THUGLIT Issue One - [16]

Back at the house for the wake, Ry whispered, “So, Kady says you planted fake pearls at her mama’s house. She’s all steamed about it.”

“What makes you think I did something?” I smiled at him.

He grinned back. “You’re the kinda gal who’s always up to something, Erica.”

“Well, it’s never good to be boring.” We clinked glasses. Ry was drinking bourbon, while I was guzzling more wine than I’d planned. It was frustrating, knowing I was right about something and not being able to prove it.

“It must’ve been awful, living only an hour away from Mrs. Carlow,” I said.

“Lemme tell you about that.” He did, and he made me laugh, which earned some dark looks from Kady. Then Ry followed me when I went upstairs.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at me,” I said. We were standing in the guest bedroom where Jake and I were staying. I looked in the mirror and unpinned my hair.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you enjoying it,” he answered.

“Do you think anyone will come up here?”

“Not if we’re quiet.”

I pounced on him. Ry was a surprisingly good kisser. I thought about Kady’s sour face and figured he must be getting practice somewhere else. He started to unzip my dress. “No,” I whispered. “Rip it off.”

“But it must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“Rip it off,” I ordered. There was a sound like a series of pops as the fabric broke apart at the seam.

“Oh, I like this,” Ry said.

“I bet you do.” With that, I reached out and raked my nails over his face.

“What the fuck?” He pushed me away and touched his skin. I let out a bloodcurdling scream, opened the door, and ran from the room. Jake was on the stairs and I ran into his arms. Then I sobbed and sobbed.

*****

The trip home to Los Angeles was uneventful. Jake was silent most of the time. I wore a little eye mask so that I could sleep, but occasionally I would tug at the corner to watch him. He was drinking whiskey, his jaw taut. Every so often his eyes would narrow, but mostly he just drank.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” I asked him. “By not pressing charges against Ry, I mean.”

“I think that would’ve been a mistake,” Jake answered. “Those kids don’t need their dad locked up in jail.”

“At long as he doesn’t attack some other woman,” I mused.

“He won’t do that,” Jake muttered.

That made me frown, but he didn’t say anything else and I let the matter drop. I fell asleep somewhere over the Midwest, and when I did, I dreamt I was back in Mrs. Carlow’s house.

“What are you doing in here?” she snapped at me, just as she had in real life. I was in her bedroom, standing in front of her dresser. There were framed photos there, of her dead husband and her children, and one of Mrs. Carlow herself before she was Mrs. anything.

“Nothing,” I said, brushing past her and walking down the hall, turning into the bathroom. My heart was racing as I locked the door. I opened my hand and saw the earrings in my palm. There was a beautiful black bird sitting in the open window, and I dropped the pearls into her mouth. Then magpie flew away until she was just a distant dot on the horizon, getting as far from that place as fast as she could.

Lady Madeline’s Dive by Terrence P. McCauley

NEW YORK CITY

1928

Quinn’s mouth went dry when he saw the green and white squad car in his rearview mirror. The red spotlight flashing, but no siren.

Normally, getting pulled over by the cops was a simple inconvenience. Most of them were on Archie Doyle’s payroll anyway. Just like Quinn.

But that night was different. Because the Plymouth that hewas driving was stolen.

And there was a dead man in the trunk.

Dead men in trunks of stolen cars and cops don’t mix. Even cops on the take have limits on what they’ll ignore. This wasn’t Chicago; it was New York.

He thought about taking a hard right turn and flooring it; disappearing into traffic. He might’ve even gotten away. But he decided to try talking his way out of it instead. He took his foot off the gas and eased the Plymouth over toward the right side of Houston Street.

He was surprised when the squad car sped past him heading west. They hadn’t been looking to pull him over after all. They’d just wanted him to get out of their way.

The cop in the passenger seat leaned out the window and gave him a big wave. A beat cop named O’Hara-one of Archie’s boys from before they passed Volstead eight years prior. Quinn waved back and began to breathe again.

At the next red light, he lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The tobacco revved his nerves and gave him the kick he needed to stay awake. He needed all the help he could get.

Hefelt dried out and hungover, like he was on the fifth day of a four-day bender. It wasn’t from too much booze or too many late nights on the town. It was from a lack of sleep, courtesy of the dead bastard in the trunk.

It had all started a few days before, when Doyle had realized the take from one of his gambling dives had been short-very short-every week for the past month. Doyle hadn’t told Quinn how short, but short enough to get Doyle’s attention.

And short enough for him to ask Quinn to find out why.