THUGLIT Issue Two (4 page)

“No más,” said Roberto, cutting her off. “I don’t want to know.”

“Three other people saw what happened that night. They’ve all gone missing.”

She gazed at Roberto and bit her lip. And there she was again—his dead wife, staring at him with wet eyes. Pleading.

“Please,” she said. “If he finds me...”

Roberto stepped into the room and set his pistol on the nightstand. He crouched down to meet her gaze. “I will help you.”

She sobbed. Fell into his arms. Her wet body pressed against him. He held her tight. Felt her pulsing heart. Felt her skin.

The name escaped his lips, whisper quiet. “Maria.”

And when he pushed her towards the bed, the senorita didn’t resist.

*****

She lay in his arms in the dark room, both of their bodies hot and slick with sweat.   “Are we safe?”

“For now,” said Roberto. “We’ll leave first thing mañana. After we find your brother.”

“And you won’t let them hurt me?”

“I promise.”

She nestled closer to him. Her soft young flesh against his rough old flesh. “Roberto?”

“Sí.”

“Who’s Maria?”

Roberto tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You loved her,” said the senorita, “didn’t you?”

“Very much.”

“What happened?”

He was suddenly aware of the ring on his finger—cheap gold hot against his skin.  “Go to sleep,” he said.

*****

Cold metal tapped against Roberto’s forehead. He woke up blinking. The hard muzzle of .44 Desert Eagle loomed an inch from his nose.

“Morning sunshine,” said Carter. He stepped back, keeping the big pistol leveled on Roberto’s face. “Looks like you’ve had some fun tonight.”

Roberto grabbed the sheets, pulled them to his waist, covering up his nakedness. Faint moonlight traced a halo of light around the window shade. The senorita was gone. So was his Beretta.

“Where is she?” Roberto said.

“Funny.  I was going to ask you that.”

“She must’ve left after I fell asleep.”

Carter held up the Desert Eagle. “I got a big fucking gun, and you’re talking to me like I’m an idiot. A bold move amigo.”

“Es la verdad. I swear it.”

The gringo was a vulture—dead-eyed, stooped back. A scavenger’s lonely face. “We’ll see,” he said.

A Hispanic man appeared, filling the doorway with his bulk. Two hundred fifty pounds of muscle and fat stuffed into a cheap black suit. One beefy hand held a Colt revolver. The other wrenched a young boy around by the hair, the kid’s eyes wide with terror.

The boy was Julio.

“Good thing we ran into your friend here,” said Carter. “No way we would’ve found you without him.”

A shaky Julio stared at his sneakers, unable to meet Roberto’s eyes.

Carter grabbed the boy’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Don’t be too mad at the little fuck. He tried saying he didn’t know where to find you. But I’ve got a talent for reading people. I knew he was lying. Just like I knew you were lying about helping the girl.”

“Por favor.” Roberto sat up in bed. “Don’t harm him.”

Carter looked almost hurt. “I don’t need to hurt children. I’ve got a box of fishhooks in the trunk of my car. Trust me, in the next thirty minutes you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

The gringo nodded to his oversized amigo, who let go of Julio’s hair. The boy glanced at Roberto, his face a mask of shame. Then he jackrabbited down the hall and out the front door.

Carter gestured to Roberto with his pistol. “Come on. Let’s take a ride.”

Roberto dragged his sheets behind him like a bride’s train. The gringo and the Mexican followed him through the hall and into the living room, their guns low. If they got him outside and into a car, Robert knew he’d never see daylight again.

Roberto stumbled and grabbed a side table to keep from falling.

“Mueve,” shouted the Mexican. He chopped downward with the Colt, the barrel smashing against the back of Roberto’s skull.

Roberto crumpled to the floor next to his sofa. He touched his hair and his fingers came away wet and red.

“Get off your ass, pendejo,” the Mexican said.

“Okay, okay.” Roberto shook the haze from his throbbing skull. Looking sheepish, he bowed his head and raised his hands in surrender. But he didn’t get to his feet. Instead, Roberto dove for the sofa and yanked a short-barreled .38 out from under the cushions. Another “just in case” gun.

Roberto spun, swinging the .38 around. Quick, but not quick enough. The Mexican hombre had him cold—Colt up and ready. Roberto squeezed his eyes tight and waited for the boom that would send him to el Diablo.

The gunshot never came.

If he had time to think, Roberto would’ve guessed the pistol-whipping had caused the Mexican’s gun to jam—maybe a bent ejector rod. But Roberto didn’t have time to think. Only time to move.

While the Mexican fumbled with his weapon, Roberto wrenched the .38 up and pulled the trigger. He shot the big man in the gut then shot him twice more in the sternum. Point blank.

All three bullets punched through the Mexican’s back. Blood erupted from the exit wounds and sprayed the air. The hombre staggered like a punch-drunk boxer and fell to the carpet. Behind him, Carter reeled backwards, his face covered in gore. The gringo went blind, waving the Desert Eagle wildly, pulling the trigger over and over.

Bang.  Bang.  Bang.  Bang.

Gunshots roared in Roberto’s ears. He rushed through the kitchen and burst out the back door, losing his sheet along the way. He was naked, but he didn’t care. Jagged rocks poked at his bare feet, but he didn’t care. Only one thing mattered now. Getting the hell out of there.

The vacant lot, he thought. The ditch.

It’d been years since Roberto had run. His lungs burned and his chest heaved. Aching legs carried him across the road, past dilapidated adobe homes, and into a vast empty plot. So dark he couldn’t see the weeds and scrub brush growing from the hard ground. But he felt them—stabbing his feet, clawing his bare legs. 

Finally, Roberto reached the ditch. Five feet deep and pitch black, the remnants of a construction project that never saw completion.

More gunshots rang out. Roberto dropped down into the shadows, hunched low and out of sight. He gripped the .38. Held his breath. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Wait for him. Wait.

Gravel crunched under shoes—the sound getting louder and louder.

Wait.

The crunching stopped.

Carter stood at the edge of the ditch, searching the vacant lot for his quarry. He was only four feet away but couldn’t see Roberto crouched right below him.

Roberto’s .38 boomed twice. Its muzzle flashed in the darkness. One bullet disappeared into the night sky. The other found its mark.

Carter jerked like a dog at the end of his leash. The big pistol thudded against the ground. He staggered around the vacant lot, grasping his neck with both hands. Shaky fingers fought to keep a geyser of blood from escaping his throat. It was a losing battle.

Roberto climbed out of the ditch. He stood naked in the moonlight, watching the white man bleed out.

“
Hijo de puta
,” Roberto cursed. “See what you make me do?”

*****

She wasn’t hard to find.

Despite Roberto’s warnings, the senorita had used the Visa in Theresa Diego’s name. All Roberto had to do was call his friend at the credit card company and offer him $200. Ten minutes later, Roberto was looking at a printout of purchases. Among them was a bill for a Motel-6 a mile from Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport.

Roberto parked the Impala in the motel’s lot and sat listening to jets roar by overhead. Eventually, he’d have to ditch the car. Couldn’t risk keeping it. Couldn’t risk staying in Guadalupe either. He’d killed two of Miguel Ortega’s men. There was no coming back from that. For the rest of his life, he’d be looking over his shoulder. No more days playing checkers in the sun.

But before leaving town, Roberto had to see her. One last time.

The sun hung high, turning the car into an oven. Roberto mopped sweat from his brow as he scanned the motel rooms. Waiting.

He sat roasting for thirty minutes before finally spotting her.

The senorita stood in the doorway of room 109, embracing a handsome young Latino with wavy black hair. Roberto instantly recognized him as the beach boy from the photograph. They kissed and lingered in each other’s arms before the man jogged off. Roberto watched him disappear around a corner then he stepped out of the Impala, a gym bag swinging in his gnarled fist.

Roberto tapped the door of room 109 with his knuckles. A minute later, the senorita answered.

“What’d you forget?” she asked, smiling. When she saw it was Roberto, her smile twisted into a perfect “o” of surprise.

“Hola.”  Roberto pushed his way inside, closing the door behind him.

The room was worn and cheap. Decades of cigarette smoke had seeped into its walls, making the whole place smell of ash. The senorita looked out of place here. A short sundress showed off long, delicate limbs that trembled ever so slightly.

Roberto remembered his wife in a dress like that. Remembered how she trembled too.

“I’ve got your money,” the senorita said. “I was going to call…”

He cut her off. “Who was that chico you were with? Not your brother, I’m guessing.”

Sadness crept into her eyes. Her voice was soft, like she was speaking to a child. “You don’t understand.”

“Did Miguel find out about the two of you?” Roberto asked. “That why you really running?”

“You’re a nice man. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I didn’t mean to hurt you. The words slapped him. He pulled the .38 from his gym bag and showed it to her. “Where’s my fucking money?”

The pity in her face melted away. She hurried to the nightstand and pulled open a drawer. A roll of bills sat tucked inside next to the Gideon Bible. “It’s all we have.”

Roberto quickly thumbed through the bills. The roll was a thousand dollars light, but it would have to do. He jammed the cash into his bag and went for the door.

“Please.”  The senorita grabbed hold of his shoulder. “I know it was wrong to cheat you. But without that money, we don’t have a chance. Miguel will find us for sure.”

Roberto shrugged her off. “You shouldn’t have left me.”

He swung the door open, took one step out, and stopped dead in his tracks. Outside, the senorita’s boyfriend stood frozen—a
motel key in one hand, a Circle-
K bag in the other. An awkward moment stretched between them. Neither man said a thing. Neither one moved. Then the boyfriend’s eyes twitched to the .38 in Roberto’s hand.

Everything after that was a blur.

The boyfriend bulled forward, grabbing for Roberto’s gun. Both men staggered back into the room and toppled to the floor. Beer bottles t
umbled out of the Circle-
K bag and thudded off the carpet. The senorita screamed.

They wrestled for the gun. The young man rolled on top, gripping Roberto’s wrist
s, squeezing tight with iron-vis
e fingers. He reared back and hammered downward with his forehead, smashing Roberto’s nose.

Cartilage gave way with a sharp
crack
. Blue-hot pain flooded Roberto’s senses. Warm blood poured from both nostrils. His vision blurred and for an instant, the world faded away.

With all his remaining strength, Roberto jammed the short-barreled revolver against the boyfriend’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

Three shots cracked like thunder. Bang.  Bang.  Bang.

The young man’s eyes went wide then lost their light. He shuddered and flopped forward. Dead weight.

Roberto shoved the corpse away and pushed himself up. A few feet away, the senorita huddled in the room’s corner, shaking uncontrollably. Sometime during the fight, she’d retrieved Roberto’s stolen Berretta. Now, she held the pistol in both hands. Its barrel wavered.

“You killed him,” she said, her voice little more than a murmur. Then the gun went off.

A window shattered behind him, the sound like crashing cymbals. Roberto flinched and wrenched his .38 up. Reflexes took over and he fired once without aiming. The senorita rocked back against the wall. The Beretta slipped from her delicate fingers.

Roberto scooped up the fallen gym bag and walked over to her. He wanted one last look. The senorita sagged against the wall, her legs sliding out from out under her. Below her left breast, a perfect red circle grew wider and wider.

“Hospital.”  The word fell from her lips in a labored gasp. “Please, take me to a hospital.”

“And why would I do that?”

“I remind you of her. I remind you of Maria.”