Lost in Middle America

by Colin Conway

  Lucy rang Garza’s doorbell. She listened for the chime but heard nothing. Guessing the bell might be broken; she knocked on the door and waited. Garza opened the door slowly, enough to see the skinny girl standing on his porch. Lucy struggled to get a good look at him, but most of his face was hidden behind the door. Garza studied Lucy—looking her up and down. She stood in jeans, a tank top, and slip-on gum-soled sneakers. Noticing the backpack, Garza assumed the worst.

  “You got my dog in there?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “My dog in that bag?”

  “No,” Lucy said, “why would I have your dog?”

  “Thought maybe you found her.”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing here if it’s not about my dog?”

  “Are you Tito Garza?”

  Garza was silent for a moment, then replied: “There’s nobody here by that name,” and shut the door.

  “I know it’s you, Mister Garza.”

  “You a reporter?” He shouted through the door. “I gave my last interview thirty years ago, so you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Then how did you find me?”

  “The internet.”

  “Give me a fucking break.” He opened the door. “You’re one of those death freaks ain’t you? Going around getting autographs from supposed serial killers and shit. You people are sick, you know that? Now get the hell off my porch!”

  “Mister Garza, please. I have money. I’ll pay you for your time. Just talk to me.”

  “You bullshitting me?”

  “No. I’ve got the cash.”

  “Well, you don’t look like a reporter.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Fifty bucks will get you twenty minutes. I’ll need to pat you down first.”

  “Pat me down?”

  “You want in or not?”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Lucy stood still in the doorway while the old man ran his hands about her body, checking for weapons or a wire. When Garza was satisfied, he let Lucy in and shut the door behind them. He took a seat in his recliner and lit a cigarette. Lucy was frozen; she didn’t know whether to sit or keep standing. She looked around the house, dark and musty—absent was family photos and decorations. The house felt cold—a well-worn sofa, a recliner, a table, and a few cheap knickknacks on the mantle above the fireplace. Two dead roses that had dried but remained intact were arranged around an urn on display in a curio cabinet, along with commemorative Dodger plates. It all lacked a woman’s touch and Lucy realized that she was probably the first woman in years to set foot in the dwelling.

  “You gonna sit down?”

  Garza gave a phlegmy cough and then pointed to the sofa. Lucy sat with her legs wide, the way she’d seen Kip do. She thought it’d give her confidence but it didn’t. She could feel the couch’s springs pushing through the fabric and she tried to adjust herself in such a way to alleviate the pressure.

  “I don’t get visitors,” Garza said.

  Lucy nodded as she continued to scan the house.

  “The goddamn internet…I miss the days you could disappear for two-hundred bucks. Now, nobody is really gone until they’re down in the ground,” he said.

  “So, you’re safe here?” Lucy asked.

  “Safe from what?”

  “I don’t know? I found you easily. There could be people out there—people who could mean you harm.”

  Garza laughed. “I’ve outlived all those people. I’m an old ghost. And it’s been years since anybody has knocked on my door. That is until you, which is why I’m deciding whether to let you walk out of here.” Garza took a long drag off the menthol. His face was expressionless. Lucy searched his eyes—nothing.

  “People know I’m here,” she said gently.

  “Yeah? What people?”

  The old man looked worn-out, as if he had to muster all his strength to remain upright. But Lucy knew it could be a put on—his hunched back and shuffling feet could be hiding a deceptive strength.

  “My boyfriend,” she said.

  “What man would let his woman knock on my door?”

  “Maybe he’s waiting outside and if I don’t come out he’s coming in.”

  “Shit you say.” Garza stood up and walked over to the window. He pressed back the curtain and gazed out. “Ain’t nothing out there but strays.”

  When he turned around, Lucy stood holding a can of pepper spray.

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  “I bet you will.”

  “Don’t test me, man. That’s not why I came here.”

  “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Relax.”

  “You don’t hurt women?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “I know you don’t,” Lucy said, “and that’s part of the code, isn’t it?”

  “What code?”

  “The gangster code.”

  “You watch too many movies. I’ve seen men beat on women my whole life. Doesn’t turn me on—never did. Besides, you’re too green to be any trouble.” Garza sat back down in the chair. “It’s best to get on with it.”

  “I need information.”

  “I don’t rat. I don’t care how much money you’ve got. And that is part of the code in case you were wondering.”

  Lucy opened her backpack. Inside, two stacks of bills were held by rubber bands. “I’m talking more like advice—tutelage.”

  “What’s the subject?”

  “Murder.”

  “I look like a fool to you?”

  “I’ll pay you for every minute—every hour it takes to learn.”

  “And what exactly would you be paying me for?” He crushed the cigarette in a Dodger themed porcelain tray made to look like a baseball.

  “I need you to teach me how to kill.”

  The old man laughed.

  “I’m serious,” Lucy said.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard but I ain’t no killer.”

  “Not anymore, maybe, but you used to be. I know all about you. I know why they call you El Perro of Pedro—the dog of the city.”

  Garza rested his head back and sighed. “I like dogs—is that a crime?”

  “But we aren’t talking pets and you know it.”

  “Loyalty, chica—dogs will do anything for you if you treat um’ fair.”

  “Even kill a whole family for you?” Lucy asked.

  Garza’s mouth curled to resemble a half smile. He was impressed by how much Lucy knew about him. Sure, most of the information was easily accessible on the internet or in old articles, but she had clearly put in the time. Garza wondered how many hours she had spent researching. Had she learned enough to write a book? Writing a book would be a far safer pursuit he thought, but Garza knew that wasn’t who Lucy was. He had always been good at reading people, it was a tradecraft—a well-honed skill. He was still piecing her together but she stank of desperation and hunger.

  Lucy’s heartbeat sounded, fluctuating from intrigue to fear—the slow to the rapid, a fitful patter. Garza recognized the tremble in Lucy’s left leg as a movement brought about by fear. And fear was necessary; it was the first step to trusting someone. The only people Garza ever worried about were those who never exhibited fear because it meant they were likely psychotic, and couldn’t be trusted or controlled. Though Garza knew he wasn’t the picture of mental health, he never doubted his sanity. It was the cold, clamminess of fear that reminded him that he hadn’t gone mad. On the contrary, killing for money was an occupational choice, and it didn’t make him crazy—it made him valuable.

  “How much money did you say you had?” Garza asked.

  “How much do you charge?”

  Lucy’s question was foolish—it was the kind of question that showed Garza that she had no concept of her request. But she did have balls, enough to knock on his door—to come inside and sit a spell with a man who ha
d slaughtered people without a second thought.

  “You want me to teach you how to kill somebody like I was teaching you how to switch gears on a forklift? Who is it? Some Joe Blow who scorned you in the fifth grade? Some uncle who got too touchy feely when you were thirteen? Life ain’t pretty, chica. Deal with it and move on.”

  “Funny coming from you,” Lucy said, “word is you killed a man for spilling coffee on your pinstripes.”

  “You think you know me? You don’t know shit from shoe shine.”

  “That’s why I need you. I’ve got ten thousand. I could get more but I’d need some time.”

  “Don’t speak, just listen,” he said, “you think you’re a killer? You think you’ve got that inside?” Garza pointed at Lucy’s chest as if he could see past the flesh and bone. She felt penetrated and exposed in a way that made her stomach clinch.

  Garza continued: “Next to my house there’s an alley. Do you know what alley I’m speaking of?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said.

  Gaza spoke slowly and without blinking. “At the end of this alley is a house. Boys live there, about three of them, and they’ve taken my dog and I want it back. I don’t care what you must do but if you return her to me, I will help you. Do we understand each other?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “I prefer you say it.”

  “Yes, I understand. But I have a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “What kind of dog is it?”

  “It’s a Chihuahua.”

  “Name?”

  “Gazpacho.”

  Click here to learn more about The Furious Way by Aaron Philip Clark.

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