THUGLIT Issue Seven

by Joe Clifford

  He keys in a phone number and hesitates before hitting the call button. He considers what he's doing, takes a couple of deep breaths, and finally hits 'call.' The phone rings. And rings. And rings. It doesn't go to voicemail. It just keeps ringing. But Chad patiently waits. He knows that the person on the other end of the line won't pick up until the thirtieth ring. Around the fiftieth ring, the phone is answered. The person doesn't say anything.

  "This is Chad."

  Still nothing.

  "I would like to speak to Hamed."

  Chad hears rustling on the other end of the line. Muffled voices can be heard, but he can't make out what's being said.

  "I was wondering if you were going to call," says a man, his voice measured and firm.

  While he's never been told in so many words, Chad doesn't believe the man on the other end of the line is named Hamed, but that was the name he was told to use, so he's used it for the last four years. "Hamed, I'm out."

  There's a pause.

  "Excuse me?"

  Chad rubs his eyes. "I'm done. Out. I just thought you'd want to know. I owe you that much."

  Hamed chuckles softly. It's a dry, humorless chuckle that takes Chad off guard. In four years of dealing with this man, Chad has never so much as heard an inflection in the man's voice, even during the particularly stressful dispute with the Frontera Cartel two years ago. Hamed has always sounded like he's as steady as a rock. While never meeting the man in person, Chad always pictured Hamed being the type of guy who never sweats, even while wearing a suit during August in Tijuana.

  "I'm afraid that's not possible," Hamed says.

  Now it's Chad's turn to chuckle. "Trust me, it's possible."

  There's an even longer pause.

  "Is something wrong?" the man says.

  "I want to assure you that my discretion is above question. The details of our business dealings will go with me to my grave."

  "That is certain."

  Chad's discomfort from detoxing is momentarily forgotten. His pulse quickens as adrenaline releases into his bloodstream. His heart beats in his ears.

  "Well, Chad," Hamed says, "you must do what's right for you. Enjoy your little weekend getaway. It's hot out there. Remember to stay hydrated."

  And with that, the phone call is disconnected.

  Chad keeps the phone to his ear and waits until an automated voice tells him passively that the call has been disconnected. Hang up and dial the number again.

  He turns the phone over, slides the back cover off, and removes the battery. He breaks the phone apart, separating it into smaller and smaller pieces. He deposits the busted cell phone under the bed.

  Standing at the window, Chad pulls the curtain aside and squints against the brightness. Once his eyes adjust, he looks out into the courtyard where the small pool shimmers under the unrelenting desert sun. Jen lies on a lounge chair. The tanning lotion on her body makes it look like she's been polished to a high sheen. She is a thing of beauty. If Chad were an artist, she'd be his muse. He'd create masterpieces in her honor, but they'd all pale in comparison to her.

  Since they've been together, Jen's given far more than she's received. But it's the way she gives freely and without question that makes Chad feel inadequate. He's always known that she's too good for him. He's dark waters she's determined to swim, completely unaware that she's dangerously close to being caught in the undercurrent that churns beneath the surface.

  Chad pulls on his jeans, puts on a T-shirt, and slips on shoes. On his way out the door, he grabs his car keys. He hurries toward the pool. "Jen, honey, we've got to go," he says.

  She shields her eyes with a hand and smiles up at him. "What're you doing out of bed?"

  "Baby, we've got to go."

  She props herself up on her elbows. "What's wrong?"

  He hands her the room key. "Get dressed. I'm going to pull the car around."

  "Where are we going?"

  "The airport." He reaches down and takes her hand in his, pulling Jen to her feet.

  "What airport?"

  "The Palm Springs Airport." He wraps an arm around her waist and ushers her toward the room.

  "What're we going to do there?" she asks.

  "Catch a flight to Vegas." They stand outside the door to their room. He kisses her on the lips. "Hurry. We don't have much time."

  "Is this about the tradeshow?"

  "Yes."

  "Or is there something else?"

  He forces a smile and says, "I'll be out front." He leaves before she can ask another question he'd rather not answer.

  Chad's normally immaculate black Mercedes is desperately in need of a wash. The nighttime desert wind has left a dusty residue. He makes a mental note to get it detailed, but catches himself, figuring that it doesn't really matter now. He gets behind the wheel and puts his key in the ignition, but just as he's about to start the vehicle, terror grips him like a vise. He removes the key and pops the hood.

  Surveying the engine, he realizes that he doesn't have a clue what he's looking for. It would have to be completely obvious to a mechanically-impaired person like himself. The last time he inspected the engine was at the behest of the salesman on the dealership's lot before he purchased it. He didn't know what he was looking at then, and he doesn't know what he's looking at now. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary so he shuts the hood. Desperately trying to avoid the blazing concrete, he squats down and contorts himself to look at the Mercedes' undercarriage. Again, nothing appears amiss.

  "Chad, what're you doing?" Jen asks, stuffing some items in her purse as she approaches the car.

  Panicky, he gets behind the wheel, puts the key in the ignition, and takes a deep breath. If there's an explosion, he doesn't want Jen in the car when it goes off.

  VRROOOM!

  The engine starts with a roar and recedes to its high-performance purr. Chad exhales as he revs the engine. Jen opens the passenger door and slides in next to him. "Is everything all right with the car?" she asks.

  He puts the car in reverse and backs up. "Yes, thank God."

  The Mercedes pulls out of the parking lot and makes its way down the long desert road. The landscape is a desolate wasteland. The only landmarks that break the monotony of sand and stone are the tall, white wind turbines that rise like giant redwoods in the distance.

  Chad's eyes dart from the rearview mirror, back to the road, and from left to right.

  "Are you okay?" she asks.

  "Yeah, great," he says. He grabs her hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

  "How're you feeling?"

  "Good," he says. "Fine."

  "Are you sure? You look hot. Your face is red and you're sweating."

  Chad blasts the temperature control. "I'm fine." He turns on the satellite radio, which is tuned to the channel New Wave Hits of the Eighties. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably be singing along with "Just Can't Get Enough" by Depeche Mode, but these aren't normal circumstances.

  The car approaches the 10 Freeway. Chad merges into the southbound traffic and immediately notices a black SUV a few vehicles back. He changes lanes, and the SUV changes into the same lane.

  "Honey, you're going really fast," she says.

  "We've got to make the flight." His eyes moving from the rearview mirror to the road and back again.

  Jen turns around in her seat and looks through the back window. "What're you looking at?"

  The SUV merges to the far right lane and takes the off-ramp.

  "Oh, nothing," he says.

  "Are you in trouble?"

  He takes the Gene Autry exit and follows the signs to the airport. Stopping at a red light at the bottom of the off ramp, Chad asks, "Why have you never asked me what I do for a living?"

  "I know what you do. You're a supply chain manager."

  The light turns green and he takes a left. The long, flat road bakes under the afternoon sun, the heat undulating in a spectral dance. "Do you know what a supply chain manager does?"

&
nbsp; She shrugs.

  "I manage moving products from a supplier to customers," he says. She sits quietly and looks straight ahead, her hands fidgeting with the drawstring of her shorts. "Do you want to know who the supplier is?"

  Barely more than a whisper, she says, "No."

  "I quit my job today," he says. "My employer isn't used to people quitting. His employees are retired."

  "You're scaring me." The silence is heavy like a soggy blanket as they make their way toward the airport. She finally says, "What are we going to do?"

  "I am going to get you on a flight to Vegas," he says. "You're going to go to the tradeshow and show your boss that you are committed to taking your career to the next level. You're not going to take no for an answer. You're going to start designing swimsuits."

  "What are you going to do?"

  He turns left and follows the road signs to the airport. Chad glances in the rearview mirror just as a black town car speeds out of a parking lot. As he slows the Mercedes to a stop at a red light, he watches as the town car pulls up behind him. There are two men in the front seat. The driver stares straight ahead, and the man sitting next to him fiddles with something in his lap, his eyes downcast. He doesn't know how he knows, but Chad is certain that these men have been waiting for him. If it weren't for the fact that he's terrified, Chad might actually feel flattered that Hamed has gone to such lengths on his account. But he wonders how they've tracked him down. As if answering his unasked question, The Smiths' "Girlfriend in Coma" plays through the speakers. Chad looks at the digital display of his stereo.

  "Godammit," he grumbles, turning off the satellite radio.

  "What?" Jen asks.

  All that's required is the serial number from a satellite radio to be able to use it as a tracking device.

  Depeche Mode just screwed him.

  He stares at the car in the rearview mirror. Following his stare, Jen begins to turn around in her seat, but Chad says, "Don't look."

  "Why?"

  "Just don't."

  Her body tenses, but she does as she's told.

  The light turns green and he drives through the intersection. The town car follows behind him matching his speed exactly.

  "We're going to park out front of the terminal and run in," he says. "I'll buy you a ticket and you'll hurry as fast as you can through security and catch the flight."

  "You're not coming?" she asks.

  "No."

  A jet roars overhead as it lands. Its tires hit the runway and kick up a plume of black smoke. "What's going to happen to you?" she asks.

  "I'll be fine," he says. "Don't worry about me."

  She angles to get a look at the town car in the side view mirror. "Who are they?"

  "I don't know."

  She takes his hand in her own. "Please come with me. Come to Vegas."

  He maneuvers the car into the airport. The town car follows closely behind.

  "I can't."

  "Why can't you?"

  His nose begins to run profusely. He wipes his tender nostrils with the back of his hand. He suddenly feels achy and cold. The effects of his withdrawal had slipped his mind until now. The surge of adrenalin had masked the pain of detoxing. His hands tremble so he grips the steering wheel tightly. He notices Jen's hands are trembling too, but for a different reason.

  "Why have you stuck with me?" he asks.

  She seems generally taken aback by the question, like he just asked the most personal question ever. And, who knows, maybe he did.

  "I love you."

  "But I'm a drunk and a drug addict. This weekend getaway was the first vacation we've gone on in two years, and it's to let me detox. That's bullshit. You deserve so much better than what I've given you."

  "Chad, we all make mistakes."

  "Yes, we do," he says.

  The Mercedes pulls up to the curb and parks at the passenger unloading. The town car comes to a stop two vehicles back.

  "Jen, for the last two years we have had unhealthy loves affairs. You with me, and me with drugs."

  "You can't mean—"

  He leans across the seat and kisses her firmly on the mouth. As he pulls away, he says, "I'm not the only one who needs to kick an unhealthy addiction."

  Before she can say anything, he opens the door and gets out, hurrying around the front of the car. He opens the door and offers her his hand. She hesitantly takes it and gets out of the vehicle. Arm in arm, they leave the Mercedes idling at the curb.

  "Hey!" a voice shouts. An airport curbside attendant with an orange vest points at the car. "You can't leave that car there. It'll get towed."

  "Whatever," Chad says. He glances at the town car and sees both doors opening. He doesn't wait around long enough to see who appears. Ultimately, it doesn't really matter who gets out that car, Chad figures. He might know them, or he might not, but regardless, they have orders from Hamed, and those orders will be carried out without exception.

  A blast of cold air greets Chad and Jen as they hurry through the terminal doors. He leads her by the hand to the ticket counter and walks right up to an elderly lady with permed hair and wearing rhinestone glasses.

  "Do you have a flight to Vegas?" Chad asks.

  The lady adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose as she looks up from the computer monitor. "Yes, sir, we do."

  "When is the next available flight?"

  The ticket agent's long fingernails click on the keyboard like a pianist tickling the ivories. She scans the monitor, looks at her watch, and says, "Actually, we have a flight that's scheduled to depart in fifteen minutes. If you hurry, you can catch it."

  Chad reaches for his wallet in his hip pocket. "Perfect."

  "That will be two tickets?"

  "No. Just one," Chad says, handing over his credit card and Jen's ID.

  Jen grabs his hands and grips them tightly. "Please, Chad, come with me. Please."

  The ticket agent stops what she's doing, apparently waiting to be told whether or not she should process two tickets.

  "Just one ticket," Chad says.

  The lady hands back his credit card and prints out the boarding pass, handing it to Chad. "Gate three, and you best beat feet."

  Chad grabs Jen's hand and leads her toward the security check point. They pass the terminal doors as they open, allowing two men to enter. Chad doesn't have to be told these are the two men pursuing him. They're rather nondescript looking, unremarkable in every way—medium height and build, bland clothing, and ten-dollar haircuts—with the exception of their eyes, which belong to remorseless predators. When the sets of eyes lock on Chad, the hairs on his arms stand up.

  The security checkpoint is five deep in a single line waiting to be waved through the metal detector. Chad and Jen get in line. He fights the urge to look behind him, but it's pointless to resist. He turns and sees the men slowly making their way toward them.

  Jen follows his stare. Her body tenses. "Who are they?"

  "I don't know."

  The line moves forward.

  "Get on that plane and find your boss," he says. "Promise me that you're not going to take no for an answer."

  The line moves forward.

  "I don't care about the stupid job," she says. "I just want to be with you."

  The two men get closer.

  Chad takes Jen's face in both his hands. "Listen to me: I lost everything I was and wanted to be because of my addiction. Every decision I've made since has been done out of necessity to support my habit. Jen, I'm that to you."

  "Chad, I—"

  "You've lost yourself to me. Please, please, promise me that you'll go find yourself. Promise me."

  Her eyes well up with tears. She can't find the words.

  They reach the front of the line. A lanky TSA guard says, "Boarding passes and IDs."

  Chad hands the man the boarding pass and Jen's ID.

  "Just one boarding pass?" the man says.

  "It's just her that's catching a flight."

  The TSA
agent inspects the ticket and ID and then hands them back to her. "You better hurry. Your flight is going to close the doors."

  Chad hugs Jen and whispers in her ear, "You go knock 'em dead." He kisses her on the mouth and tastes her tears. He pulls away from her, but she tries to cling to him.

  "Folks, you're holding up the line," the TSA agent says.

  "… Chad …" Jen says.

  The two men stand at a distance and watch Chad. They wait patiently, apparently not overly concerned with what he'll do. They probably recognize what Chad does—at this point, it doesn't really matter if he tries to make a run for it, they'll eventually track him down. If he happened to have a ticket on the flight to Vegas with Jen, it would only be a short-term reprieve. But this way, at least Jen will not be around. This way, she's a non-threat and not worth their time, and that's exactly what Chad wants.

  "What's going to happen now?" she asks.

  "Kicking a bad habit hurts at first, but it gets better. It always gets better." Chad turns and walks back through the security line.

  Jen walks through the metal detector. She looks back as Chad approaches the two men. He wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand, gives the two men a nod, and makes his way toward the terminal exit. The two men follow closely behind him, almost like shadows. Their bodies are dark silhouettes as they step outside into the blazing desert sun, then the automatic doors close and they're gone.

  Jen cups a hand over her mouth as she tries to stifle a sob. Just like that, Chad is gone, and she feels weak and ill. She forces herself to head to the gate, not because she wants to, but because she promised him she would. She wipes her runny nose with the back of her hand and tries to find the strength to keep moving.

  Cinders

  by Marie S. Crosswell