THUGLIT Issue Three Read online

  By now the guests were spread out and shooting the bull, as his father would say, either sitting in the pews across or catching up while waiting in line to see Roland’s mother.

  Their family tragedy had become a community social event, and not one guest seemed uncomfortable with smiling or laughing, not until Steven Fitchburg walked in wearing a Saints cap and a faded stained tee-shirt over loose jeans. Spotting Julie, he went and grabbed his wife by the arm, saying words too low for Roland to hear.

  “Let go of me,” Julie said. Her husband stepped closer, grabbing her other arm and drawing attention—the sheriff’s included.

  Kwanyay’s glance was brief.

  “I said in a minute, Steven. I’m not ready.” He let go.

  “Don’t you be long.” He stormed out without saying “excuse me” to anyone.

  Julie shook her head at Stephanie, saying something, but her voice faded into the rest that blended and blurred to create the collage of vocal noise. The belles made their way to his father’s casket where they stared down, talking. Julie reached into the flowers and plucked an iris before they left through the side exit.

  “Son of a bitch. She stole an iris.” Roland got to his feet and his crutches. “Excuse me,” he said to people. “Excuse me.”

  The hall through the side exit was empty, everyone crammed into the main corridor farther down. But across was the door to the mini-hall where the bathrooms were located. Roland crossed and entered the mini-hall, and then he stopped…

  “I just think an open casket is so unnecessary,” Julie said.

  He could hear her voice from the ladies room.

  “But that’s Fran,” she continued. “A drunk for a husband. A psycho for a son. He’ll kill Fran next. Watch.”

  “Julie,” Stephanie said. “That’s horrible.” But still she laughed.

  “Maybe God’s trying to teach her a lesson,” said Julie. “Maybe now she won’t go around town thinking she’s better than everyone. What did she think? That just because she lives in Ellendale, she shouldn’t have problems? We’re all from the bayou whether she likes it or not.”

  “You’re terrible,” said Stephanie. “Look. Are you gonna call me later? I’m not going to Fantasies unless Steven lets you out of the house.”

  “Oh you’re funny, aren’t you? Don’t worry. He’ll be passed out before nine.”

  “Okay. So I’ll talk to you then.”

  “‘Kay, Steph. Drive safe.”

  Shit.

  Roland hurried into the men’s room, and held his breath, the air intensifying, filling his ears with Stephanie’s heels clacking against the hall floor. He waited for silence, and when that silence came, he had just the wall to separate him from Julie.

  Just a wall and nothing more.

  Then it hit him: Her husband beat her, and everyone knew it.

  Roland left his crutches next to the paper towel dispenser, hopped next-door to the ladies room and found Julie at the mirror drawing a plum slop stick against her lips.

  “I don’t know why you bother. You’re not pretty anymore.”

  She whipped around, her face twitching and looking all over the bathroom as if others were in there with them.

  “Roland. What are you doing in here?”

  Good. She was scared. Roland walked over to her, stepping on jolts of fire that spread into his thigh like an infected bone deteriorating with every step. He didn’t give Julie the satisfaction of limping. He got right up close and spit in her face, her eyes shutting from the impact, and when she brought her hand up to wipe herself, Roland slapped it away. He slapped her face. Her mouth opened wide with disbelief. Roland slapped it closed.

  “What? Got nothing to say now?”

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair and stuck her face down in the sink.

  “That’s my mother you were talking about.”

  He ran the water, splashing her skunk strands on top while her face sat in a forming puddle.

  “What’s that you used to tell me when you’d come babysit? That I should wash my foul mouth out? Here. Let’s wash yours out.”

  She tried to break herself free, pushing against the counter around the porcelain where her head was buried and making it hard for Roland.

  He let go, Julie shooting up and gasping for air. Her dark and wrinkled eyes narrowed from the shock wearing off and the anger setting in.

  Roland brought his finger to her face and she flinched. “Get yourself together, and get the fuck out of here.”

  He backed away while facing her fueled stare of rage.

  No one in the men’s room where he left his crutches; he grabbed both and came out breathing heavy. Head down, Roland left the mini-hall and followed the gray-and-crimson diamond carpet to the main corridor where guests engaged in face-to-face conversation didn’t notice him.

  He crutched his way right past them, heading for the glass doors revealing a blood-red and violet sunset. Clouds of Spanish moss nesting out from the sprawling arms of magnolia trees.

  Roland pushed the handlebar, and there on his right when stepping out was Steven Fitchburg, smoking a butt. Shit. Too late. He’d seen him.

  “How’s it going?” Roland asked.

  Steven nodded while taking a drag. Dirt spots on his face were actually weak patches of hair, the whiskers wet around his upper lip.

  “Newports, eh? Mind if I bum one?”

  From his jean pocket he slid out a crumpled soft pack and held it out for Roland.

  “Thanks. Got a light?”

  His beady browns narrowed, but he gave him one. A green Bic disposable.

  “Thanks.”

  Damn mosquitoes—the constant pinch and itch from their bites cut into the calm beneath Roland’s composure.

  The handlebar slammed behind him, and out came Julie waving her finger in his face. “This motherfucker assaulted me.”

  “What? Yeah right,” he said. “That’s bullshit.”

  She swung her fist into his shoulder, and again, swinging away until Steven grabbed her wrist.

  “Look what he did to my hair,” she said, holding up a clump of wet skunk. Then she tried to come at Roland, swinging her fists at the air around her husband’s arm.

  “Julie,” her husband said. “Julie.” She stopped to look at him. “I’ll handle this.”

  Roland pointed a crutch at him. “What, you think I’m scared of you?”

  Steven ripped the crutch from his hand and hurled it out into the yard. Then he stepped to Roland and the handlebar slammed.

  “Stop right there.”

  It was Kwanyay, the brim of his hat covering his face to where the whites of his eyes were lit slits in a thin shadow.

  “You heard me, Steven. Take a step back. Right now.”

  “Son of a bitch done assaulted my wife.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “In the ladies room.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Roland. He nodded to Steven. “The only finger that touched her was his. I saw him.”

  “What are you doing out here, Roland? Didn’t you tell me at the station the other day that you quit smoking?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. I just…being in there’s too much for me right now, you know?”

  Julie said “ha” from under her breath.

  Kwanyay pointed at Steven, talking to Julie. “I see your husband come into the service and get rough with you. I see him storm out, and then I see you leave shortly after with Stephanie. Where’s Stephanie? Maybe she can clear this up.”

  In the last of the sun from a fiery horizon, Julie’s eyes were bright and burning brown; they did not blink. “Stephanie left.”

  The sheriff turned to Roland. “All right. What’s your side of it?”

  “I don’t know. I went to the bathroom, saw him coming out of the ladies room and didn’t think anything of it until I came out and found Julie crying in the hall.”

  “Liar,” she said.

  “That’s enough,” said Kwanyay. “Go ahead, Roland.”

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nbsp; “No, that’s pretty much it. I asked her if she was okay, and she basically told me to get lost. So I came outside and he was already out here smoking. Then she comes out trying to hit me.”

  The sheriff turned to Steven. “Did you assault your wife in the bathroom?”

  “No,” Julie said. “Roland did.”

  “Okay, Julie,” the sheriff said. “You mean like the night at Fantasies when you swore up and down that some kid assaulted you in the parking lot with a bottle?”

  “He did.”

  “There were three witnesses, Julie, and all three saw Steven do it. Now I know you’ll go to the grave defending your husband, but don’t think for one second that y’all can bring this drama to a wake. Don’t you think this family’s been through enough?”

  “Man, you got shit for brains,” said Steven.

  Kwanyay got in his face. “I suggest you take your wife and go home, or I can take you both downtown for disturbing the peace. Now what’s it gonna be?”

  Steven grabbed his wife’s arm. “Screw it. We’ll get him later. Come on.”

  “No.” She tried to free herself from her husband’s grip. “I’m not letting that bastard get away with this.”

  “Come on.” He dragged her away, Julie glaring back at Roland until her husband stuck her in their GM 4x4 and shut the door in her twitching face.

  Roland retrieved his crutch from the grass and slapped his arm, trying to kill the mosquitoes and missing.

  “Poor woman,” he said.

  “She knew what she was getting into when she married him,” said Kwanyay, watching the 4x4 reverse, and then pull out.

  Roland nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  And that’s all he needed, was just a sign to show him that the good sheriff believed in him.

  “Well… I should go inside and see if my mother’s okay.”

  “She’s one of the toughest women I know,” said the sheriff, his eyes still watching the road. “But you’re right. You should go be with her.”

  Roland grabbed the handle to go in. “Thanks.”

  Kwanyay nodded at the parking lot. “Just doing my job, Roland.”

  He could’ve kissed the sheriff on both cheeks. He felt that high. He felt that free.

  But at the sight of his father’s body inside the chapel, he crashed.

  Mums around the casket were frowning, the white florets now sagging into long droops.

  “You deserved better than this,” said Roland out loud, catching himself and looking around. He crutched his way forward and down the main aisle going around those blocking his way.

  Standing over his father’s casket, he gave the room another quick scan, and then he faced his father’s remains.

  Goddamn you, Dad. Look at you now.

  His father’s blue lips did not part ways to argue or agree; his eyelids remained closed.

  The bottom line: he was no longer Roland’s father. He was a part of the past that was going to haunt Roland for the rest of his fatherless days on earth.

  Eyes shut, lips sealed, there was no way that his father’s corpse could communicate with him, but around the casket, the irises unharmed by human hands remained strong, the gold and violet pedals standing out from the rest, bright and wide awake.

  In fact, shining.

  Special Bonus!!!

  PART III of THE HARD BOUNCE by Todd Robinson—NOW AVAILABLE from TYRUS BOOKS.

  (continued from THUGLIT Issue Two)

  I leapt up from the table, knocking over my chair, and ran to the door where she had just kissed me on the cheek less than two hours before. Junior saw my frenzy and ran over. “Yo! Where’s the fuego?”

  I stuck the picture in his hand. “This girl was just here. Find her!”

  No questions asked, he ran back down to the basement. I looked around the street in front of the club. Nothing. I ran back through the bar and out the back. A few kids were hanging out there in a cloud of acrid pot smoke and quickly hid their hands. No girl.

  I let out that long and profane curse I was holding in.

  I stormed back into the bar and over to Kelly. “All right! What the hell is going on? That kid was just here. Who is she?”

  The cop decided he’d had enough of the silent partner routine. He quickly came over to the table. “What do you mean she was just here?”

  “What the hell do you think it means, Chief Wiggum?” I smacked the back of my fingers across the envelope. “She was just here.”

  Junior came in through the back. “Nothing. There’s a few band members and a couple of groupies downstairs, but not this one. Who is this?”

  The cop said, “Where? Who was she with?”

  “Who is this?” Junior asked again.

  “I don’t know,” I said to them both.

  “Then why the fuck am I looking for her?” Junior asked.

  “Where was she?” The cop again.

  “Hey!” I yelled at the cop. “Step off! Until you introduce yourself, you can blow me with the interrogation.” His face darkened, but he shut up for the moment. “Junior, go back downstairs. Show that picture to everyone down there and ask them if they know her, and if anybody does, where she went and who she was with.”

  Junior threw his hands up and sighed. “Fine.”

  I turned on the cop. “You. Who are you?”

  He pointed a sausage finger at Kelly. “I’m with her.” Kelly just stood at the table, tense and unsure.

  “I didn’t ask you who you were with, pal. I asked you who you were.”

  Veins bulged on his forehead. “Danny Barnes.” He said his name like it should mean something. It didn’t. “And you’d better watch your mouth, boy.” He meant it. I suddenly remembered the man was a cop. And according to his bulgy jacket, an armed one.

  “Good. Thank you. Now that we’re all introduced, why don’t one of you fill me in on what the fuck this is all about.” Relative calm restored itself, and the three of us sat back down at the table. “Question number one,” I said. “Who is this girl?”

  Barnes answered. “Her name’s Cassandra.”

  “Cassandra what? Just Cassandra? Does Cassandra have a last name or is she like Cher?”

  I thought I could hear Barnes’s teeth grinding. “As I’m sure Ms. Reese has explained to you, last names are out of the question at the moment. We need to respect her father’s request for privacy.”

  “Lemme tell you something, I don’t need to respect a goddamn thing. Ms. Reese hasn’t told me a whole hell of a lot as of yet, so why don’t you, Danny?”

  Kelly shifted uncomfortably in her seat but stayed silent. Barnes had taken control of their end of the meeting. She seemed more than content to let him have it.

  “Look, Malone, you’ll know everything you need to know when you need to know it. Until then, you’ll just have to make do.”

  I laughed. “With what? A first name and a picture? Are you shitting me?”

  Junior returned from the basement towing a protesting kid with dreadlocks and bad acne by the back of his Mudvayne shirt. “This little jackass was smoking a joint in the downstairs bathroom. He knows the girl.” Junior pulled another chair over and dropped him in it hard. The kid tried to shake it off with a defiant shoulder roll. “What’s your problem, man?” he said to Junior, feeling safer in the company of witnesses.

  “Look at me,” I said to him. “Listen carefully. You’re going to answer my questions and that’s it. Now take a look at this guy.” I thumbed at Barnes. Barnes straightened up, confused at where this was going.

  The kid looked him up and down. “Who, the cop?”

  Barnes frowned and went red. I did my best not to chuckle. “Yeah, the cop. If you don’t answer me, he’s going to drop your ass in juvie.” I turned to Barnes. “What will possession get a kid his age? Three years?”

  Barnes finally caught on. “Uh . . . five. Minimum.”

  The kid’s fearless facade shattered. “It was just one joint, man! Please! I don’t know anything about Cassie.”

>   Hell, just knowing her name, he had as much info as I’d been given. “Relax. What’s your name?”

  “Paul.”

  “All right, Paul. How do you know Cassie?”

  “I see her around the Square and stuff. She was just here for the show. What did she do?” He meant Harvard Square, a traditional hangout for the young punk kids and skate rats.

  “No questions, Paul. Answers.” I thumbed at Barnes again. Paul nodded quickly. “Who was she here with?”

  “I dunno. I think she was alone. She wasn’t with that creepy dude she’s always going off with.” If Barnes was a German shepherd, his ears would have shot straight up.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know the dude. He just gives me the creeps.” Paul shuddered to emphasize those creeps. “Y’know. Slimy fucker. Got that big snake tattoo around his arm.”

  “What else?”

  Paul thought about it. “Real skinny. Got greasy black hair, goes halfway down to his butt. Looks like a rocker. Nobody knows why Cassie hangs with that guy.”

  “Is he her boyfriend?”

  “Jeez, I hope not. He’s like in his twenties.” Paul leaned back in his chair, teenage cockiness back to full. He’d realized he had something we wanted and that information gave him an edge. “Cassie’s a cool chick and all, but she’s a little flaky. That guy’s just . . . I dunno. Like I said, he creeps everybody out.”

  “Junior, take him up to the office.”

  “Move your ass, Weedy McTokesalot,” Junior snarled.

  “Get his number and address.”

  Paul panicked. “But you said—”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Relax. It’s just in case we need to ask you some more questions. Junior’s going to give you my beeper number.”

  “A beeper?” Paul looked at me, aghast. “Who are you, Fred Flintstone?”

  “We can still toss you in juvie, smartass.”

  He mimed a key between his lips and turned it.

  “If you see Cassie anywhere, and I mean at any time, you beep me. Got it?”

  Paul snapped me a brisk salute. “Got it.”

  “C’mon.” Junior walked off with Paul.