THUGLIT Issue Six

  THUGLIT

  Issue Six

  Edited by Todd Robinson

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in the works are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  THUGLIT: Issue Six

  ISBN-13: 978-1490565224

  ISBN-10: 1490565221

  Stories by the authors: ©Hugh Lessig, ©Jessica Adams, ©BH Shepherd, ©Aaron Fox-Lerner, ©Scott Adlerberg, ©Rena Robinett, ©T Fox Dunham, ©Kieran Shea

  Published by THUGLIT Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the Author(s).

  Table of Contents

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  PIN by Hugh Lessig

  Wheels by Rena Robinett

  Come On Home by Scott Adlerberg

  Having Chiqui by Kieran Shea

  Soul Collection by T Fox Dunham

  Sweet Caroline by Jessica Adams

  The Ghost Wife by Aaron Fox-Lerner

  Rogues Gallery by BH Shepherd

  Author Bios

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  SummerTIIME!!! And the THUGLIT is sleaaaazyyyyy. Body duuuuumpiiiing…and the readers are hiiiiigh.

  Your Daddy's a sniiiiiiitch!

  And your Momma's been hoooooookin'.

  Some hush money maaaaaybe…

  …bullets won't flyyyyyy.

  Jeebus, it's hot. I might have sunstroke.

  Speaking of which, his name is Super Dinosaur. He has orange vision. It turns everything into peach juice.

  IN THIS ISSUE OF THUGLIT:

  — What happens when all hell breaks loose…in Hell?

  — Take my wife's life…please.

  — Chiqui, Chiqui, BOOM, BOOM!

  — Good times never seemed so good…or turned so bad (So fast! So fast! So fast!)

  — Your soul is only what you make it worth.

  — When the guy you're robbing offers some friendly advice…you might want to listen.

  — Long as you don't need Ghost Bridesmaids, too…

  — That layover might wind up a SLAYover! (sorry…sunstroke—see above)

  SEE YOU IN 60, FUCKOS!!!

  Todd Robinson (Big Daddy Thug)

  6/27/13

  PIN

  By Hugh Lessig

  It took a couple of weeks to find the right place. Two in the morning now, and Tory's nine millimeter weighs against my jacket, smelling of her perfume, a pocketful of promises to see me through. I run down the list one more time.

  An ATM with rubber keys for maximum heat retention. Check.

  An alley where I can hide in the shadows. Check.

  A customer alone and on foot, whose appearance does not suggest menacing drifter, paramilitary ass-kicker or twitchy, socially misfit vigilante.

  And . . . check.

  I had been hoping for some drunk. Norfolk being a Navy town, this time of the morning, law of averages says I'd get one. But my victim is a fat guy who walks in measured steps and rocks the sober bureaucratic chic: retail khakis, collared shirt, no tie, soft shoes, smart phone in a hip holster. Some fat men have small hands and feet, but this guy's got fingers like bratwursts. He presents himself to the ATM, punches a few keys, takes his money and walks away.

  Stepping briskly across the street, I take a photo of the keypad with my thermal camera and check the image.

  Purr-fect.

  Fat Guy is two blocks away before I catch up. My confidence meter red-lines as I pull the gun and breathe Estee Lauder. Tory says I can do this.

  "Step into the alley," I whisper.

  As the barrel hits the small of his back, he stiffens and obediently turns toward the shadows. We go halfway down the dark passage.

  "Stop. Don't turn around."

  He stops.

  "I need your wallet."

  "Sure. No problem. It's in my back pocket, right side." His voice is calm and casual, deeper than I would have thought. Sometimes fat people have these high voices.

  I get the wallet and take out three hundred dollars in cash and his debit card, plus the smart phone from its holster.

  "You can have the rest of it back."

  He takes the wallet and checks its contents. "Just the debit card? What'd you do? Set up a pinhole camera back there to get my number?"

  "Something like that."

  Fat Man shakes his head. "It will take a while to find a phone and put a hold on the account. You'll want to use this ten times before then. That's what you're thinking." He sighs heavily, as if coming to a conclusion. "Can I give you some advice? Use it once and throw it away."

  "Oh really?"

  "Please."

  Per my orders, he counts to thirty in a loud, clear voice. I run away and hide two blocks down, and soon he emerges from the alley, looking both ways like a responsible citizen. He continues on like nothing happened.

  *****

  A thermal camera shows heat. A photo of an ATM keypad taken right after someone withdraws money shows four glowing circles where the buttons have been pressed. The largest circle is the final number. The smallest circle, where the heat has begun to dissipate, is the first number. This assumes a plastic keypad, not a metal one.

  Listen to me. Criminal genius.

  See, the camera isn't technically mine. I lifted this set of tools from my last job site when I got fired and the camera was tucked away in there. It belonged to an inspector doing an energy audit, trying to spot gaps in the insulation. I wanted to sell the camera, the tools, everything, so I went online to get prices. Up popped these stories about thermal cameras used in ATM ripoffs.

  It fit with our plan.

  Driving back to celebrate with Tory, I stop at an ATM kiosk wearing the plain plastic mask for the security camera. I punch in the PIN, and wouldn't you know? The damn thing works. I have accessed the account of one Carl Bond. He has a checking account, no savings.

  Remembering Carl's advice, I punch in nine hundred dollars, expecting a three hundred dollar limit and him being full of shit.

  The machine spits out 45 Andrew Jacksons and I'm like, holy hell.

  *****

  Tory spreads the cash on the bed, puts on my mask and pulls me down. We have sex among the twenties.

  "You're my hero," she says, her voice muffled through the mask. "You're not Tommy Boyd anymore. You're the magic money machine. I'm drinking in your face!"

  She is on top of me, riding it out. I don't like the idea of her wearing a mask. Tory has an upturned nose, straight black hair and pouty lower lip. I could look at her all day. Six months together and it hasn't worn off.

  She leans forward and her tongue sticks through the mask. "I knew you could bring it home, Tommy. I'm so proud of you. And it's October. Christmas is right around the corner!"

  A wonderful shudder runs through me. She thinks the sex is turning me on, but it's deeper than that. We met in group—she with mood swings and me with anxiety disorders. We moved in together four months ago, both divorced, no kids, each carrying a healthy dose of resentment left over from people who have fucked us in a various ways.

  "Tell me about him," she says, still riding me. "Was he a rich guy?"

  "Just some guy."

  "Come on, Tommy. You remember everything, that's your gift."

  "He didn't s
eem worried. Something tells me we need to . . . destroy . . . that . . . card."

  She stops riding and pinches my shoulder. "Hey! Wait for me! Tommy and Tory, we're a team, remember?"

  *****

  Tommy and Tory, that was my idea. I thought it sounded cute, and in my weaker moments I imagined us leading the evening crime report, exacting poetic and humorous revenge against societal institutions. Tory had bussed tables at a high-end restaurant where people snickered over her tattoos and piercings. Then she dumped a tray on some lawyer and got fired. I was an assistant site foreman for a company that installed industrial HVAC systems before some college grad with a wispy mustache became vice president of operations and made my life hell. I broke his nose on the job site, the site being a Catholic preschool. Like the nuns cared. They probably critiqued my right cross.

  Tory and I shared our stories one night after group and agreed: Court-ordered therapy aside, society can afford a bit of rage.

  That night, Tory falls asleep next to me and whispers: "Good night, Carl Bond, wherever you are."

  "Tory, we should destroy that card."

  But she is already sleeping.

  *****

  Tory is gone the next morning. Debit card and mask, too. Her nine millimeter is still on the coffee table, and she has written a message on the white board stuck to the side of the fridge.

  Cha-CHING! See you in a bit!

  I resist the urge to text her. She'll say it's my anxiety and I should go out for a run. The whole part about society having it coming, it's not like we plan to shoot up a school or set off a bomb. Bank deposits are insured, so who are we hurting? The FDIC is a centerpiece on the altar of victimless crimes. I take a three-mile jog around Ocean View as one of those damn radar planes from the Navy base rumbles overhead, that giant disc listening in on God knows what. They fly over Norfolk all the time, but this one seems to tread on me.

  Yeah, we should destroy that card.

  Tory is waiting when I come home, her hoodie bunched up tight, face set in a grimace.

  "You OK, baby?"

  She shakes her head.

  "Jesus. Are you shot?"

  She opens the hoodie and two thousand dollars falls to the floor.

  *****

  She sees the debit card as our ticket out of Virginia. Her mood roller-coasters to a high, and when that happens she gets ideas.

  "Maybe overseas!" she said. "We could live among my people!"

  Tory's last name is Pinto, shortened from when her ancestors came over from Italy. She went back to the Old Country as a high school student and thought that everyone was related to her. I'm just Tommy Boyd from Ohio who moved to Norfolk because my then-wife got a job scaring old people into buying insurance. She left me for her boss a year later.

  "You didn't see this Carl Bond," I tell her. "He didn't mind having a gun pointed at him. What's his background? Tory, look where we are."

  She pirouettes in the living room of our rented house, paid up six months in advance thanks to my parents, who hate my ex-wife and college kids with wispy mustaches and have given me time to get it together. Our white walls are decorated with travel posters and my blown-up photograph of the Rat Pack.

  "I don't mean this place, baby. I mean this area. We live fifteen minutes from the world's largest naval base. Navy SEALS are farther up the road in Little Creek. Did you ever see signs for Camp Peary going toward Williamsburg? You know what they call that? The Farm. It's where CIA operatives train. When I worked the HVAC jobs, we had veterans. They said this area has more retired four-stars and special operatives than anywhere. Who knows who Carl Bond is, or who his friends are."

  She gives me the pouty lip. Adorable.

  "Our first fight," she says. "I should tweet."

  "Don't."

  "You said Carl Bond was fat."

  "He was. He is. But most debit cards have a three hundred dollar limit. This one doesn't. Most people report their debit card stolen as soon as possible. He hasn't. Why is that? He said I should use it once and throw it away. It was like he was taking pity on me."

  Tory sits on the couch, skinny legs curled underneath her. She holds the card to the light and shakes her head.

  "Nearly three thousand dollars in two days. When was the last time we had that kind of money?" She bends down and scoops up two handfuls of cash. "This is all you, Tommy."

  "It's us," I say softly.

  "Point conceded." She scratches her cheek with a twenty. "You just needed someone to believe in you."

  I offer to make us spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner. Tory's mood is due to crash soon and she'll stop eating, so she'll need something in her stomach. I take the debit card just in case. The grocery store parking lot has a big storm grate, and I think about dropping it in there, just ending it. I stand over the grate, staring at the card's shiny numbers until some guy in a Hummer nearly runs me over.

  The card goes back in my wallet.

  I buy dinner with my own money, hit the express line with a hammering pulse.

  Tory believes in me. I can't shake that.

  *****

  We have a normal dinner and Tory is all giggles and coo-coos. Then she opens a bottle of wine and puts in an old Kung Fu movie, which always makes me sleepy. I wake up in the dark to a new message on the white board.

  One more time! Then I toss it in the ocean! I won't fail you!

  An anxiety attack slams me into the couch cushions. Hand to pulsing wrist, I try to remember what they said in group. A lack of information causes you to make up stuff. If you're anxious about something, find out the facts.

  So I find the website for Carl Bond's bank, close my eyes and visualize the account number on the card. Tory says I remember things, which is bullshit. All you do is close your eyes and concentrate. Most people don't try hard enough.

  I type in the account number and the PIN and discover two facts.

  The balance in the account is $230,521.

  The account is in the name Rowan Computer Solutions of Newport News, and the primary account holder is Dane Rowan. The secondary name is Carlton T. Bond III, who I assume is Fat Carl. Rowan Computer Solutions has a website that claims to provide "high-end, techno-centric data solutions to a wide array of clients in the public and private sectors." Headquartered in Norfolk, it has subsidiaries in Thailand, Qatar, Cyprus and Yemen. Dane Rowan is listed as CEO and founder. His portrait shows a thirtyish man with dirty blonde hair.

  Carlton T. Bond III doesn't show up on the website, but Google shows me a 2005 Pentagon press release. It turns out he was the "Defense Department Logistician for the Year," recognized "for creating efficiencies in the procurement process."

  His job title is PCO, which stands for procurement contracting officer.

  Carl Bond awards defense contracts. Dane Rowan makes computer parts.

  Uh-oh.

  The names go on the white board and the dots start to connect. A search for Pentagon defense contracts is easy. They publish a list of contract awards of $6.5 million or more every day. Rowan Computer Solutions has received three such contracts for computer chips in the last year.

  The dates of the contract awards look familiar. I go back to the bank account and review the timeline of deposits and withdrawals. I draw connecting lines until the white board runs out of room.

  Then my phone buzzes. Tory's number. I answer it. "Come back to the house, baby. You wouldn't believe what I've found."

  "Is this Tommy Boyd?"

  It is a man's voice, not familiar. Something cold and terrible stabs at the pit of my stomach.

  "Where's Tory? What are you doing with her phone?"

  "Tory had to go away."

  "Bullshit. You just stole her phone."

  The man sighs. "Tory, formally known as Victoria Elizabeth Pinto, has black, razor-cut hair, an elfin nose, dark blue fingernail polish, two toe rings, each on the second-largest toe, a tattoo of a butterfly at the base of her spine and a charming birthmark below her navel at about five o'clock
. She's rather meticulous about shaving...down there."

  Oh Jesus.

  "Open the door, Mister Boyd. I'm outside."

  The face in the peephole belongs to Dane Rowan, looking a little scruffier than his portrait. He waves at me with a pair of chopsticks and shoulders into the house like he owns it. He wears faded blue jeans, work boots and a dark sweater. The food in his takeout carton smells like orange chicken.

  "You live here? Very nice."

  He is drawn to the white board. He squints at my writing, nods approvingly, shovels more food in his mouth and watches a piece of chicken fall to the floor. He quickly bends down to get it.

  "Five-second rule."

  I'm still standing in the doorway.

  "Explain, Thomas. What do these dates mean?"

  I take a few tentative steps forward. "Tory and I have this bank card."

  "Correction. You had a bank card. And it's a Tele-Data Card, which is from a company that provides corporate cards for large purchases. But it looks like an ordinary bank card, so you get a pass. You obviously know who I am, so please proceed."

  I explain the relationship between the dates on the defense contract awards, and the activity in the account. He nods impatiently.

  "Let's have a drum roll as Thomas gets to the point..."

  Sweat runs down my back.

  "Carl Bond awards defense contracts for a living. You're a defense contractor. He steers work to you, then you deposit money into a joint account, and he takes out a withdrawal as his kickback. The dates follow: First the contract award, then your deposit, then his withdrawal."

  "And what basis—"

  "This card was stolen at gunpoint," I snap, getting a little pissed at his smartass routine. "You haven't shut down the account. You don't want to draw attention because he's illegally funneling work to you. Then you stalked us or something. I don't know, some geek bullshit. Mister Bond said this was no ordinary debit card."