me."

  It was a shocking allegation. I wasn't friends with Mike, exactly. We were friendly enough. But he was a family man, a well-respected member of our community, a business owner with two little girls.

  Which is probably why I asked if she was sure.

  "Am I sure?" Kim shouted, fists clenched and shaky. "Am I sure?!"

  "I didn't mean it like that."

  "How'd you mean it then? Like did I ask for it?"

  "No. It's just hard for me…I mean, Mike Edsel—"

  "What?"

  "He's got a wife," I stammered. "And two little girls."

  "So he can't be a rapist?"

  She had a point. I hadn't thought about it like that. Just because someone owned a business, had money and a family, it didn't mean they weren't capable. Something wasn't sitting right, though. I felt funny about the whole situation. It seemed so fantastic, and yet I couldn't call my best friend a liar.

  "Don't worry about it," she said. "No one around here is going to believe a word I say anyway." Kim tipped the bottle.

  I fished my keys from my pocket.

  "Where you going?" she asked.

  "To have a word with Mike Edsel."

  Kim shook her head, chuckling. "You do that, Slim." Then she returned to drinking.

  *****

  Driving back to the Wounded Knee, I was pretty worked up, and nearly didn't see the coyote running across the road. I cranked the wheel, swerved hard, toolbox and shovel clanging in the metal bed, narrowly avoiding the filthy mongrel. Hell, I might've even clipped its tail. No point stopping and looking. It's so black out there, you can't see a thing. Could be dragging its ass through the desert all night long.

  I hadn't planned what I'd say to Mike, or how he'd react to getting called out, if he'd try to blame her or what. I figured I'd accuse him and see how it played from there. I never been too good with planning, to tell the truth. I tend to react on the spot, instinctual. My wife, Rene, says it's the dumb Indian in me.

  From the parking lot, I could see the bar lights were still off. I was wondering if Mike had already gone home when he called my name.

  He was sitting in his truck, smoking a cigarette. As I walked over, I heard the radio playing softly. In the dim dashboard lights, he looked sad. "Hey, Slim," he said. "Get in."

  I hopped up beside him. Photographs of his two daughters sat on his lap.

  "You here about Kim?" he asked, staring down at the pictures.

  I wanted to stay mad but my insides weren't letting me.

  "Wendy can't find out," he said. "She'll take the girls. My wife said if it ever happened again, she was taking the girls to her mother's in Santa Fe and that would be it. People think 'cause I got the bar I got money. I can't afford a lawyer. I'm in debt to my eyeballs on this place." Mike dragged on his cigarette, glancing over. I could see he'd been crying, eyes rimmed and tear-streaked.

  I also saw the cut on the side of his head better. It looked like a split open pomegranate, slick red bumps like juicy seeds. It didn't look good.

  "You should see a doctor," I said.

  "Kim wants me to leave Wendy. I can't do that. Even if I wasn't married, I couldn't be with Kim. I know she's your friend, so I don't want to say nothing bad about her. But she's kinda crazy, y'know? She don't take not getting her way too good." Mike laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Talk to her, Slim. Get her to back off on the threats. I'll give her her job back. Just give it a little time. Then she can come back. I know she needs the money."

  "What threats?"

  He gazed at me, perplexed. "Telling my wife about the affair. What you think I'm talking about?"

  *****

  When I got back to the trailer and confronted her, she started laughing.

  "You believe anything, don't you, Slim? No, you big dummy, Mike Edsel didn't rape me. But we're going to say he did just the same." Kim knitted her brow into a hard V. "I've been thinking while you was over there. Why buy the cow, y'know? He's got that big house on the ridge and a respectable family. He doesn't want Wendy to know about us? Fine. See how he feels about the cops coming to arrest his ass. He can pay me a lot of money to hush up. People around here don't think I'm very smart. But I'll show 'em wrong. You're my friend. Now we're gonna call the police. You just tell them what you seen."

  "What did I see?"

  "That I had to fight him off. You saw him bleeding, didn't you?"

  "Yeah. But…"

  "But what? Enough men fuck me around here. Might as well start getting paid." She took another slug of vodka, wobbling.

  "You can't do that to him," I said. "He's got two daughters."

  "That didn't stop him from fucking me, did it?"

  "You said he didn't—"

  "He fucked me, Slim! About ten minutes before you showed up. And I got the proof."

  Kim had always been a little off. I'd remained her friend even when she did some pretty bad things. But I couldn't be a part of this.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  She dropped her cigarette in the sink with the crusty dishes, and crosse
d the floor. She took my hands and pulled them down. Then she pressed her lips hard against mine. In all the years I'd known Kim, she'd never expressed a desire to be intimate.

  "Is this what you want?" she cooed. "A little piece too?"

  She tasted like sour booze and cigarette ash, and I should've run right then. But in my head, I was still that twelve-year-old boy, seeing her without any clothes for the first time. Those perfect breasts, that soft, downy fur between her legs. It got my head all screwy.

  I let her push me backwards against the counter even though I'm three times her size. She kept kissing me, tongue down my throat. She unzipped me and started vigorously working the shaft. Even though I knew she was drunk and distraught, I didn't fight her off like I should have. My hand slipped down the front of her shorts. She grabbed my wrist.

  "I'll let you fuck me, Slim," she said, panties falling around ankles. "I know how much you've always wanted to. But you can't fuck me…there."

  I was out of breath. When I get worked up it's hard for me to breathe. I'm a mouthbreather. I didn't understand.

  "Oh, Christ, are you really that stupid? Do I have to spell it out for you? There's…evidence in…there. You can stick it somewhere else."

  The way she said it—the hard consonants, the slithering "s" sounds—made me jump back. I shriveled like a parched raisin in the summer sun.

  She gazed down at my retreating, flaccid penis.

  "Your call," she said with a little snicker. "But you're helping me either way."

  I quickly tucked and zippered.

  "You need to sleep," I said. "Call me tomorrow."

  I headed for the door. Kim didn't even bother to pull her panties up, running after me without bottoms. She'd retrieved her bottle and lit a fresh cigarette. Or maybe it was the same cigarette she'd left burning, thinking we wouldn't be long. She was screaming, cursing, calling me horrid names. I knew it wasn't really her saying these things, just the booze talking. I only wanted to get in my truck and get away.