THUGLIT Issue Twelve (14 page)

He came at me, his face red-
hot smoldering hate. When he was only half a step away from me, I hit him quick and hard. Geoff staggered backwards, his arms jerking like a robot with a short circuit. He seemed to try to bite off a piece of the air. Slowly his face turned from red to green to blue. His eyes gave way to the pressure and bulged out. Geoff crushed down on his couch, looking more than ever like a bleeding blobfish.

I had gone for the nose, but obviously the punch missed and I had accidentally smashed his l
arynx and killed the poor cunt.

I sat down on the table, shook a cigarette from the package and lit it. This sure looked like it was neither
an easy nor a quick way to go.

"
Jesus." The smell hit me like a brick. "You just shat yourself there, right, mate?"

I hastened into the bathroom, grabbed his toothpaste and smeared a good bit under my nostrils. When I came back, Geoff was dead. I stubbed the Chesterfield out.

"Now that was quite an unexpected turn of events." I giggled, somewhat maniacally. My hands were shaking and I could hear my heart beat. That must have been the biggest adrenaline rush ever. No, make that the biggest fucking possible rush, be it adrenaline, drugs or sex. For a minute or two I wasn't able to stand up—the tiniest bit of friction and an avalanche of cum would have flushed through my pants. I shouldn't have dashed the booze.

After I had calmed down enough, I tidied up the flat, put the pills back into the box,
and picked up the shards. When everything looked presentable again, I grabbed Geoff under the arms, dragged him onto the balcony. I leaned him against the balustrade, clenched his knees, lifted the overweight slob a bit, and with a final panache that almost did my back in, I sent him off. It was pretty dusky, but not dark enough to risk a good look down, so I just sneaked a quick peek. From up here, Geoff looked like someone had dropped a bag of Penne Arrabita.

When I heard the first scream, I picked up the phone and called the Old Bill.

That's pretty much all there is to the story. The cops and I had a long chat. I told them all I knew about Geoff's problems, his long streak of mishaps and misery. How I had driven him home from the hospital after his last suicide attempt, just a few days ago, phoned him, visited him whenever I could, trying to help him cope. But I should have done more, I said. I did everything I could, said the copper.

I guess they were a bit pissed off at Geoff. Sneaking out and throwing himself off the balcony while I was taking a leak. Shit like that can mess with one
's head.

But I really shouldn
't blame myself, they said.

Nothing of this whole mess was my fault, they said.

Despite the tragic outcome, he sure was glad to have me as a friend, they said.

They were some mighty fine lads, these cops.

Still, I honestly wish I had never met him. The rush I got, watching him die, when I felt every synapse in my brain and every nerve in my body tingle and prick, when I could taste the endorphin and felt struck by the spark of life for a second time, how am I ever going to forget that? How am I supposed to ignore the lure of this high? Even if I wasn't cursed with a pretty addictive personality?

Fuck you, Geoff. I really didn
't need that.

Last Monday, I talked to a shrink. I told him how my friend
's suicide had affected me, about the guilt I still feel and that I look at my life, my career, the money and can almost touch the emptiness of it all now.

He thinks it might be helpful if I did some charity work for a suicide hotline he
's supervising, once a week, maybe.

This might actually be a pretty good idea.

by Mike Miner

We are such fragile creatures.

I should know. I
'm a leg breaker by trade. Muscle for Johnny Del Negro, the loan shark. It doesn't actually come to that very often, leg breaking. For most guys, the threat of pain is enough. True, some of them don't care about themselves, but most care about something, someone, maybe not their wives, but their children—that's a pressure point for most guys.

To really be good at the pain game, though, you need to have been hurt. Hurt bad. Maybe to the point of numbness. You have to be able to tap into that p
ain, to understand why it hurt.

Because there
's all kinds of ways to hurt someone. It's not always about physical pain. But sometimes it is. Hands are good. So many bones, so many nerves, so much potential for damage. It's a violent way of life, no question, but violence has always been part of my life.

As a child, my favorite game was guns. That
's what me and my brothers called it. Guns. Might have begun as cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians, but by the time I was seven or eight it was just guns.

On Christmas, Santa brought us a
small, toy arsenal: cowboy six-shooters with holsters, machine guns, bows and arrows, swords, knives, laser guns—not to mention the GI Joe and Star Wars figures who would soon join the ongoing war being waged in our basement between good and evil. Where Darth Vader and Cobra Commander joined forces against Han Solo and Duke. Not uncommon to see Snake Eyes and Boba Fett squaring off in an abandoned castle made of blocks, like Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee in
Return of the Dragon
.

Have I mentioned the amount of Kung Fu movies I consumed in my youth?

Saturday afternoons. The Saturday Drive-In was a bloodbath of badly dubbed Hong Kong imports. Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, John Woo, the Five Deadly Venoms, Wu-Tang monks, Shaolin temples. After two hours of this mayhem, the rest of the afternoon was spent reenacting every scene, especially the over the top, bloody, slow- motion deaths.

Inevitably, someone got hurt. Inevitably, someone cried. Usu
ally my youngest brother, Nick. Our father could not tolerate crying. So he sought out the one who caused the tears. Me, more often than not.

He favored the quick smack to the temple, a difficult blow to
duck—he was like an old west quick-draw artist with his right hand. Sometimes it was worse, depending on his mood and his sobriety. I tasted the buckle from his belt more than once.

My father knew how to hurt people. He was my first, best teacher.

My Saturdays begin early now. I check my ledger, start my house calls. Like an old-fashioned doctor, except instead of cures, I bring pain and suffering. How much depends. On what is owed, how long they've owed, if this is my first or my tenth visit.

First stop is over in Chestnut Hill. Some Boston College punk. A Jesuit school, brick and stone buildings, everything
looks like an old church. Fancy-shmancy. The kid's in senior housing, a four-man apartment on parent. Normally I favor a black leather jacket. Today I sport a black wool topcoat, my funeral coat. A jaunty pageboy cap covers my head. And a plaid scarf. About as harmless as I can make myself look. This crowd won't spot the piece tucked into the back of my pants. Sunglasses will keep the few early birds walking and jogging around campus from seeing my boxer's face, the scar tissue over my eyes.

I time it so I
'm going in just as a group is coming out. They hold the door open for me, these polite Catholic school kids. Even call me 'sir.'

Now just the door to their room. BC sprung for some decent locks, I must confess. Takes me a good five minutes with my ace lock pick kit to get in.

Early Saturday morning so, as I hoped, nobody's up yet. A pyramid of Budweiser cans on the kitchen table. A bong next to it. The pleasant smells of both mix with the scents of perspiration and dirty laundry. The walls are decorated with classic rock posters: Zeppelin, The Who, AC/DC.

A small common room to the left, two closed bedroom doors in front of me, a short hallway to the right leads to the bathroom. Quiet reigns.

I try both bedroom doors. One is open, one locked. I pop the locked one without a sound. Dim inside. Takes a moment before I can make out the two beds, two desks. Only one bed is occupied. Our boy snoozes in it, but he's not alone. A cute blonde number is spooning with him. She snores, ever so slightly. Adorable.

I lock the door behind me, pull a chair from one of the desks to sit in, light a cigarette. Wait.

The posters above his bed are all gangster movies.
Goodfellas
.
The Godfather
. Cagney in
White Heat
. Maybe my man thinks he's an outlaw. I chuckle at the thought. The girl stirs. Long blonde hair, a nose dotted with freckles, her blue eyes flutter open.

And my ugly mug greets her.

At first she must think she's dreaming. A puzzled look. Then the dawning that this is all too real. She gasps, pulls the sheets over her thin, bare shoulders. Her boyfriend whispers something in his sleep.

"
Jimmy." A frightened whisper.

He grunts at her.

"Jimmy."

"
What?"

She pokes him under the sheets. Her eyes never leave me. Never blink.

I wink at her.

Jimmy raises his head, sees me.

I wink at him too.

"
Fuck," he says. Which is a good start. I get that a lot.

"
Early bird gets the worm, James."

Another,
"Fuck."

"
Mind the language in front of the lady, son."

Kids today.

"Who the fuck are you?" the girl says.

"
She's a classy one, James."

"
Who the fuck are you?" she repeats.

I sigh.
"Young lady, I need to talk to your boyfriend. Kindly shut up."

I enjoy the wrinkle of her snobby, button nose. I wonder if anyone has ever hurt her in her entire, short, spoiled life.

"Now, James."

His head is under his pillow. He groans.

"James, look at me."

Reluctantly, he pulls his head from under his pillow.

"Do you know who I am?"

"
Who is he, Jimmy?"

"
Johnny Del Negro told me that if there was any trouble, Frankie Long Legs would pay me a visit."

I grin, ash on his carpet.

The girl says, "Frankie Long Legs?"

"
It's a mouthful. Most people just call me, Legs." They have since I was a kid. Always tall for my age. Still am. I have to stoop to get into most doorways.

"
Who's Johnny Del Negro?" the girl asks.

"
My employer. Bookie, loan shark. You see, when a gambling debt goes unpaid, it becomes a loan. The meter starts ticking. The vig adds up."

"
What if they don't pay?" she says.

It
's the perfect cue for me to stand up.

She can
't help it, she gasps.

"
You're about to find out."

"
Jimmy, the meter's up to eleven grand. You got it?"

To his credit, he looks me right in the eye when he says,
"No."

"
Any of it?"

He shakes his head.

I nod. "In the future, when you get all that local money on a local underdog, lay off the bets to a bigger fish. It's a hard lesson."

I ash again on the floor.
"Next week, twelve grand, and so on. Call your father, do what you have to."

Jimmy nods.

I sigh. "Now. A little something to help you remember."

The delicious shock in their eyes as I grab the girl
's hand and stab her forearm with the red tip of my cigarette.

Jimmy doesn
't move, out of shock or fear, I don't know. Neither can believe what is happening. After a slight delay, the pain snaps the girl out of it. She hollers and I let her go.

I button my coat, tip my cap, and leave.

Behind me, the sound of her crying, Jimmy comforting, her slapping him and whisper shouting.

In the kitchen, one of Jimmy
's roommates is frozen, holding a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts.

"
Top of the morning," I say as I exit the premises.

Stop number two is not as fun. A bakery up the road a bit, in Newton. An observant Jewish bakery, so they're closed on the Sabbath. The back door's open, like Saul said it would be. Saul, the owner, sits on a wooden stool in the kitchen, the cleanest kitchen I've ever seen, you could eat off the floor. Every time I enter his kitchen, the smell knocks me out, baked bread, butter and sugar, even on Saturdays. The air itself is a confection, a treat to breathe. I imagine this is what Heaven smells like. This is as close as I'll ever get.

Saul gives me a half-hearted smile.

I don't want to hurt Saul.

He must be close to seventy. A full head of white hair crowns his head. Sad brown eyes observe me in a thin face. He points to another stool.

I sit.

"
Coffee?"

"
Please."

He creaks out of the chair, pours me a cup.

"Thanks." It's fantastic.

"
So here we are," Saul says.

"
Here we are."

"
There is no other way?"

I have been carrying Saul for a month now. He knows it. He appreciates it. His bakery can
't compete with the Starbucks shops spouting like weeds in this town. He thought he could. Thought all his place needed was a facelift. The banks didn't see it his way. So he paid a visit to Johnny Del Negro. We know where that got him.

Saul savors his coffee.

I do too. I'll miss this place.

"
I'd always planned on leaving this joint to one of my sons. Maybe it's good they are not here to see this."

Two sons. One he lost in a car accident. The other to drugs. Saul knows all about the hurt business.

"It will look like an accident?"

"
Yes." Simple really. A blown-out pilot light on his stove, allowing gas to fill the kitchen, until one of the other lights ignites. Happens every day. Too bad it happened on a Saturday, people will say, or else the building might have been saved.

We finish our coffee in silence. Then, out of habit, he washes them in the sink. Puts them on a rack to dry.

I can't help but smile.

He takes a last look around. How many mornings has he spent here, starting long before the sun rises? How he must have busted his ass. He pauses in the doorway, turns to me with a face used to losing things.

"Everybody gets in over their head, Saul. It'll be okay. Plans never work out."

His eyes are wet. I turn away before he does.

I'm careful. Need this to look just right for the insurance company. Just enough grease to coax the fire to the most flammable sections of the shop. Doesn't take long. I replace the batteries in the smoke detectors with dead ones.

After, I watch from across the street, chew on a cigarette. I can
't help but think of my father, of his store. A little corner grocery in Brighton. I wait until I can see the smoke billow in the windows before I take off.