THUGLIT Issue Two (3 page)

Tyrell stopped walking and listened for the search. No noise except the wind moving the trees, the cold breeze cooling his heated face. Tyrell stared at the weapon, looked for blood from Mark’s busted nose. Nothing.

He should’ve packed a bag with money, hidden it in the woods, prepared a getaway plan. He had cousins in Baltimore, an uncle in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It would have taken him hours, but he could’ve walked to the bus station in Toms River, bought a ticket. Or h
e could have walked to the drug
store on 37, called one of the taxis the old people always used, got a ride to the station. Once at his final destination, he’d phone his mother. Maybe she would quit her job and move to Baltimore or Lancaster. So many possibilities.

The cardinal appeared again, or maybe it was a different cardinal. Tyrell watched it for a moment as it flitted from pine tree to pine tree, trees so thin and scrawny and short, they were useless for anything like climbing or making forts. As the red bird darted here and there, Tyrell noticed a narrow path through the woods. It was so thin and covered with golden pine
needles
that it was hardly detectable.

Tyrell took the path.

It looped and coiled through the forest, his steps crunching against the pine needles. Some of the path was heavy sand, some of it hard black dirt. Maybe it was an old Indian trail, he thought, and his mind went there, daydreaming that he was an Indian, his bow and arrow in his hands, other companions in front of him, behind him. Tyrell’s father had walked through the jungles of Vietnam like that, holding machine guns, watching the trees for snipers.

Within minutes the narrow trail opened into a huge square hole of stagnant water with patches of brown foliage growing on top of it—an abandoned cranberry bog. Tyrell found a log to sit on, put his pipe down, and lit his second cigarette. Again, the smoke pained his lungs and he became lightheaded, but this time he enjoyed the sensation. Trees swished in the chilly wind and the sky was still gray. Tyrell wondered if he had killed Mark. Then he wondered how his father would’ve felt about the beating. Would he have been proud? Would he have been angry?

Tyrell looked at his watch—it was still second period. Time went so slow, and he began to grow cold. After he finished the cigarette, he dropped it on the ground, squished it into the moist earth, kicked some dirt over it. Then he glanced at his pipe. In mob movies, they always dropped the gun. Drop the pipe. Tyrell picked it up and hurled it into the middle of the bog, watched it land near the brown foliage, glint in the gray light before it somehow sank.

There was nowhere to go but home, so he turned and headed back the way he came.

When he hiked out of the narrow path and turned onto the main trail, there, about thirty feet away, stood a tall, dark-haired man. Mr. Cage. Tyrell immediately stopped, tried to think of what to do, blood shooting into his brain, but the vice principal spun around and spotted him.

“Tyrell Colton!” he called. “Don’t run. They’re waiting for you at both ends.”

It seemed like a lie, but Tyrell wasn’t sure. He didn’t move.

Mr. Cage tromped along the path until he stood a foot away from the boy.

Tyrell asked, “Who’s waiting for me?”

“Mark’s friends. You know, DJ Trout and Scott Parker.” Mr. Cage stared down at Tyrell. His ugly square glasses magnified his eyeballs absurdly.

“No police?”

Mr. Cage shook his head. “No. We didn’t call the police.”

The boy looked at the ground. He didn’t really believe Mr. Cage, even though he wanted to.

“You better walk with me. Come back to the school. You’ll be safer.”

“You got something to keep me safe? Like a gun?”

Mr. Cage rubbed his mustache with his hand. “Those boys won’t get in between me and you. You know that.”

In the distance, the sound of the school’s bell rang.

“Let’s go, son,” Mr. Cage said. “We’ll figure this out.”

Tyrell wanted to trust the man. After all, he’d shot eighty-three people in Vietnam. He knew right from wrong, being a soldier.

“Come on. I’ll help you.”

“How?”

“We’ll figure it out. Let’s go.”

Tyrell said okay and Mr. Cage stepped back, letting the boy go ahead of him. After a few paces, the vice principal and Tyrell were side by side, Mr. Cage trekking through the soft sugar sand, Tyrell walking along the edges. The school’s bell rang again.

Then Mr. Cage suddenly stopped. “Hold on.” He pulled off his brown left shoe, turned it over, and knocked something out of it. “Rock,” he said, putting the shoe back on. Tyrell nodded, looked behind him. The path was deserted, quiet.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” Tyrell said, and they began walking again.

“By the way,” Mr. Cage asked, keeping his eyes cast down. “Where’s the pipe? Because that’s what it was, right?”

Tyrell didn’t answer.

“Mr. Colton?”

“In the bog.”

“Bog?”

Tyrell pointed south. “There’s a bog back there.”

Mr. Cage stopped walking, searched through the trees. “Which way?”

Tyrell also stopped and pointed again. The vice principal squinted his eyes, stared intensely. Then he glanced at Tyrell and cracked a smile. “A bog?”

“Yeah,” Tyrell whispered.

Mr. Cage shook his head in wonderment. “Never knew that.”

They resumed walking.

Near the end of the path, before the last bend, a cardinal flew overhead and landed on a tree branch. It watched, as if waiting for something to happen.

Tyrell stopped again. “You said they’re waiting for me?”

Mr. Cage also stopped, turned, looked at the boy. The man shrugged. “No.
Nobody’s waiting for you.”

“You lied?”

“Yes. So you’d come back to school and I could help you.”

Tyrell thought about running but decided against it. Mr. Cage was a vice principal. They had to lie to kids sometimes to get them to do the right thing. More than that, Tyrell wanted to believe Mr. Cage was going to help him.

“Let’s go, son.”

“What’s gonna happen to me?”

“Nothing much. We’ll figure it out.”

Tyrell hesitated. He wanted to explain. “I was defending myself.”

“I know.”

Tyrell glanced into the woods and his eyes caught the cardinal flying away.

Mr. Cage said, “Okay, son. We have to go.”

Tyrell was still hesitant and he thought hard about what his father would do. He tried to summon the man in heaven and appealed for an answer.

Nothing came.

“Mr. Colton,” the vice principal said sternly.

Tyrell finally accepted that Mr. Cage wanted to do him good; that he’d come out here to help. The two began walking once more, making their way around the last bend. They stepped out of the trail, before the open field of the school.

And then they came at him, not like bullets or as they did on TV shows, but emerged, like secret guards in a castle, one from each side stepping from the shadows. Both wore blue uniforms, smelled of gum and coffee. They each hooked an arm, almost carrying the boy, and walked him to the car.

Tyrell heard one of the cops say something about assault and a weapon, but he wasn’t really listening. Instead he looked back at Mr. Cage but the vice principal wasn’t looking at him. The boy was sick to his stomach—he’d been so stupid to trust the man.

Still, he yelled out: “You said you were gonna help me!”

Mr. Cage shrugged.

“Why aren’t you helping me?”

The cops cuffed Tyrell and then pushed him into the car.

“Why ain’t he helping me?” Tyrell asked one of the police officers.

Later, through the window, Tyrell watched Mr. Cage speak briefly with another cop, nod, shove his hands in his pockets, and then walk across the field before the school. Like his fath
er, he grew smaller as he went,
eventually and gently
disappearing.

b
y Mike MacLean

Roberto stood naked in the moonlight, gripping a revolver. One bullet left. 

“Hijo de puta. See what you make me do?”

Carter didn’t reply. He staggered around the vacant lot, a stupid frown on his stupid gringo face. The gunshot wound in his neck leaked like a ruptured pipe. Carter applied pressure, but the blood just spurted between his fingers. Eventually, he plopped down hard on his ass.

Roberto shook his head. The gringo looked foolish, sitting there in the weeds, his fancy suit getting all dirty and bloody. 

No, foolish wasn’t the word. He looked
triste
—sad. His eyes pleaded with Roberto, but not for mercy. That concept did not exist for men like Carter. Instead, his eyes begged a question.

How could this happen?

Roberto didn’t have an answer, so he kept his mouth shut and pulled the trigger.

Gravel dug into Roberto’s bare feet as he trudged back towards the neighborhood. In his long life, this was the second time he’d killed someone over a woman.

This time, Roberto didn’t feel so bad about it.

*****

Fourteen hours earlier, Roberto was playing checkers with a local kid named Julio, the two of them on rusted folding chairs, drinking cold Jarritos soda. It was only 11 o’clock and already 105 degrees, even in shade of the Mission Market’s awning.

The little shop sat in the heart of Guadalupe, Arizona. Stepping into the town was like performing a magic trick. One moment you were in the middle-class suburb of Tempe, home to Arizona State University, condominiums, clean streets, and white faces. Then you crossed Baseline Road and…POOF! You were in Mexico. Mercados advertised menudo and Tecate beer. Adobe homes dotted dusty barrios. La Banda music blared from passing pickups.

Roberto eyed the checkerboard as he held the sweating Jarritos bottle against his forehead. He was 62, and the desert sun had dotted his thick arms with liver spots and lined his face with wrinkles. He flashed a smile before jumping two more of the boy’s checkers. “Maybe you should stick to your Playstation games.”

“You can’t let me win? Just once?”

“Lo siento. The world, she don’t work that way. Better you learn that now.”

Years ago, Roberto had guided the boy’s pregnant mother through a moonless night, across a cold stretch of the Sonoran into Arizona. Driving to Phoenix, the woman murmured “gracias” over and over, kissing Roberto’s cheek as tears streamed down her face. Her son would be born in the U.S., an American citizen with a chance at a better life. Her grateful smile was worth almost as much as the $2,000 she’d paid him. Almost.

Now, the mother’s son mumbled, “I surrender,” and set up another game. The checkers went
click-clack
as Julio slapped them down on the wooden board, a lazy staccato rhythm. Then, the
click-clacks
suddenly stopped. Julio sat frozen, staring out at the parking lot. Roberto turned in his chair, following the kid’s gaze.

A white man crossed the blacktop, heading their way. The moment Roberto laid eyes on the guy he knew a shitstorm was brewing.

First off, you didn’t see gringos walking around Guadalupe. Never. Sure, they’d drive through during rush hour, clogging the town’s main drag. But they ne
ver stepped out from their cars and the
air-conditioned safety
within
. A
lso,
the man wore a suit—charcoal gray. Didn’t see many of them in Guadalupe either. Maybe Sunday mornings at the church, but not on a hot Thursday, with the sun baking the sidewalks.

A pack of day workers lingered by the market’s entrance. One look at the gringo and they decided to vamoose. Probably thought the guy was I.C.E.

Roberto knew better. Immigration agents didn’t wear ties.

“Julio, get on home now,” Roberto said to the boy.

For once, Julio didn’t argue. He took off down the street, not even bothering to grab his soda.

Stepping under the market’s awning, the gringo plucked up the forgotten bottle and took a long drink, as if the soda had been left there for him. He was built like an old gnarled tree. Stooped yet solid. “Hola, que tal? Es usted Roberto?”

“I speak English. But I’m guessing you know that already.”

This earned a twitch of a grin from the man. He had crow’s feet around the eyes but no smile lines. “The name’s Carter. Been looking for you a couple of days now. You’re a hard man to find.”

“Depends on who’s doing the looking.”

“I’m told you’re a coyote.”

“I do not like that term.”

“But you get people across the border. Start them up with a new life. That right?”

Roberto shrugged. “Depends on who wants to cross.”   

Any hint of a smile on Carter’s face disappeared.  He took off his suit jacket and slung it over the back of the folding chair before sitting down. And there it was, a big .44 Desert Eagle, riding in a shoulder rig under his left armpit.

“Need you to look at something,” said Carter. He pulled a photo from his breast pocket and handed it over. “We thought she might’ve been a client of yours.”

It was a picture of the senorita and a handsome young Latino with wavy hair. They lounged together on a Mexican beach, all margarita grins and sun-kissed skin. Roberto peered at the photo, keeping his cool. “Never seen her.”

“You sure? ‘Cause this girl would’ve had the cash for someone like you. She’s not the type to ride in the back of a U-haul with 20 other
pollos
.”

Roberto tapped his wedding ring against the metal chair. It was something he did when he was nervous, but it never calmed him down. “Es la verdad,” he said, handing the photo over. “I don’t know her.”

“Keep it. Has my number on the back. If you happen to run into her, give us a call.”

“What do you want with her?”

The gringo didn’t answer. He snatched his jacket off the chair and moseyed back the way he came, gun hanging under his arm for the entire world to see. A gray Mercedes SUV whispered around the corner and Carter climbed in.

Roberto waited for the vehicle to slip into traffic and drive away before taking another look at the photograph. The senorita gazed back at him with warm brown eyes.

Just like Maria’s

*****

She’d been nervous the day they crossed over. Couldn’t believe they were driving straight through the checkpoint into America.

“Just like that?” the senorita had asked, her English perfect. Too perfect.

Roberto held the steering wheel loosely and kept his eyes on the road. “Sí.  Just like that.”

Roberto’s ‘96 Impala rolled forward a few more inches then stopped again. They were the tail end of a line of cars snaking towards the U.S.-Mexico border. Outside, the ramshackle town of Sonoyta sprawled across a sun-choked stretch of the Sonoran. Mexican children wandered the two-lane, hauling rusted wagons full of bottled water, piñatas, oranges, Aztec suns—anything a
turista
stranded in traffic might want. Ignoring the children, Roberto reached under his seat for the gym bag and tossed it in the senorita’s lap.

“What’s this?”

“Una vida nueva,” said Roberto. “Passport. Driver’s license. Visa. Even got you a library card.”

One by one, the senorita dug each piece of identification out of the bag for inspection. According to the license, she was n
ow Theresa Diego, a twenty-five-year-
old organ donor from Mesa Arizona. Roberto watched her lips move, mouthing the syllables of her new name, trying it on for size. She was a swan of a woman. Tall and slender in baggy blue jeans and a button-up shirt. Only her skin wasn’t white like a swan’s, but caramel brown. If it weren’t for the short hair and men’s clothes, the senorita would look exactly like Roberto’s dead wife. Maria always wore her hair long. Always wore dresses.

“Are these real?” The senorita’s eyes narrowed looking at the passport.

“Wouldn’t use the Visa if I were you. But the other stuff is real enough.”

The senorita reached into the back seat and pulled a stack of bills out of her duffle bag. Roberto waved her off.

“Sólo un mil. Give me a thousand for the border agents. No más. You pay me two more after we pass into Arizona.”

“And my brother will bring you the rest? That’s the deal, right?”

“Sí. But until he pays up, you’ll be my guest.”

“Your guest or your prisoner?”

Roberto stared through the Impala’s dusty windshield and tapped his wedding ring against the steering wheel. He let a little silence hang between them then said, “You’ll stay at a drop house. I won’t lock you up, and I won’t watch you all day long. You’ll have plenty of chances to run, if that’s what you want. But if you do, I’ll come looking for you. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it. This is my business, comprende?”

“I understand.” She sunk back into her seat and closed her eyes against the sun’s harsh glare. Roberto could tell her brain was working, and whatever thoughts swimming around up there brought a tremor to her lips.

Most of his clients were running
to
something—a fresh start, a new life. But this girl was running away.

*****

Roberto watched the sun die then stepped out the service door of a little taqueria on the south end of Avenida del Yaqui. It’d been several hours and several cervezas since his encounter with the gringo at the market. He couldn’t wait any longer.

He crossed the restaurant’s lot. Zig-zagged the neighborhoods. Slipped through back alleys. If anyone was following, Roberto didn’t spot them.

Finally, he came to a faded blue house with a dirt lawn—the safe house. He gave the back door three quick knocks, paused and knocked again.

“Hola.”

No one answered.

Roberto slipped inside the kitchen and opened the oven he never used. His old Beretta waited for him on the top rack. One of his “just in case” guns, stashed for emergencies.

Gun low, Roberto headed for the master bedroom, the one the senorita had taken. The door was ajar.

The senorita stepped naked from the steamy bathroom, toweling off her body. It was jungle hot, and water beaded on her smooth brown skin. Peering through the cracked door, Roberto stood silent and still, his face growing warm. He shouldn’t be spying like this, but he couldn’t help it.

She was Maria.

His brain knew the truth of it, that his wife was dead 26 years now. But
el corazón
—the heart—wasn’t listening to reason.

The room was sparse, the only furniture a queen-sized bed, the only decoration a tarnished crucifix hanging from a rusted nail. The senorita dragged her duffle bag out and dug up fresh clothes. Roberto held his breath as she slipped on black panties and grabbed a men’s button-up shirt. She was on the third button when she suddenly looked up and spotted him behind the door. Watching her.

“You want something?” Her shirt hung open, showing flesh. She didn’t try to cover up.

Roberto held the pistol out of sight, not wanting her to see it. He opened the door slightly. “We need to talk.”

“So talk.”

“A man came looking for you today. White hombre. Said his name was Carter. He had a pistola.”

Roberto heard, “mierda” hiss out from her lips as she frantically buttoned up the shirt. “Did you sell me out?”

“I told him nothing,” said Roberto. “You want to explain what’s going on?”

She balled her hands into fists, trying to stop them from quaking. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re no Mexican National, that’s for sure. Your English is too good. Maybe you have familia there, but you grew up in the States. My guess is you went south looking for sun and fun. But that’s not all you found, was it?”

“I met someone,” said the senorita. “Said he was a businessman. Just didn’t tell me his business. His name is Miguel Ortega.”

Roberto didn’t deal narcotics, but of course he knew the name. Along with drug trafficking, Miguel Ortega had been linked to kidnapping…
a
ssault….
h
omicide. He’d gone to trial four times. No convictions. Witnesses and judges kept vanishing.

“We were together for almost a year,” she said. “Had good times, you know? Miguel liked to dance and laugh and drink champagne. Deep down, I knew what he was, but I didn’t want to admit it.”

“And the gringo, Carter?  He works for Ortega?”

The senorita nodded. “Miguel called him his man in America.”

“Why’s he after you?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at a knot in the floorboards. Eyes vacant. “One night a few of us went to Miguel’s club. The place was closed for the evening, but we hung out, kept drinking. Everybody was having a good time. Then Miguel got into it with one of his friends. Something about money. Next thing you know, Miguel loses it. I’d seen him get angry before, but not like this. He breaks a bottle and…”