THUGLIT Issue Four (3 page)

“No, I’m not holding,” he said. “But I can get you some.”

“When?”

“Tonight. I’ll bring it to you.”

“We can wait.”

“No, no, man. That’s no good. You hang out here and you’ll be stripped and sold for parts faster than a Cadillac, man.”

Ruth clutched tighter to Charlie.

“You tell me where to meet you and I’ll bring the stuff. No extra charge.”

Herb thought it over. Hadn’t the whole night been a big chance? What’s one more? He gave him the address.

“Herb,” he said, introducing himself.

“Martin,” the dealer said. “Give me two hours.”

Charlie cleared his throat. “Do you know where we can get a cab?”

As Martin watched the lights of the gypsy cab turn the corner, he thought;
easy targets
. Too old to be cops. From the looks of it, she had money. But how much on her? Not enough to chance robbing them on his own corner.

As he'd given them his once-over, a
plan began to form. Old folks had savings. Maybe old jewels and shit like that. If he could get to their place, it would be easy pickings. A good shove with his pinky finger and they’d fall down like that lady in the commercial who couldn’t get up.

Yeah, this could be a good night.

*****

They waited in Herb’s room. His roommate, Floyd, didn’t care. He’d been hooked up to his machines for the night and hovered much closer to death than life. The oversized hospital bed dominated Herb’s smaller, normal bed in the room. Floyd’s upper body was elevated so he didn’t choke on the mucus his lungs created during the night, and the adjustable bed was bent at the legs so he didn’t throw a blood clot to his brain.

“You sure Floyd’s not gonna wake up?” Charlie asked.

“Him?” Herb said. “He’s nine toes in the grave. Don’t worry about it.”

Ruth kept watch at the window, her head behind the curtain. “He’s here,” she said.

Herb met Martin in the driveway. Once again, no one was at the front desk.

“You got it?”

“Yeah. Let’s go inside.” Martin looked over the exterior of the Four Palms. Not exactly the retirement palace he expected.

“I got the money right here.” Herb went for his back pocket. Martin stepped forward and put a hand on his wrist.

“Yo, fool, don’t go doing that out here in the open. This here is a drug deal, man. Let’s go where we can have some privacy.”

“The park where we found you is out in the open,” Herb said.

“I know all the dudes around there. I don’t know shit in this neighborhood. Now you want this or not?”

Herb led him inside.

Martin’s face fell when he saw Floyd and all the apparatus. “What the fuck . . .?”

“Don’t mind him,” Herb said.

Charlie laid out three syringes they had acquired easily from the supply closet earlier, and a spoon lifted from the cafeteria.

Martin scanned the room, looking for where a safe might be.

Herb held out the money. “Here you go.”

Martin took the stack of bills and handed over a wad of plastic wrap tied off with a rubber band. Inside was a dingy yellow powder. Ruth and Charlie exchanged a look, each one wondering if that is indeed what heroin looks like.

“You know what the fuck you’re doing with that?” Martin asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Herb had logged on to the computer in the rec room, the one still hooked in to a dial-up modem, and searched how to prepare and inject heroin. He came out with an alarming number of tutorials. He even found a YouTube video that only took forty-eight minutes to load.

“Ruth, light the candle,” he said. Ruth brought a lighter out of her cardigan pocket
and lit a small votive candle.

“You can go now,” Charlie said to Martin.

“No, no. If it’s all right with you, I’ll hang around and watch this shit. Might be good.”

Herb took the spoon and went to Floyd’s bedside. He pulled the IV from his arm and dripped the liquid into the spoon.

Ruth said, “Herb!”

“It’s saline. We need water and this is a pure as it gets. Relax, he won’t miss it. Only ends up here in an hour anyway.” Herb pointed to the dark yellow liquid in a catheter bag hanging off the side of Floyd’s bed.

As Herb prepared the shot, Martin moved around the room, ignored by the three nervous seniors. He lifted picture frames, opened a bedside drawer by Herb’s bed.

Herb drew up the first shot and turned to Charlie and Ruth. “Who’s first?”

“Shouldn’t it be you?” Charlie said. His voice trembled slightly, like a kid being asked to do something he knew broke the rules.

“I was gonna give you and Ruth the shots before I go. If you’d rather give yourself–”

“No.” Charlie said, then he licked his dry lips. “Go ahead. I’ll go.” He could see the doubt and fear on Ruth’s face.  She smiled at him when their eyes met.

Herb lined up the needle with a vein. The skin gave way easily and a tiny bead of blood grew from the hole. Herb didn’t ask, he pushed the plunger down and drew the needle out. Herb took Charlie’s index finger and placed it over the new hole in his arm.

“Hold that there.”

Herb and Ruth could see when the drug hit his brain. His eyelids
fluttered, then dimmed to half-mast. A timid smile crept over his lips.

“Better get him in a chair,” Herb said. He and Ruth guided Charlie to a seat. “Looks pretty happy, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does,” Ruth agreed.

“This is nice and all,” Martin said. “But where’s the rest of the money?”

Herb and Ruth looked up to see Martin pointing a gun at them.

“I gave you the money,” Herb said.

“The rest of what you got. I know that ain’t all of it.”

“What is going on?” Ruth asked.

“Shut up lady, you’ll get your turn. Better have some nice jewelry and shit too. There’s fuck-all in this room.” Martin pushed forward, thrusting the gun at Herb’s forehead. Martin bumped Charlie’s knees as he moved. Charlie didn’t care.

“I don’t have any more money,” Herb said.

“Bullshit!” The barrel of the gun pressed hard into Herb’s skull.

“Okay, okay. I have a few more dollars. But that’s all, I swear.”

“Get it.” Martin spoke in his best bad-guy-from-the-movies voice. “Then we get his and hers.”

Herb swung out with his right hand. The needle caught Martin in the neck.

Ruth threw her hand up to cover her ears as Martin yelled. Martin slapped a hand to his neck and turned, ripping the syringe out of Herb’s hand. Herb already slid his hand down Martin’s tattooed arm and gripped the wrist above the gun. He spun Martin’s wrist with sixty-year-old U.S. Marines training and had the arm pinned behind his younger attacker in a second.

Charlie moved his head like he was watching a tennis match, the look on his face unsure if this was real or the drug.

Herb shoved Martin and the drug dealer fought back. They tumbled across the room, Herb too afraid to let go. Martin’s face bounced off the chrome railings on the side of Floyd’s bed and Herb pushed down. As their bodies slid the length of the bed, Floyd’s catheter bag caught on Martin’s knees and came loose, spraying cold piss over the fight and onto the floor.

“Ruth, help me,” Herb said. She stood still, in a panic.

Martin’s head went down and Herb nearly rode up on his back. He could feel himself losing his grip on the younger man’s arm. Carrying the old man’s weight on his back pushed Martin forward and his head wedged in the opening where Floyd’s bed was raised. Herb pushed harder to keep Martin’s head in the small triangle of space, like a rat in a trap.

“Here, push,” he said to Ruth, kicking out with his foot and sending the remote for the reclining bed to her. She lunged forward and grabbed the box swinging on the end of a cable. She got it in her hand and jammed the toggle forward with her thumb. The bed began to flatten.

Martin’s screams became louder as the electric motor drove the bed frame closed around his neck. Herb wasn’t sure how long he could hold the man there. His arms were already rubber and sweat rolled off his forehead. He thought of his drill sergeant barking insults over his shoulder, used the deeply ingrained Marine determination that never left his bones.

Ruth looked away, bu
t kept her thumb on the button.

The motor ground and protested at the object blocking the way. Martin dropped the gun and it rattled on the linoleum floor. Floyd did not stir. No staff member came to the rescue.

“Cook another shot,” Herb said to Ruth.

“What?”

“Cook another shot. Give him all of it.” Herb dripped sweat onto Martin’s back and into his own mouth. Ruth handed him the remote and he kept his thumb on the toggle, despite the grinding motor. Martin’s struggles were weakening.

Charlie tried to stand, took two steps and fell onto Herb’s bed. He kept his fingers on his vein the entire time.

Ruth spit into the spoon, poured the rest of the powder in, heated the mixture over the candle the way she’d seen Herb do it, then uncapped a syringe and drew up as much of the liquid as she could.

By the time she turned, Martin stopped moving.

Herb huffed deep, struggling breaths. The bed’s motor clicked in a steady rhythm, unable to move against the solid block of Martin’s head. Ruth saw blood dripping beneath the bed mixing with the piss from the now-empty bag.

A deep retching sound came from across the room and Charlie leaned over the side of Herb’s bed and vomited on the floor. He fell back into position on Herb’s pillow.

“Do you still need this?” Ruth asked as tears formed in her eyes. She held the syringe out between them.

“No,” Herb said between breaths. “I think we’re okay.”

“But he’s . . .”

“Yeah.”

Herb let go and bent down to pick up the gun. His arm could barely lift it.

“What now?” Ruth asked.

Herb looked around the room. The pool of blood, the spill of vomit, the syringe in her hand filled with piss-yellow liquid. The never-ending pulse of Floyd’s breathing apparatus droned on.

“We clean up.”

*****

Forty minutes later the room was disinfected and mopped cleaner than it had been in years. Charlie curled in a ball on Herb’s bed, asleep and twitching every now and then.

Martin’s body was rolled in a sheet on the floor, looking like a giant cocoon. They used one of the sheets with a rubber barrier against bed wetting. It kept the blood pooled inside and away from their spotless floor.

Herb took a moment and leaned against the dresser. He watched Floyd as the machines breathed for him, drained the piss from him, and kept the reaper at bay. The old bastard with the scythe had to settle for a substitute this night.

“What do we do with him?” Ruth asked.

“We could dump him in Roy’s old room,” Herb said.

Roy kicked off last month. Natural causes, they said. The ones who could hear would tell you he called out to the staff for an hour that night. When he finally went quiet everyone assumed he gave up. In a way, he did.

“Won’t they find him?” Ruth said.

“Yeah, that’s no good.” Herb ran his hand over his head, his scalp clammy with sweat. Another day in this hellhole and it’s gone shittier than usual. And all he wanted to do was have some fun, just like the night of the fire. Can’t an old man enjoy a goddamn cigar anymore? Was it his fault he fell asleep? Was it his fault they didn’t have a goddamn fire extinguisher?

Ask his son and he’d say yes. That bitch of a wife would say
Si
.

“I got an idea,” Herb said.

*****

Distracting the cab driver had been fairly easy for Ruth. She let the men get the “luggage” while she explained where they were headed. Getting Charlie awake enough to help stuff the mummy-wrapped bod
y in the trunk had been harder.

He moved un
derwater-slow, his eyes always at risk of falling shut. They let him sit against the open window as they drove in case he needed to puke again, and maybe the cold air would sober him up.

When they pulled up in front of the address the cab driver asked, “This is where you want to go?”

Herb said yes and made Ruth pay the man as he and Charlie retrieved the luggage.

Two years on and the house was still nothing more than a pile of old cigar ash. The char-blackened chimney bricks still stood, so did much of the back porch, but the bones of the house stuck out of a charcoal pit like a dozen burnt matchstic
ks shoved into the earth.

The cab pulled away and they dragged Martin’s wrapped and ready body into the pile of ash, smoothed over a coating of camouflage to last at least until the next rain.

They all stepped back to the sidewalk, clapping soot from their hands. They turned to face the nonexistent house.