Ray pushed himself from the wall. "See, in amongst all his madness, there was wisdom there. Hell, some would say you can't have one without the other. And Grandpa Billy, he always cautioned us against snakes—but he stressed it was the kind that looked like a man we needed to be truly wary of." He walked slowly to Jed, circled him. "Men that can stand, but choose to slither." He gripped the handles on the back of Jed's chair, leaned down to talk into his ear, but I could hear everything he said. "Men that slither all the way to the sheriff's office. You wouldn't be telling tales now, Cap'n, would you?"
Jed tried to twist, to see Ray. "No! Hell no! Of course I ain't!"
"You sure? Come on, man, get on the level with me. You were in the Army, Uncle Sam got his claws in you a long time ago. You fell under his spell. You're tellin' me that kinda thing just goes away?"
"It leaves around the same time you lose a fuckin' limb!"
Ray clucked his tongue. "I ain't buying it, man. Cap'n America don't lose his stripes just like that. Deep down, you're still a boy scout, and you're always gonna be one. You ain't cut out for this, Jed. Tell me that ain't the truth."
"Man, you got some real fucked up notions running round your head. What do you know about me? You don't know a damn thing. Fuck the military, fuck Uncle Sam, fuck the police—I'm one a you!"
"No, Jed. You're just another snake."
Ray tilted Jed forward so he fell onto his front, then tossed the chair to one side. I gave a start, sat up, but I didn't do anything. Jed tried to push himself up, but Ray planted a boot square in the middle of his back, pinning him down.
"What the fuck're you doing, man?" Jed said. "You gone crazy? Willie!" He called for me, tried to twist to see me, but Ray had him down so he couldn't get his head up high enough and I stayed right where I was, didn't say a word. Ray's lips were peeled back from his teeth and he had this look on his face like a wild animal. His eyes bulged from his gaunt skull and he stared at the back of Jed's head, the trucker cap lost in the fall.
"You're on your belly, Cap'n," Ray said. "You're on your belly where you belong! You're squirmin' like the snake that you are!"
"I ain't a goddamn snake, Ray! I ain't never talked to the sheriff, I swear!"
Ray laughed. "A little birdie spoke to me, Cap'n! It came down from the trees, it settled in my beard, and it told me everything I needed to know!"
I felt my guts go cold. My bowels turned to water, and if there'd been anything inside, I would've shit myself right there and then.
"I didn't wanna believe it, Cap'n, but then I thought on it. And I thought long and hard. You gonna try and tell me it wasn't you, soldier boy? You gonna try and tell me it was one of the other boys? Well come on, give me a name —Hell!" and he pointed at me then. "You gonna maybe try and tell me my own blood betrayed me?" Ray's voice grew louder with each word. "I took you in, man. I nursed you back to health. Then you bit me. And as I lay dying, I asked why—and you hissed and said, 'You stupid motherfucker—I'm a snake.'"
Jed writhed upon the ground. "Willie, man! Help me! Get him offa me!"
Ray raised his boot, brought it down hard in the middle of Jed's back. Something crunched. Jed coughed, and didn't squirm so much. Ray stomped him again, then came round the side and kicked him a few times in the ribs. "You're the snake in this Garden of Eden, Cap'n. All this time, you deceived us. I shoulda known better. You can't stand like a man, you can only crawl." He kicked him in the side of the face. Jed spat blood and teeth. He went limp. "Instead of fruit, you brought cash, but it tasted just as sweet, and it was just as forbidden."
Ray stood above him, looked down, then stepped back and closed his eyes. He stood very still and took a deep breath, like he was composing himself. When he opened his eyes, he turned to the door and went to the shotgun. I couldn't move, frozen to the sofa. Jed groaned, maybe tried to talk and failed. His breathing sounded all ragged.
I remembered my own beating. They found me drunk—they beat me sober. They hit me where the bruises were easily hid. The sheriff hissed in my ear: You tell us what we wanna know, or they find your body in the ditch, gangland style.
Ain't nobody knows you're here.
It ain't gonna be quick.
I wanted to go to Jed, where he lay prone on the ground. I wanted to tell him I was sorry.
And I was sorry. I knew what would happen. I knew what would happen when I paid a girl in town that wasn't averse to taking money to put a dish-cloth over the receiver on her phone. To call up my brother and tell him Jed was playing us.
I had to do it. I had to. For two weeks, Ray looked at me sideways. For two weeks, I felt his paranoia grow until it filled the fucking house like it was gonna choke me. I had to do it. I had to do something before he asked if it was me and I broke and told him it was.
Ray turned. He held the shotgun. He never looked at me. If he had, he might've realized the truth.
He put the gun to the back of Jed's head, gave him both barrels. The head disappeared. It spread out over the floor, a mess of red. The explosion made my ears ring, but Ray didn't flinch. He just stood there, staring at the headless, one-legged corpse. Then he spat on it, and threw the shotgun across the room.
I waited in the truck while he dealt with everything in the house. He didn't seem to mind that I wasn't there helping. When we drove away, we left the place burning in the rearview. I looked to the side, into the bushes. Ray didn't say a word and neither did I. I felt sick. I threw up out the window and Ray swerved to one side until I finished.
"The fuck's the matter with you?" he said.
"Nothin'," I said.
"Back there?"
"It's nothin'."
He looked at me for a long time, but it was more disgust than suspicion. He started driving, and I felt sick again, but I held it down. I felt a whole lot of things. My ribs ached. I put my hand to them and thought about the sheriff's raid on our cook labs up in the hills. I thought about Jed before he went off to join the Army—young and healthy and with all of his body parts.
And I thought about Jed after he came back, one-legged and one-balled and bitter as hell.
I thought about Jed.
West Mesa
by Justin Bendell
The bus rumbled off in a cloud of dust. It was morning, and cold. Matty Ortega, in a canvas coat and ski hat, turned his back to the long-shuttered Aztec Motel and lit the wrong end of his cigarette. He scowled at the burnt bitter taste on his tongue and dropped the butt in the snow. Fifty cents wasted. He couldn't afford to make those kinds of mistakes anymore.
Winter had come early. Across the street, Western Gas-Mart's highway sign loomed over the semis down-shifting on Interstate 40. The sidewalks along Central were riddled with half-melt. Snow frosted the Spanish tile rooftops of cashloan joints and car dealerships. It was kind of pleasant.
As Matty pulled out a new cigarette, two Navajo men came up the walk. One, long-boned and lanky, pushed a baby stroller filled with unlabeled food cans. The other carried a walking stick. They saw Matty and nodded.
"Going on a trip?" the stick man asked.
"I'm going to work."
The lanky one studied Matty's cigarette.
"Got another?" he asked.
Matty pulled out his crumpled pack. Three left.
"I'm out," Matty said.
"Let's trade." Lanky nodded to the stroller.
"I don't need cans."
The men muttered and scuttled off. Halfway down the block, they stopped. The Aztec Motel was a Route 66 relic. The rooms boarded up, the grounds littered with junk. There were dozens like it on this stretch of Central. The stick man yanked at a gap in the chain-link fence. Lanky ducked through with the stroller. They went to the first boarded room. Yanking the plywood from the door, Lanky followed his friend into the room and resealed it behind them.
Matty checked his watch. It was time. He walked across Central, feeling good. Like anything could happen. Hadn't felt that way since he and Charlie were dealing. But Charlie was gone, locked up in Los Lunas,
and Matty had been clean for two years. Didn't even own a gun. The false turns of youth were a distant memory.
Thank Alma for that. She saw through his bullshit and dialed him straight. Now she was pregnant with his kid. She had dropped the pee stick in his lap that morning.
"You're a model employee," she said.
"I pay for my hot dogs."
"Then ask for more money," she'd said, tucking her long black hair behind her ears. "Tell him you knocked up your beautiful girlfriend. Tell him you're a family man."
A whip of cold air chased Matty through the automatic doors. Carla stood at the register. Her blue eye shadow was globbed on, her hair teased out like cotton candy. Matty smelled her Trident from ten feet away.
"Lamar here?" he asked.
Carla shrugged.
Matty grabbed his apron from the office. He stocked the chips, filled the drink cooler. Customers paid for gasoline and beef jerky. A man with a broken nose told Matty the hot dog station was out of onions. Matty got the onions from the back. They came pre-cut and bagged. He refilled the bin, thinking of the hot dog vendor he robbed a few summers back.
It was a dumb late-night thing. The guy had parked his cart on Central and Second. What was he doing there? Getting robbed, that's what. If not Matty, someone else would have come along and done it.
The delivery buzzer sounded. Matty went to the back door and pushed it open.
"Come in," Matty said, waving the guy in.
He turned back inside, in a hurry to get the stocking done. He wanted to make an impression. Lamar was hard to impress, but Matty had to try. He wanted that raise.
The door thudded shut. Matty was headed to the walk-in cooler when he felt hands on the small of his back. He went flying toward the wall, kicking the mop bucket, which sent brown water slushing over the yellow lip.
His heart pounding, Matty turned with fists raised and ready. The guy was wearing a blue Dodgers jacket and a Sunshine Food Company cap. The brim of the cap shadowed the guy's face. But that face… gaunt and horse-like, riddled with acne scars.
"Blind motherfucker," the guy said, and laughed.
Matty lowered his hands. "Sonovabitch." It was Charlie Frame. High school dropout, ex-con, Matty's best friend.
"I'm taking ten," Matty called to Carla. He grabbed his coat and went outside. Charlie was waiting for him behind the dumpsters, smoking a cigarette. The clouds were low and heavy. A few stray flakes danced in the wind.
"When'd you get out?" Matty said.
"Little while back."
"Lawful employment I see," Matty said, nodding to the cap.
Charlie took off the hat and studied it. His hairline was deeply receded. "Just a hat. Got it at Savers." He returned it to his head and tapped his shirt pocket. "Wanna smoke?"
"Nah, I quit."
"Bullshit."
"Bull true."
"C'mon. For old time's sake. You owe me."
"I didn't rat you out."
"I didn't say you did," Charlie said, half-smiling, "though it's funny you said it."
Three years ago, a hot dry night. They'd gone up a forest service road in the Manzanos, eyes out for the dudes from Amarillo who said they'd be at Red Canyon in a beige Tacoma. Four miles in, Charlie's truck crapped out. They had a bed full of pot. They panicked, started burying the kilos in the leaf litter. Within minutes, two squad cars pulled up. Tipped off maybe.
Caught in the headlights, Charlie raised his hands.
Matty ran. Ran till his lungs ached. When he got to Highway 337, he hitched a ride to town. Charlie's plea got him three-to-five at Los Lunas. Matty got a new lease on life.
Behind the dumpster, tiny flakes spun and spiraled as the wind picked up. Charlie passed the joint. Matty pulled hard and passed it back. The tingle came fast.
They'd grown up together in Barelas, south of downtown. Matty was good with numbers, had the grades to go to UNM. Charlie was wild. Started drinking at twelve. Went through a phase of robbing Quik Marts. He'd wear a Lucha Libre mask, flail his gun around. Matty went along a few times for kicks. But it was weed that paid the bills.
Charlie nodded to the Gas-Mart. "They must pay you well."
"I'm asking for a raise."
"I could use a partner."
"Jesus, man…"
"You're still with what's-her-name?"
Matty nodded.
"She clean?"
"Except for her mouth, yeah."
Charlie's face morphed through a few emotions, settling on resigned. "Just to be clear," he said, "you'd rather work here, stocking Milky Way and shit, making six bucks an hour."
Matty was silent.
They quietly finished the joint. There was nothing to say. Three years was a long time.
When Matty returned from his break, Carla flicked her eyes to Lamar's office.
"What's his mood?"
"Pissy as fuck."
Matty decided to wait. He finished the condiment station, fronted the crackers, replenished the candy bars, all the while building up the courage to ask what he needed to ask.
After dinner, Lamar was crouched in front of the Squishy Machine cleaning the nozzles.
Matty walked up. "Uh. . . Can we talk?"
Lamar was wiping red syrup from his hands with a terry cloth. He tossed the cloth in a bucket.
Some teenagers came through the door, followed by the wind. "Where the Doritos?" one asked.
"Go take care of them," Lamar said, shaking his cold hands.
Business remained steady—the booze and cigarettes crowd. Carla had gone home and Matty was tethered to the register till eight.
Three minutes after eight, Lamar came out of his office with spirit in his step. "You got something to tell me?" he said.
Matty nodded.
"Fancy that," Lamar said. "I got something to tell you." He jutted his chin. "In my office."
"What about the register?" Matty said.
"Lock the doors. This won't take long."
Lamar sat stiffly in his black-cushioned desk chair. In the corner, Matty slouched in the plastic orange chair with a coffee stain on it. His leg was going like a piston. He tried to think of Alma, the baby, tried to keep his head right, but it was hard to focus on anything but Lamar. Overweight and ruddy-cheeked, hair slicked back with gel, Lamar had a gleam in his eye.
"What's our drug policy, Matty?"
"No drugs, sir." The signs were posted everywhere; even the mop bucket had one.
"What were you doing at 3:38 p.m.?"
"3:38? I don't fucking know."
Lamar looked over his shoulder. "You hearing this?" he said to the blank white wall. He returned his attention to Matty. He studied him. He said, "You were breaking drug policy."
Matty shook his head. "No I wasn't."
"You weren't? I have evidence that demonstrates you were."
Matty fidgeted. "I—what evidence?"
"Someone called it in. They saw you."
"Who called?"
Lamar stared him down.
Matty laughed nervously. "C'mon, man. I-I didn't mean… It wasn't mine."
"What, you found it lying around?"
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Lamar clapped his hands, the sound echoing in the small room.
"You're fired. Effective immediately."
"I can't lose this job. My girl's pregnant. I can't—"
"You just did."
A red-hot coal formed in Matty's gut. His stomach buckled and moaned as the fire traveling upwards through his chest and to his head. He sprung up, took a step toward Lamar.
Lamar eyed him coolly. "One more step I'm calling the cops."
Matty tore off his apron, flung it onto Lamar's desk and stomped into the lobby. He wanted to get his hands on something, bee-lined for the chip display, took hold of it.
"We'll have you on tape," Lamar said, standing at the office door.
Matty clutched the display, shaking. A single bag of chips fell to the floor. He let go of the display, pic
ked up the chips, set them back where they belonged.
Lamar went across the lobby to unlock the front doors. Approaching the doors, Matty couldn't even look at him. Lamar tossed him his coat. Matty caught it and left without a word.
At the bus stop, Matty braced against the cold. Snow was falling. The Aztec Motel stood dark and lonely behind him. Matty wondered if the Navajos were still squatting inside. Across the street, snow gathered on windshields in the used car lot. What was he supposed to do now? How was he going to explain this? Alma had warned him after he got canned from Mac's. I can't keep doing this, she'd said. He spat, and the spit hung in waving tendrils from the chain-link, soon to become ice.
Matty shifted his attention to Western, where Lamar stood in the window, propped on a push broom. He had tried, really tried. It was the first job he'd taken seriously. Didn't swear or steal. Made sure his time sheet was properly filled out. He'd offered to help Lamar on side-projects, setting up displays, taking inventory, shit he wasn't required to do. He didn't do it for himself. It was for the future. A house, a quiet street, a pool, a child. He had shift manager in his sights. Now he'd have to start over. Again.
The bus pulled up, mostly empty. An old lady in a heavy coat. Two thugs in the way back. Zipping down Central, Matty watched the blur of dilapidated motels and used car lots pass out the window. He would get off at Atrisco and walk home from there. The house he and Alma rented was a quarter-mile from the river. Matty imagined the crooked shutters and buckthorn cactus, the dead car on blocks in the driveway. The warm yellow light in the kitchen window. Alma waiting.
Matty pulled the cord on impulse. He couldn't go home. The door hissed open and he hopped down to the sidewalk. He kicked a stone and it skittered off the curb. Across the street, Mac's ugly cow sign was hoisted like a sad flag. He had been a cook there, serving up oily dough from the deep fryer. They made him wear a white paper hat. Matty eyed the place with contempt. He'd left in the middle of the dinner rush after some tourist called him boy.
Before the Western job, he'd told Alma that if she really wanted all the things she claimed to want, he might have to start dealing again.
THUGLIT Issue Twenty Page 9
