THUGLIT Issue Nineteen

by Mike Miner

  Julian watched the man go by. He shook himself and carefully put in the number and sent a text message. He slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. "Now show me your Hector."

  Before she could show him a picture of her son, four masked men exploded through the front door. "Nobody move!"

  Two of the masked men pulled the tellers out from behind their counter. Rigby, recognizable by the tuft of blond hair that stuck out beyond the edge of his mask, yanked one teller over the counter by the front of his shirt and deposited him nose first onto the floor. A spray of blood fanned out across the white marble.

  The masked men herded everyone into sitting positions around the lobby desks. One of them yanked the pens off their chains, scattering withdrawal and deposit slips. They demanded their cell phones. The leader—Julian assumed it was Michael—came to him with his hand out, and Julian hesitated. Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the little black phone Michael had given him just days before. Julian had made a mistake. He'd sent the text from the wrong phone. Michael knew it and made a point of smashing the phone with his heel in front of Julian, his eyes on him hard.

  Michael turned and pointed at Alvarez, who was crouching down with the tellers. Rigby and another masked man descended on Alvarez, yanking him up by his arms. He begged to be left alone. The man's face has gone a florid red. His eyes bulged. He screamed when Rigby hit him in the face and bloodied his nose. The male tellers turned their heads away. The female tellers closed their eyes.

  The security guard moved away from the others and stupidly rose to his knees and said, "Hey, stop! He'll do what you want." Rigby let go of Alvarez and walked over to the guard. The guard leaned back as Rigby came closer. The guard's right hand drifted toward his ankle.

  The guard was right in front of where Julian had an arm locked around Sonia. She was chanting "Ohgodohgodohgod," in a whisper into his shoulder. Julian tightened his grip on her.

  Rigby shot the guard in the head.

  The sound reverberated off the floor and the walls, followed quickly by a scream from one of the tellers. Michael yelled at him to stop. Told everyone to keep cool and they'd go home. Then he and the other masked men walked and dragged Alvarez down through the side door and out of view, leaving Rigby to watch over them.

  Rigby paced around them. Finger on the trigger of his gun. Each time his circuit brought him in front of Julian, he paused making sure he made eye contact with him. Sonia didn't see. The others kept their heads down. No one wanted to see anything. Julian grew convinced with each revolution that Rigby would never let him go when the job was done. Julian would never make it to prison. With Sonia in his arms, gasping into his lapel, Julian realized he didn't want to go to jail. He was sure he was going to die but he'd be damned before he let Rigby be his grim reaper.

  The guard had fallen on his back, his right leg tucked under him. Julian could just make out something against the white of the guard's sock. An ankle holster. The guard probably fancied himself a cop. Maybe thought he'd need it one day in case a repeat of the North Hollywood bank robbery happened on his watch.

  Julian guessed Michael and the others had been gone for five minutes. Things would end soon. Julian told Sonia this as Rigby passed him again. She nodded. Julian patted her shoulder and let her go. She sat up on her own, hands locked in prayer, mouth still moving. Julian leaned forward, reached under the guard's pants leg and got the gun free of its holster, then he pulled back, slipped the gun into his waistband and waited for Rigby to come into view again.

  Rigby stopped in front of them this time. He gestured with the gun at Sonia. "You praying, huh? Think it's gonna work for you?" He poked her in the shoulder with gun. Sonia whimpered but she didn't open her eyes. Julian put his shoulder against hers and stared at Rigby. Rigby pointed the gun at him, pretended to shoot the gun. He winked and walked around the desk.

  Two minutes later, Michael and the other men walked out through the door. They each had a bag. Alvarez wasn't with them. "We're done. Let's roll," Michael said.

  The men walked carefully around the guard, making sure to sidestep the blood and brains. Michael stood in the doorway. "Come on."

  Rigby pointed his gun at everyone. "Keep your mouths shut." He turned away. Julian released the breath he'd been holding. He'd been wrong about Rigby. He was so grateful to be wrong. It was over.

  Then Rigby turned back again when he was almost at the door. "You know, I think y'all need a reminder of why you shouldn't talk." He raised his gun but Julian was already in motion, firing two shots low. One went wide. The second clipped Rigby in the leg, bringing him down. Julian extended his arm and the third shot caught Rigby in the throat. Rigby dropped his gun and both hands went to stop the blood. It flowed over his fingers and pooled on the floor. Michael looked at the scene from the other side of the glass doors. Then he turned and ran.

  The police arrived minutes later. Julian waited with Sonia, an arm wrapped around her trembling shoulders and her head resting under his chin. A detective came to talk to him again and Sonia went with one of the EMTs. Her trembling had given way to crying, and there was little Julian could do for her. He promised to see her later.

  The detective asked what had happened. Julian closed his eyes for a moment, considered his daughters and the lovely Sonia. "He shot the guard and then turned his back to us. His compatriots rushed forward yelling at him, bags in their hands and they hustled out the door. He was to be the last one through. I pulled out the guard's gun and shot him."

  The detective wrote in his notebook. "He was pointing the gun at you? You were in danger at that moment?"

  "I suppose I was in as much danger as the guard had been in the seconds leading up the trigger being pulled."

  The detective nodded. A few more questions and he sent Julian on his way. Julian went with the ambulance that held Sonia. Stayed with her while she called her family and explained, switching from English to Spanish and back again, what had happened. She thanked him.

  "It's not a problem. Is your husband coming?"

  "No husband anymore." She patted his hand.

  "Can I escort you home?" he asked. She smiled and nodded.

  At her apartment across town, she let him pour her a glass of wine. Then she let him into her bed. To comfort her, he told himself. He absolutely wasn't hiding.

  The next morning, he woke to an empty bed and singing coming from another room. He was warm and satisfied in a way he hadn't been in years. He'd call the girls today and invite them over for a long weekend. Julietta would say maybe and Thessaly would flat out say no, but then he thought Etta would try to cover Thessaly's rudeness and promise to come. Later, when his doorbell rang, it would be both girls on his doorstep.

  He had time still. He could do right by them still. He'd bring up the cancer to them carefully, over a series of phone calls perhaps. That way they wouldn't think it was just because he was dying and afraid to be alone. He'd make sure they knew how much he loved them.

  He nodded to himself and swung his legs out of Sonia's bed. In the kitchen, he kissed her cheek and set a hand on her hip. She smiled and pushed him away, telling him to go sit and she would make him breakfast.

  "How do you feel about eggs?" Sonia asked.

  "Same way I feel about everything right now. I feel good about eggs."

  She laughed.

  The knock that came twenty minutes later didn't worry him. "Oh, that's the paper man coming for his money. Drink your coffee—and no more bacon for you," she said. She pointed a long finger at him.

  He promised. As soon as she was gone, he leaned over the counter and filched another piece. From the other room he could hear bits of conversation. Then he heard Sonia say, "Oh, he's here."

  His side gave a little twinge. The cancer saying hello, he assumed. Or maybe it was something else. He heard footsteps and they weren't Sonia's. He knew who it was.

  "Good morning, Detective."

  "Mr. Morningside, you weren't at home. We came to ask Ms. L
andry questions about you."

  "She doesn't know a thing. We'd never met before yesterday. Leave her be."

  "If she's honest with us, there'll be no problems. Same goes for you." The detective rounded the breakfast bar to stand near him.

  "Ask your questions then," Julian said.

  Julian thought of how Sonia's warm body had curled against him the night before. But of course, someone had to get hurt. His favorite movies always ended with the main character not getting the girl. Whether she was left behind with tears in her eyes or walking away cursing the main character, someone had to get hurt. Too much was at stake. Every character needed to lose something, even if they were only on the screen for a day.

  "Mr. Morningside, I was hoping you could tell me how it is the dead robber had a text message from you on his phone."

  "I think its pretty obvious how that happened," Julian said and waited for the end he knew was coming. This was the ending he'd planned for ultimately. He would go to prison. The girls would get the house.

  "Yeah, I'm going to need you to come with me, sir," the detective said.

  "Just let me get my pants on." Julian walked to the bedroom, sat down heavily on the bed and put his face into his hands.

  Bruin

  by Brandon Patterson

  The bear returned in the middle of Connor's late-night poker game with Jim and Darrell. The three men stumbled from the living room and their round of poker, and shouldered in front of the kitchen window. The bear ripped off the Tupperware lid to the dog food bin out back and rooted into a bag of Purina.

  The bear had been burglarizing the county for the past two years, its survival owed to hunting regulations and public amusement. They named him "Bruin, the Bandit Bear," and sometimes Connor heard people saying, "Oh, Bruin come up to my place last night, broke right into my birdfeeder," or something like that, and then whoever said it would grin or shake his head like the bear was a pet puppy that needed to be taught not to chew shoes and piss on the floor.

  Connor didn't feel that way. He raked his fingers against his stomach as he watched the animal.

  "Sonofabitch is back," he said. On his first two visits, the bear had arrived while Connor worked the night shift. "I'll be damned." He clapped his hands and smacked them against the window—the bear looked at him, eyes glints of light set against black fur.

  "Shit, Conn, that bear's fucking with you," Jim said. Jim worked with cars, so the cards and chips smelled like grease and Gojo. Even though he stood a head or two taller than the others, he had bulled his way closest to the window. "He's looking right at you." Connor and Jim had known each other since their first year of high school, and he used the same voice he used to egg Connor into a skateboard stunt or fight with a football player. "Probably wondering why your dumb ass keeps leaving food out for him."

  Connor ignored the jab. "Get outta here," he shouted.

  Bruin raised his head, cocked it to one side and noted the men before returning to the food. In the background, Connor's hound finally barked.

  Darrell laughed and snagged a bottle of High Life. He was the smallest of the three, chubby and a little bug-eyed. Connor knew him from work, figured he showed up for the beer, though he didn't mind—two-player poker wasn't much fun. Darrell was more into hanging out with teenage girls in the restrooms and storage racks. One of his favorite girls was a fatty. People called them "Kermit and Miss Piggy."

  "Damn bear must think it's at a dinner theater," Darrell said after a long gulp. "'Why these damn people just watching me?' he's thinking."

  "Fuck that, I'll shoot his ass," Connor said. "I'll shoot his ass," he stated again, as if he were ordering himself. He turned and stomped to his bedroom.

  When his friends caught up, Connor already held a custom twelve-gauge his grandfather had owned. He fed the shells so fast, more dropped than loaded. Jim grabbed a bolt-action, popped the clip and thumbed off a few rounds before reloading it. Darrell seemed happy watching the men and sucking on his beer.

  "What you got in here?" Jim asked.

  "Deer loads in everything," Connor answered, still dropping the shells. "Fuck it." He jammed two handfuls into his jeans pockets.

  "We ain't getting into no shootout," Jim said. He took a pistol holster and draped it around Connor's neck like a bandolier, the S&W it held smelling of gun oil, the addition of the last armament sparking Jim's braying laugh. "Looks like you're ready now."

  "Fine," Connor said, blood rising in his face.

  They caromed back to the kitchen, shucking the coffee table and sending chips clattering in a plastic rain onto the bare floor. Connor led. He kicked at the deck's spring-latch storm door, swinging it wide on the second kick. By the time the men were through, the bear had leapt the rail and was running up the bank behind the house.

  Connor and Jim aimed, the safeties still on, both jerking at the triggers like they had never used firearms before.

  "Damn," Connor moaned. He jumped over the rail and flicked the safety, followed the bear up the slope, his free hand grabbing for pokeweed and paradise saplings. Connor heard Jim fall, make an oomph noise, then get up.

  Connor reached the tree line and fired a load into the dark, pumped in a new round, and fired again. He might not kill it, but Connor was damned if that bear was coming back.

  Jim caught up and fired. Then both men ran, the awkward crashing of the bear still audible ahead. Above them, the moon gave barely enough light to illuminate the trees, and not enough to achieve much else. They snagged their jeans on blackberry brambles, stubbed toes on hidden chunks of stone, and tripped over tree roots that had grown up from the soil. They pushed on until their breathing was ragged, and the forgotten pistol belt beat against Connor's bare chest like a second heart.

  "I hear you, you fucking bear!" Connor screamed, the word 'bear' coming out like 'bar.' Even as the grade smoothed, Connor staggered and pawed the ground, the shotgun held crosswise and gripped like a handgun, his finger across the trigger.

  He knew there was a barbed-wire fence ahead, one so old it had rusted through and turned brittle. The trees that held it had grown over the metal strands, their bark shrouding the wire like skin over ingrown hairs. The fence ran across a hundred yards of his property, was braced at one end by an old oak and at another by a crumbling post. Knowing it was there didn't help Connor, though—he couldn't see the fence, and the booze distorted his sense of distance.

  Both men ran into it at the same time, the wire pitching them forward, spikes piercing jeans and skin. Connor turned, thrust his hands forward to catch himself. The gun's butt struck the ground and he clenched his hand involuntarily. There was a blast and Jim fell across the wire.

  "Jim?"

  Connor's legs were in the air, knotted up, and below that, only his shoulder touched the ground. His mouth was by the fallen pistol belt. He pushed himself back to the fence with his hands until he could grab the wire. The top strand was so rusted it broke in his hands, and the next two he could bend away from his legs.

  He stood and took the penlight that hung from his keychain and shined it on Jim. In the weak beam he could see that Jim's face had been scooped out: no mouth, no nose, no eyes. Just ripped flesh and shattered bones. It dripped and the woods smelled like gutted deer.

  Connor sat down so fast he almost fell. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," he said, the phrase shortening itself to "fuck," repeated like a chant. Jim shuddered. More blood pumped out of the hole where his mouth had been. It made Connor want to puke. He looked at his shotgun.

  Connor had a few cousins do time—one for felony assault, the other two for unpaid fines. He knew what happened in jails. Things he'd rather die than go through. His cousin Will served three years, and that's all it took for him to come out different—strange, like he was vicious and calm all at once. Connor was lean and narrow—Will would say "bitch-sized"—and he didn't have any friends doing time, nobody to look out for him if he got nailed.

  "Conn? Jim?"

  It was Darrell. He was fifty yar
ds off to the side and not at the top of the ridge yet. Connor flicked the light off, and in the darkness his mind worked again. He wiped the shotgun down from muzzle to stock with the belly of his t-shirt, then pried Jim's rifle away and did the same. He wrapped and rubbed Jim's fingers around the shotgun, then let it drop to the ground before turning and screaming, "Hurry! Jim's shot himself!" He flipped the light on again and shined it where he heard Darrell's uncertain steps and saw him working up the ridge.

  "Is he all right?" Darrell huffed.

  "He's dead. Me an' him tripped on that fence. He blew his face clean off."

  "Goddamn…I can't believe this shit." He knelt down beside the corpse, found a thin branch and used it to roll Jim's head to the side, tilting the ruined face to the moonlight. "Jesus Christ."

  "Yeah, he's dead."

  Connor waited for Darrell to say more, but instead of speaking, Darrell stepped back.

  "Conn," he said, "how come Jim's got your gun?"

  "He grabbed it off my rack."

  "No, no, he didn't, Conn. He took that rifle. I seen it myself."

  Connor eyed Darrell, tilted the penlight up and aimed it into his eyes. "You didn't see shit. You're drunk off your ass. Jim got my shotgun."

  "Connor—now Connor, I saw it. You put all those shells in your pockets. You filled up your pockets with 'em. Oh Christ, did you shoot Jim? Did you kill Jim?"

  "I didn't fucking kill nobody. We must've switched guns before we fell or something."

  "Conn, Conn, you didn't switch guns." Darrell backed into a gnarled poplar. "Damn, Conn, you killed him."

  "I didn't mean it—it was just a damn accident, that's all, we just tripped on that fucking fence," Connor said, the words coming out in a rush, the regret for saying them coming almost as fast.

  "Christ, Connor, Christ, they'll get you for felony, man."

  "No, no they won't, Darrell, they won't. 'Cause I switched the guns, and 'cause you aren't gonna tell them anything. A'ight?"