THUGLIT Issue Three Page 4

  "I still don't understand."

  He rubbed the side of my face with the back of his hand. “You will. And when you do, I hope you’ll think of me.”

  He walked down the driveway and across the street to his house. All alone.

  But in all the years since, I never felt alone. Because I’ve carried what Mr. Anderson did for me and Mama with me ever since. And that medal has never left my neck.

  Red-Eyed Richard

  By Paul Heatley

  Resting the side of his face on the bar was all that kept Richard on his feet. By the end of most nights he took his drinks through the corner of his mouth, too drunk to tackle them straight on.

  “Give me another gin,” he told the bartender. Spilled liquid pooled under his head. He kept his left eye closed to stop it getting in. Stop it stinging.

  “I’ve called you a taxi, Rich,” the barman said.

  “Ah, fuck you. I’m still standing.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “My money ain’t good enough?”

  “You’ve had enough, Rich. You’re going home.”

  “Did you call my daughter?”

  The barman hesitated.

  “Of course you did. What was her excuse?”

  “She didn’t give one. She just said no. She said she’s not coming down here to pick you up again, so not to call.”

  Richard forced himself upright, hands flat on the bar. “You know why?” Gin dripped from his left ear onto the already stained collar of his grey suit. His tangled hair was slicked flat against the side of his craggy face. “Because she’ll be fucking someone. Anyone will do, so far as she’s concerned.” He snorted. “Do you know what it feels like, for me? I remember her this small—she was a tiny fucking baby. The biggest, brightest eyes. And now she’s just some slut.”

  The barman looked uncomfortable. “Come on, Richard. Don’t talk about her like that---”

  “Ah, you’ve probably had her already. Fuck you. Fuck yer taxi. I’ll walk.”

  Richard’s first few steps were stumbling, but he soon got the hang of it.

  He wasn’t a tall man, but he gave the impression of one. Long, gangly limbs. His suit hung loose. His dark hair, thinning and losing color, was unwashed, uncombed, unkempt. Where alcohol wasn’t holding it in place, sweat did the job.

  The cold night air hit him hard, threatened to knock him sober. It wasn’t a long walk back to his daughter’s house. He took his time. Perched on a few benches along the way. Watched the cars, mainly taxis, go by. He took deep breaths and rubbed at his eyes. Became slowly aware of the uncomfortable wetness at his collar, the moisture at his cuffs.

  Heather was awake when he got back. Naturally. She kept late hours. Came downstairs wrapped in her kimono. Richard grimaced at the shortness of it. Always showing off too much of her pale skin. Left the house in high boots and short skirts. Tank tops, low cut. She had an ample chest. She had long red hair, green eyes. Hell, she had decent legs. These were all traits she’d inherited from her mother. Unfortunately, she’d gotten none of her personality.

  “Stop slamming that door when you come in,” she said.

  “I didn’t slam the fucking door,” Richard said.

  Heather stood two steps from the bottom of the staircase. Her arms were wrapped around herself, holding the nightgown tight. Her feet were bare. Richard could see that her toenails were painted a garish purple.

  He hadn’t slammed the door. Every night she waited for him to return. Every night she descended the stairs and ran through her list of complaints.

  “You almost kicked it down,” Heather said. “Every fucking time. You burst through that door then stamp all over the floor in your filthy fucking shoes.”

  Richard walked past, made a dismissive motion. Went to the kitchen. Took a bottle from the fridge.

  “Don’t you ignore me.”

  “Why not? I already know the routine. I hear it often enough. Who’ve you got upstairs?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s a unique name. He Chinese?”

  Heather sneered.

  “Don’t keep him waiting on my account.”

  “If you weren’t my father I’d kick you out.”

  “If you weren’t my daughter I’d kick your fucking ass.”

  “Fuck you,” she repeated. Hit the light, plunged the front room into darkness, and retreated back upstairs.

  Richard felt his way through the dark to the front room and his chair. Dropped down into it with a sigh. Heather had hit the light as a childish parting shot. He was used to such things. Sometimes he wondered if she still had the mental maturity of a teenager. He remembered some of her past parting shots: “The only reason I don’t kick you out is because of Mom.”

  And his retort: “Well she’s the only reason I stay.”

  He’d asked her, once, why she didn’t follow through on her repeated threats to evict him.

  She’d almost sounded like she cared. “You’d like that, right? So you could go lie in a gutter somewhere and drink yourself to death? I’m not gonna be the one to give you the excuse.”

  Richard took a drink. Closed his eyes and rested his head. The silence broke. The creaking of her bedsprings directly overhead, her sexual thrusts more than likely exaggerated for his benefit.

  The noise was the reason he’d first made his drinking more sociable. When he’d first moved in, he’d done it in his room, alone. He was depressed. The alcohol helped mute it, kind of.

  But Heather kept bringing men home. Caught him by surprise. No idea his daughter was so promiscuous. At first he thought she had a boyfriend. Same guy every night. Then he’d bump into them in the mornings. Rarely saw the same face twice. He could only take so much of her creaking bedsprings, carrying loud down the hall. Could only take so much of her groans and her dirty talk. One night she screamed. That was enough. He went in search of a bar. Found one. Became loyal. Became a fixture. Home away from home.

  The bedsprings were persistent, but eventually they’d end. Always did. Richard wondered idly if this was another of her marathon men. He sneered. Took another drink from his bottle.

  *****

  Bruce Lombardo was getting his affairs in order. The majority of them were left over from his father. He held out a handful of papers to Frankie on the other side of the desk. “So what the fuck are these?”

  Frankie took them, leafed through. “You remember Richie Wright. He was in pretty tight with your dad.”

  Bruce considered. He remembered Richard. Been a while since he’d seem him last. Heard some stories in the meantime. “Don’t they call him Red-Eyed Richard now or some shit?”

  Frankie nodded. “They used to call him Dead-Eye Dick.”

  Bruce recalled the name. “Why? Was he a good shot or somethin’? I don’t remember too many of those stories.”

  “No, man—he was cold. They called him Dead-Eye because there was nothing there. He just didn’t give a fuck.”

  “So what changed?”

  “Turned out he did give a fuck. About his wife, leastways. She died and it hit him pretty hard. Took to the drink. Moved in with his daughter, last I heard.”

  “So when did he last do anything for us?”

  Frankie shrugged. “His wife died five years ago or something. He’s been useless since then.”

  “Then what the fuck’s he still doing on the payroll?”

  “He was loyal. Your dad liked him. Probably felt sorry for the sad bastard.”

  “Well my dad’s dead. I’m not keeping this guy on. I’m gonna keep sending money to him for what? Fuck him. Cut him off.”

  Frankie hesitated.

  Bruce picked up on it. He sighed. “What?”

  Frankie held out his hands. “A lot of the older guys remember Richard. They like him. They wouldn’t take this news very well.”

  “What’re you saying? Be blunt.”

  “It wouldn’t reflect very well on you. It’s showing you don’t give a shit for loyalty. Some c
ould misinterpret it to think you don’t give a shit about your father’s wishes. His legacy.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But they can’t be allowed to see that.”

  “This is my organization now.”

  “And they can make this a very difficult transition for you. Worst case scenario, they jump ship.”

  Bruce sat back. Bruce Lombardo Senior had been dead in the ground for three weeks now. Bruce had found there was a tension between himself and some of the older guys. They looked down on him. They could still remember him as a kid. They didn’t think he was ready to take over. Shit, was it his fault his father had the heart attack? Sometimes they acted like they thought it was. So far they hadn’t exactly made it an easy transition.

  “What are my options here?”

  Frankie pursed his lips, considering. “Well, he’s still on the payroll. So give him something to do.”

  “Shit, if I was gonna do that I might as well put the gun to his head myself.”

  “Yes, but you won’t be.”

  Bruce took this in. Grinned. “So do we have a victim in mind?”

  “It’ll have to be one of the younger guys. Someone nobody knows too well.”

  “Tell Richard a different name.”

  “Naturally. I’ll thrash out the details. Get things moving fast so he doesn’t get a chance to talk to any of his buddies. How about Nate?”

  Bruce laughed. “Nasty Nate? Taking no chances, huh?”

  Frankie smiled. “Leave it with me.”

  *****

  Richard chewed a thumbnail. Took deep breaths. He was on a job—a fucking job! Frankie had gotten in touch a couple of days before. Richard could remember Frankie as a younger guy, from way back when he played a more active role. Seemed like he’d become a lot more important. Must have moved up in the world once Junior claimed his inheritance.

  They’d met in the park. Frankie had done a double-take when he spotted him. Tried to hide it. Richard had noticed. He knew he’d lost a lot of weight over the years. Frankie got straight down to business. Gave him an envelope. Had the details. Ran out a synopsis so Richard got the gist: John Truman. Planned to testify.

  “Let’s make it quick and clean.”

  Richard looked doubtful. “Seems important. You sure you want me to deal with it?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Frankie looked at him. His face was still, his eyes unblinking. Betrayed nothing.

  Richard considered the question. Found it double- edged. Bruce Senior kept him paid because Bruce Senior was his friend. Bruce Junior expected him to work for his money. “Forget it. I’ve got it.”

  Frankie nodded. Got up to leave. Richard called after him.

  “Tell Bruce I’m sorry I missed his dad’s funeral.”

  Frankie nodded. “Sure.”

  Frankie didn’t bother to ask why. He’d probably already guessed. Red-Eyed Richard. He’d been drunk.

  Richard had tried justifying it to himself. He couldn’t face the thought of another funeral. Bruce was a good friend and watching him get lowered into the ground would tear him apart. The thought made him feel sick. He remembered Mary’s funeral. He’d fallen to his knees. Her brothers had to hold him up.

  Richard had justified it to himself, but he still felt guilty.

  He was on the job. He took a deep breath. It wasn’t the time for memories. Gave himself the once-over. It had been a while. Glock: check. Silencer: check. Garrotte: check. Switchblade: check. He was ready for every circumstance, but he wanted it to be fast. One quick shot to the head. A follow-up tap to make sure it was done. Nice and easy. He had butterflies. Felt sick. Hadn’t felt this bad on his very first job. Wanted a drink badly.

  Went over the details in his head. John Truman lived alone. Floor five, apartment fourteen. Worked the nightshift at the cinema. Finished in a couple of hours. Richard wondered idly what Truman had seen, what he was testifying about.

  He went inside and took the first flight of stairs, stopping to catch his breath. Felt like his heart was going to explode, so he decided to call the elevator. Bent double the rest of the way up, still wheezing. He hacked up some phlegm and spat it out. Doubted anyone would mind. The elevator stank of piss.

  The building was a shithole—graffitied hallways, broken bottles. He was probably doing Truman a favor.

  Apartment fourteen. He checked the door. Either he broke inside or he waited round the corner. The lock looked pretty shitty. He gave it a try, but picked it to avoid unnecessary noise. Holding his breath, he went into the dark room. Everything was still. Richard breathed out slowly and closed the door. His mouth was dry. Was Truman a drinker? Shit—had to be, living in a place like this.

  Went to the kitchen. Checked the fridge. Strange—empty. Not a fucking thing. And the bulb wasn’t working. Was it even switched on? Probably lived on takeout.

  A floorboard creaked. Richard froze. Behind him. Old building? Sounded solid. Sounded like someone knew they’d made a noise.

  Richard closed the refrigerator door slowly, acting casual. Idly reached inside his jacket , making the motion look like a chest scratch. Pulled out the 9mm and spun to see a guy there. No time for the silencer—fuck that. Kill or be killed. Motherfucker looked like he had a gun of his own. Richard squeezed the trigger as the guy (Truman?) lunged forward, hit him in the chest with his left hand. Richard’s gun went off. The bullet caught the side of Truman’s head and tore off his ear.

  “Shit!” Richard’s attacker cried out. “Ow, motherfucker!”

  The two fell to the floor. Truman had dropped his gun. Richard struck it away and raised his own. Truman punched him, bloodying his nose. Hit him again and split his lip. Richard could taste blood. He was dimly aware that he wasn’t gripping the gun as tight as he should have. Truman grabbed him by the wrist. Slammed his arm back into the ground. The gun went off, blew a chunk out of the wall. Richard heard someone next door cry out. Disintegrated plaster splintered around them.

  Richard scored with a headbutt, breaking Truman’s nose. Richard rolled to the side, glad to have the weight off. Truman was a heavy bastard. Richard brought the gun round, touched it to Truman’s temple, but he reacted fast, knocked it away. The bullet tore a chunk out of the kitchen doorframe. Truman hit the arm again and the gun went skittering. Truman grabbed Richard by the throat. Both hands. Squeezed. Hoisted him off the floor. Slammed his head back into the wall.

  For a split-second everything went black. Richard saw stars. Wished he was at the bar. He couldn’t breathe.

  Going under.

  Dying.

  Didn’t see a tunnel with a light at the end. Didn’t see his wife. Nothing but black. Payment for his sins. Fuck that. The switchblade. Inside pocket of his jacket.

  Truman’s grip eased as the knife pierced his sternum. Looking down, his expression was more shock than pain. Richard held his breath—couldn’t afford to start the coughing fit that would come with his first uninhibited breath. Struck again with the knife, again and again. Through the ribs and the fleshy flab below them. Truman fell to the side, leaking blood, clutching at his wounds. Richard gritted his teeth, brought the knife up, stuck it through Truman’s throat. Blood got in his eyes. Couldn’t see a thing. Stabbed and slashed blindly. Hit throat and face. Didn’t stop until Truman was still.

  Finally able to breathe, Richard collapsed on top of the corpse, coughing, wheezing, gasping for breath.

  Minutes passed. He didn’t know how many. He wiped the blood from his eyes and pushed himself up. Sat in the puddle leaking out from under Truman. He could see steam rising from the corpse. There wasn’t much of a face left. The throat was wide open.

  Richard looked at his hands. They were still. He breathed in. The wheezing had stopped. He ran his hands back through his blood-slick hair. It was done.

  *****

  Heather woke with a start. Grabbed her kimono and wandered the house. Her father’s bedroom was empty. There was no one downstairs. She went back to her bed.

  “Wh
at’s up?” the man already there mumbled.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Her father hadn’t come home for two weeks. The first night she’d assumed he’d fallen asleep in a gutter or a bush somewhere. The third night she thought he might have finally done for himself. She called around. Heard he had a place of his own now. Heard he had a job. Heard he’d up and disappeared. No one had a clear answer for her. No one seemed to know.

  Or they weren’t telling.

  Last time she’d seen him, he’d been in his chair. She’d heard him get back, heard him move carefully around downstairs, trying to stay quiet. That wasn’t like him. She began to wonder if he’d brought some of his bar friends back with him. She convinced herself that’s what he’d done. She got pissed. She went downstairs. He sat alone in the dark.

  “What’re you doing?” she hissed.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “They tried to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “Not directly. Tried to make it look like it had gone wrong. That I’d fucked up. There was no John Truman.”

  He was drunk. She had no time for his nonsense. She hit the light. There was blood matted in his thin hair. It had been on his face, a lot of it probably, crudely wiped away. “What the fuck happened to you?” She went to him. “Have you been fighting?”

  Richard began to chuckle in the back of his throat. “Yeah. I suppose I have.”

  He didn’t stink like a distillery, as he usually did. She helped him upstairs and to the bathroom. Stripped off his clothes and made to take them away.

  “Leave them,” he snapped. “Just dump them on the floor. I’ll deal with them in the morning.” Then he’d stepped under the shower and she’d left him to it.

  Come morning he was gone.

  She lay in the dark. Some nights she still expected to hear the front door swing open, the handle slam against the wall. There was a crack there now. A scar to remind her of his stay.

  The first few nights she’d sat in the front room, in his chair, waiting. She fell asleep there. Still alone in the house come morning.