THUGLIT Issue Twelve (5 page)

That was it. Port-Au-Prince a decade earlier. A sliver of memory came to him of Fiddler in a ratty hotel lobby as part of a support team as Ruben walked through with the principal and his body men. Ruben carrying a duffel containing five million dollars, the magic number at the time for certain types.

That afternoon Ruben drove a dusty car he had taken from deep in an apartment garage to the parking lot of a different apartment across from the lemon/lime house. Around seven he watched a frumpy middle-aged man with a computer case let himself into the house. Ten minutes later he came out with a small dog on a leash, walked it to the dead end of the street and back. No one else came or went.

It was after ten when the man emerged again with the dog and strolled toward the end of the street away from the dead end. Ruben exited the car carrying a green Carrefour bag. He came out of the parking lot and crossed the street as the man turned back toward his house. Ruben timed it so he would be in a spot of light when they passed each other. He wanted his face seen. The dog stopped to sniff and Ruben slowed. When he was almost next to the man Ruben stopped and reached into the bag. The man looked at him. The dog gazed up dully.

"
Pardon? What do you think of this?" Ruben said in French.

The man looked at him like he was crazy.
"It's a ski boot," he said in American-accented French.

"
It appears to be," Ruben said. "Where do you suppose it came from?"

"
From your bag." The man appeared amused now. "The question is. Where is the mate?"

"
That's what I'm wondering."

"
Good luck with that." The man dragged the dog away as it was trying to sniff Ruben's shoes. He glanced back over his shoulder once before entering his house. Ruben kept walking and returned to Patrice's uncle's building by a circuitous route.

Fiddler had a revised Possible Asshole list. A new addition caught Ruben's eye. Jerome Mynatt. A minor French bureaucrat he met with as liaison once a month in Paris before he retired. Another defective on his way out to pasture. Mynatt's face, hawk-like, weak chin, lank hair, came to Ruben. Quirky. Never poured coffee, even for himself. Had a harried secretary that he called in to pour—to both her and Ruben's embarrassment. He pointed the name out to Fiddler without saying they'd met.

"
You know him?"

Fiddler took a second.
"Mynatt? Ex DGSE dickhead. Got bounced a couple of years ago, after you left."

"
For what?"

"
Rumors of substance issues. Who knows for sure?"

"
Here to ski away his retirement?"

Fiddler shrugged.
"If he stays sober enough."

"
Did you get anything of his background, education?"

"
Son of a diplomat. Lived in New York as a kid. Moved back to Paris as a teenager. Think he might be your guy?"

"
Probably not."

Ruben walked into Mynatt's building with the Carrefour bag and took the stairs to the fifth floor. Mynatt opened the door, stood in place for several seconds, and didn't seem surprised to see him. Ruben followed him inside and closed the door with his heel. Mynatt hadn't been doing any skiing. He wore a rumpled tracksuit and looked slumped and defeated.

Ruben reached into the bag. Mynatt watched his hand. Ruben removed the boot and re
leased it to the tile floor. It landed upright with a dull thud. Mynatt looked at it with no expression, as if Ruben had dropped a shallot on his floor.

Mynatt had aged a decade in the three years since Ruben had last seen him. He shuffled to a sofa and dropped into a well
-worn spot near the end. The view out of the glass doors was of Grenoble rooftops.

Mynatt gazed outside for a moment, seeing nothing.
"I knew you would find me."

A note in his voice clued Ruben in.
"You wanted to be found."

"
Of course."

"Why?"

Mynatt flashed surprise at the question, the most emotion he had yet displayed.

"I want you to kill me. I was hoping you'd do it quickly when I opened the door. I've been waiting."

Mynatt
's substance wasn't only alcohol, as Fiddler had surmised. On a coffee table a syringe rested in an ashtray next to a spoon. Ruben guessed the packets were in the carved wooden box, one that you could find in any market in Marrakech, on the table.

"
You concocted this entire charade to have me kill you?"

Mynatt crossed one leg over the other and lit a Royale with a silver Zippo
by way of an answer.

"
Why me?"

"
Several years ago I saw the news footage of you trying to dig the snow from the entire mountainside with a shovel to get to your daughter, even after they arrested and removed you several times, until your agency was summoned to take you away. I felt your obsession. Then by some twist of fate we had the pleasure to begin our acquaintance."

The authorities feared another avalanche and
forbid the use of tractors to try and uncover Anne's body, and the others. Ruben knew there was little to no hope of finding her alive, but he could not do nothing. Knox had come to bring him back to Paris and temporarily put him in the undemanding liaison position where he had come across Mynatt.

The news coverage and subsequent minor scandal ensued when someone
—he never knew who or what government they worked for—released his profession to the French press. His covert career was dead at that point and he was shipped off to D.C. He retired six months later and returned to Rue Vaneau, a civilian for the first time in almost three decades.

"
At our meetings you seemed hollow, removed from everything. I couldn't reconcile it with the determined passion I knew you were capable of," Mynatt was saying.

"
That's not an answer."

"
Professionally, I knew you as one of the best. I knew what would both enrage you and draw you to me."

"
There are easier ways to get yourself killed."

"
Like skiing under an avalanche?" Mynatt's eyes were bright behind a curl of smoke. He was enjoying himself as much as a broken man could. Ruben could almost objectively admire what Mynatt had tried, was trying, to do. Twisted, Patrice had said. That it was. And effective. Ruben had to suppress the intense urge to release his ageless rage all over the addict.

Ruben nodded at the syringe.
"Why not use that?"

"
I am a coward."

"
And you like other people to do things for you."

Mynatt shrugged.
"I like the best to do their best for me."

"
Why not the best clinic?"

"
I've tried. Twice. It doesn't work for me. The desire is too strong. Not living any longer is the only answer."

"
Where did you get the boot?"

"
A second-hand sporting goods shop. It wasn't easy. I went as far as Paris searching for a pair. I found the ski jacket also, but that made no sense."

"
If you were in Paris you should have stopped and said hi."

Maynatt moaned a laugh.
"You were gone from Rue Vaneau. I was surprised to see your wife remained behind. I did not want to intrude."

"
You haven't done her any favors with that package."

"
I regret that," Mynatt said. "But only a little."

"
Am I supposed to strangle you in anger now?"

"
I was hoping you would bring one of those Austrian pistols you Americans adore. Shooting me would be quicker. The walls are thick."

"
So is my skin."

"
That is truly disappointing."

Ruben picked the boot up of the floor and put it in the bag. A thought he
'd been suppressing pushed forward.

"
Was it you that leaked me to the press?"

Mynatt looked at him bleakly.
"I had no reason to do that. I took pleasure in our meaningless liaison meetings."

Ruben watched Mynatt languidly smoking his cigarette, hopelessness wafting off of him. Now that it had come to less than nothing, the pointless exercise that resulted in his standing in Mynatt
's apartment made Ruben feel wearier than he had in months. It wasn't the first time he'd chased a lost cause, knowing it was futile, but he felt it was going to be the last. His daughter was out there on a mountain a few kilometers away and wouldn't be coming back. The decision was his as to whether he would be returning.

Ruben removed the pistol from his coat pocket. Mynatt waited, then gazed on as Ruben slid it soundlessly from t
he handkerchief onto the table.

"
Not Austrian. The best I can do."

Mynatt
's eyes pursuing him, Ruben kept the handkerchief in his hand and closed the door quietly behind him without looking back.

by Rob Hart

MONDAY

When I went to close up today, the back tire closest to the sidewalk looked like it had melted. Upon closer inspection, I found the handle of a paring knife sticking out of the side.

Assuming a forward thrust, the angle of the knife indicates the assailant was walking east to west. That narrows down the
list of suspects considerably.

It couldn
't be those whale-hugging hippies from the vegan cupcake truck. They don't eat enough protein. No way they've got the upper body strength to get a knife through the thick wall of a tire.

It couldn
't be the soft-serve ice cream guy. If he was intent on sending me a message, that knife would be sticking out of my chest.

A week in the world of New York City
's food trucks, and this is what I've learned: You do not fuck with the soft-serve guys. They drain the blood of their enemies to artificially color the strawberry ice cream.

Or at le
ast, that's how the stories go.

So, who does that leave?

The hot dog vendor around the corner isn't a fan of mine. You'd think tacos and hot dogs would not be adversaries, but both can be served up quickly, and my carnitas tastes way better than the ground-up circus animals he's putting out.

The kids in the Korean barbecue truck, maybe. The
y certainly seem like the type.

That
's not racist. I'm not saying Koreans are knife-wielding tire-slashers. It's just that one kid, the one in charge, is always wearing a Scarface t-shirt. And anyone wearing a Scarface t-shirt is probably an asshole.

The only other food truck in that direction within a few blocks is the waffle truck. But the guy on the waffle truck has been nice to me so far. He came over on my first day, gave me a free waffle, I gave him a free taco, I figured we were best frie
nds now.

Unless it was a ruse.

A keep-your-enemies-closer kind of thing.

TUESDAY

Some
one might be trying to kill me.

The thing I didn
't write about yesterday, because I was real angry about the knife in the tire, is that I had a good run of business. I was working so hard and so fast that I ended the day with a sprig of cilantro in my sock. And I was wearing long pants.

There was a conference at the college across the street. That
's why it was so busy. I don't know what the conference was for. But the line was full of pasty introverts with crippling egos and no fashion sense. I'm guessing they were writers.

So for once, it seemed like I
'd be in the black for the day. And then I got to the storage yard in Queens this morning, ready to spend a little extra time on cleaning and prep. The mechanic who gives my truck the once-over in the mornings says there's a problem with the brake line.

Says it looke
d like someone tried to cut it.

Not all the way, but enough that it
would snap if I stopped short.

The mechanic allows it could be the chewed-up roads shot something up into the chassis. I don
't know. After the tire, I'm a little antsy.

So the money I made yesterday is going to fix this. Which means it
's not going into my rent. Handing that wad of cash over was like a fillet knife twisting around my guts. Wear and tear is one thing. Attempted murder is another.

Makes me miss Portland. Everyone there is either too polite or t
oo high to pull shit like this.

WEDNESDAY

The health inspector came by today
.

He comes up to my truck wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt and a bad attitude. Like I kicked his dog into a coma and then made him
come do a surprise inspection.

I don
't fuck around. My Mobile Food Vending Permit is in order. Since I handle raw meat on the truck, I have a sink for hand washing. And soap dispensers. And paper towel dispensers. The hot food is held at 140 degrees, and the cold food at 40. My prep surfaces are sterile as an operating room.

This guy, though, he was looking around l
ike it was a fresh crime scene.

Like everything was some
thing I should be guilty about.

So he stuck the needle of his thermometer through the plastic wrap covering the guacamole, and told me I had a problem. Said: Hot food needs to be held at 140 degrees. 

Very politely, and without using words like 'fuck-brain' and 'douche-rocket,' I explained to him that it's guacamole, which is served cold, and therefore needs to be held at 40 degrees.

He shook his head. Said: Hot food needs to be held at 140 degrees. Like he was reciting it directly from a rulebook, wit
hout applying any real thought.

This is the point in our conversation where I did use the words
'fuck-brain' and 'douche-rocket.'

You might be surprised to hear thi
s, but I failed the inspection.

THURSDAY

Now I see how
business is done in this town.

I was up until four in the morning going over paperwork, trying to figure out how to appeal. Then I spent another hour going over my truck, just to mak
e sure it wasn't booby-trapped.

So I drove into Manhattan and found a spot in Gramercy, set up the generator, Tweeted my location, and finished the last of the prep. I was so tired I nearly took the tip of
my finger off dicing jalapenos.

Just before I was ready to open, there was a knock at the back of the truck, and standing there is this young guy wearing a suit. A bad suit, like it belonged t
o his taller, skinnier brother.

Without me inviting him in, he just climbed up to join me. Without offering me his hand or his name, he told me he could help m
e with the inspection problem.

I hadn
't told anyone I failed, and I asked him how he knew.

He said he works for a company that helps food vendors sort through inspection issues. When I asked him the name of the company he didn
't answer. I asked him how much his help would cost. The number he quoted me was about what I was hoping to make in the next three months.

That asshole may look at me and see a country mouse, but I know a shakedown when I see it. So I told him to get the fuck off my truck.

He said the permitting process is convoluted. Said that without friends—he pressed a finger into his chest when he said the word 'friends'—that new food vendors can have an exceedingly hard time.

The way he said
it made it sound like a threat.

FRIDAY

Three hours and not one damn customer. People looked at the truck and then they walked faster. I figured, it
's New York City. Everyone's always in a rush.

I should have been smart enough to get out and look around. But it was three hours before I left the truck to go over to Starbucks for a piss break, and
that's when I found the fliers.

There were five of them, applied with clear packing tape. Must have gone up after I parked, while I was prepping to open. At the top they said, in big, capital, bold letters that you couldn
't possibly miss: REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER.

To be clear, I am
not a registered sex offender.

I tore them down, and spent
the next two hours fuming. It made me careless, snapping at customers and fucking up orders. Which made me even more angry.

I know this is a tough town. I know we
're all fighting to make it. But is this really the standard of New York City's business community? I just want to sell some tacos.

It
's bad enough that the brick-and-mortar restaurants are lobbying the City Council to restrict our permits, and it's worse that the City Council is listening. You'd think the food truck guys would band together and go at this like a team.

Just as I was about give up for the day and head home, the waffle guy stopped over. Said I looked stressed out and asked how I was holding up. I told him about the past few days. He assured me the fixer probably wouldn
't be necessary, and that his waffle batter had more reasoning ability than most of this city's health inspectors.

He told me we could grab a beer if I ever needed to vent, which I might take him up on. I don
't have any friends in this town yet.

It calmed me down, him stopping by, so I got through the day. As I was gearing up to close, I noticed the bodega across the street had a camera. I went in and told the kid working the counter what happened with the fliers, and asked if I could
see the tape from that morning.

I did not expect what happened next: He nodded, went in the back, came back with a DVD, said I could
have it. Wished me luck, too.

I guess not everyone in
this town is a fucking asshole.

SATURDAY

There
's something I think needs to be clear right now.

I drove across the country with a wad of cash and three changes of clothes and my favorite chef
's knife. I'm living in a closet in Bushwick, which I'm renting from some asshole who glues pieces of wood together and calls it art.

I had a plan. Bust some ass, make enough money to hire some people, maybe graduate to a storefront. I
'm not going to pretend like I wasn't afraid. Those late nights, driving across the northern tier of the country, nothing but darkness beyond the yellow arc of my headlights, there were times I almost turned back.

But I didn
't. Because this is it. This is my one true love.

I watched the tape. And who was it that put up the sex off
ender fliers?

Waffle truck guy.

Soon as I saw it, I thought,
I need to strike back
. Let this motherfucker know I'm not weak. Problem was, I wasn't sure what to do. I could glue his tires to the roadway using two-ton epoxy—which is a thing a friend of mine did to someone in college—and the tires will shred before the truck moves.

But that would take time, and planning, and effort, so instead, this morning, I parked my truck in Gramercy, didn
't bother Tweeting my location. But I did take that paring knife I found sticking out of my tire, and slid it into the pocket on the front of my apron. Figured I would stab the shit out of his tires.

It wasn
't exactly creative, but it sure would make me feel better.

So I went looking for him, and as I turned the corner of the street where he
's usually parked, I saw him talking to the guy in the bad suit. They shook hands like they were buddies. Another layer of subterfuge. It made me wonder if he sicced the health inspector on me, too.

And as soon as he saw me, he kne
w I knew he did what he did.

But he didn
't see the knife. It was still in the pocket on the front of my apron.

He came at me with a big smile on his face, like it was a joke, or no big deal that he lost me thousands of dollars over the course of a week. I snapped. Called him a coward. Called him a dumb fuck. Sa
id I was going to kick his ass.

He got close to me and his right shoulder dropped, broadcasting t
he punch he was about to throw.

And here
's where things get hazy. How the fight-or-flight response can smear time like grease on a countertop. Because I can't, for the life of me, tell you how the paring knife that started in my tire and then I put in the pocket on the front of my apron ended up in his chest.

It just did.

When the world came back into focus his eyes were frosted over, blood blooming on his white t-shirt, growing wet and thick and tugging on the fabric.

He began to fall backward.

Someone screamed.

I ran.

And here I am. Sitting in my little closet of a bedroom.

The shock of it hasn
't settled into me yet. There's a hot, terrifying thing rumbling on the horizon like a thunderstorm, and I'm afraid of what'll happen when it crashes into me. Until then I'm just numb.

At this moment, someone is banging at the door, and my artist landlord is passed out on the couch, high as fuck, and nothing
's going to get him up. Of course it's the cops. Because I don't fuck around, and my Mobile Food Vending Permit is in order. Complete with my current address.