Blood, Guts, & Whiskey Read online

  “Whattaya got for me Jimmy, my boy?” James hated the artifice in the boss’s talk, but the money was good enough to help him ignore it. If the little butterball wanted to play mobster, let him.

  James handed over the cooler and watched as the boss slid back the lid.

  “Jacko, get over here and pull this thing outta the ice. What are you, one of those transplant guys?” the boss said to James, laughing, as Jacko pulled the plastic bag from the cooler. Water from the melted ice dripped from the outside of the bag and onto the boss’s desk.

  “What the fuck, Jacko! Get something to clean that up! I don’t want heart shit all over my desk, you idiot!”

  Heart shit, James thought. Never heard blood described quite so colorfully. He jumped in to rescue Jacko.

  “It’s just water from the ice, chief,” he said, knowing the boss liked it when James called him that. “So, are we good?”

  The boss held the bag up to eye level and gazed at the heart, seemingly wary, as if worried it would suddenly start beating.

  “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Did that son of a bitch suffer?”

  James knew the drill, and laid it on thick.

  “Pulled it out of him while he was still breathing,” he said. “The guy saw his own fuckin’ heart beating in my hand for a second before he died.”

  In truth, James had strangled the guy in a motel room, put him in the tub, suited up in plastic coveralls, and then carefully opened the guy’s chest and taken the heart out. He stuck it in a Ziploc, dropped that in the cooler he’d pulled from the back of his closet, and then filled the cooler with ice from the machine at the end of the hall. His car was broken down again so he had to take the El. It was a hot day, so he stopped at a convenience store on the way to top off the ice. He felt strange standing behind the place, gently emptying the ice from the bag around and over the heart, but figured people would think he was icing down a sixer.

  “Excellent. Once word of this one gets out, people will think twice about stiffing me,” the boss said. “Okay. Get this thing out of here.”

  “You don’t want to keep it?” James asked.

  “What, like a souvenir? This ain’t Navy Pier. It’s evidence in a murder, you dumbfuck. Get rid of it.”

  Great, James thought. How do you get rid of a heart? He’d been tempted to just kill the guy, dispose of the body, and go buy a cow heart or something at the butcher. How would they know? But he didn’t want to fuck it up the first time, so he’d gone through with it to a T. Now he had a cooler with an iced heart in it and no idea where to go from there.

  He got back on the Red Line and took it all the way north to Howard, then exited and went down to the street level. It was late by that time and there were few people around, so he walked behind a store down the block, pulled the bag out of the cooler, wiped it down, and tossed it into a Dumpster. He thought about pitching it, cooler and all, but then he wouldn’t have his cooler anymore—and besides, the thing had to be covered with his fingerprints. He dumped the ice behind the Dumpster and headed back to the train and home.

  The next day, while reading through the paper and waiting for someone from his crew to call with more work, he skimmed the want ads. He liked imagining another life, one in which he didn’t kill people for a living. One ad caught his eye: “Transport worker for a transplant program.” They wanted someone who could drive organs from one hospital to another within the city for transplants. How perfect was that? He certainly knew the drill, he figured.

  That afternoon he was back on the El with a cooler in his lap, but this time there was no heart inside. He’d gotten the job, surprised at the lax background check and cursory interview. There must not be many people eager to cart organs around in a cooler, he guessed.

  They gave him a polo shirt with a logo on it, a special cooler that didn’t look a lot different from his Playmate, and a pager. When he got a page, he was to call in, go wherever they told him to go, and then take the organ to the right hospital. It wasn’t much different from his other job save for the fact that the person in question was already dead when he got there.

  A couple of days later he was back at his kitchen table with the paper open in front of him when his cell buzzed. He pulled it out and found Jacko on the line.

  “We’ve got a job for you,” he said. “Come in.”

  James shut the phone and headed to the door. He then remembered that he was on call for the transplant office, so he grabbed the cooler, stuffed his polo shirt inside, and then went out.

  The boss was impressed with the cooler.

  “You’re really getting into this, huh?” he said. “Nice cover. You’ll be using it today, kid. This is an important one, and I want it taken care of immediately.”

  He gave James a name, told him where to find the guy, and then waved him out. Jacko handed him some cash as he exited. James stuffed it into his pocket and went out to do the job.

  Hits didn’t usually bother James, but he worried about this one as he climbed the stairs to the El platform and waited for the train. In his line of work, he occasionally came up against people he knew—it’s a small world on the wrong side of the law—but this one was close to home ... literally. Davey had lived in the apartment below his when they were growing up, and had dinner a lot of nights with James’s family while his single mom held down two jobs. It wouldn’t be like capping his brother, but jobs like this really made James rethink his career choices.

  Then again, he knew Davey would help, because he could just ring the bell and walk right in, no sneaking or strong-arming needed. He did just that when he got there, and Davey let him inside.

  “What’s up?” Davey said, heading across the room to sit down in a chair in front of a TV showing some reality show, leaving James to shut the door behind him.

  “The boss sent me,” James said, catching his attention. “You owe him money or something?”

  “You kidding me?” Davey got up and moved towards the apartment’s kitchen.

  “Stop,” James said. He pulled a pistol from his waistband. “I asked you a question.”

  “Jesus. You’re serious,” Davey said, visibly shaking now. “Come on, James. How long we known each other? You wouldn’t really kill me, would you?”

  James raised his eyebrows as if thinking about the question.

  “Why shouldn’t I? Job’s a job, right?”

  “But I’m not just some guy, James. I’m me. That’s gotta mean something.”

  “‘I’m me’? Real profound. I’m gonna need more than that, Davey,” James said. “You into him for a big gambling debt or something? I mean, this has gotta be big. We’re skipping right over ass-kicking and leg-breaking to the big lights out here. Why does he want you dead?”

  Davey leaned back against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor.

  “It’s Tracey,” he said. “That’s gotta be it.”

  “His daughter?” James said. “Little Tracey?”

  “Little Tracey is nineteen now, man, and she’s smokin’ hot. She came on to me at a party a few weeks ago, and I’ve been bangin’ her ever since. I didn’t think he’d find out. I guess he did. Guy’s so protective of her. If he only knew.”

  “Makes sense. He did seem unusually worked up about this one,” James said. “He told me he wanted this done today.”

  Just then the pager on James’s belt started beeping. He unclipped it so he could see the number, then pulled out his cell phone and made the call. He was told to go to Evanston Memorial to pick up a kidney and take it to a hospital on the south side.

  “You still got that Cutlass?” he asked. Davey nodded. “Pack a couple of things, nothing too obvious, then get the hell out of here. I get the wheels, you get your life.”

  “How am I gonna get out of here?”

  “If you don’t shut the fuck up and do as I say, it’ll be in a body bag, okay? Now look, the boss wants me to cap you, cut out your fuckin’ heart, and bring it to him. I got an idea about how to app
ease him, but if you show up somewhere with your ticker still thumping away in your chest, we’re both gonna get topped, you got it?”

  Davey nodded again, silently, then went to his closet and started pulling things out to throw in a suitcase.

  Jacko was waiting for James when he pulled up at the back door of the dry cleaners. It was after five, so Jacko was there to let him in.

  “Nice ride. When’d you get that?”

  “Today. Consider it a fringe benefit of a job well done. Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone’s gonna report it stolen.”

  Jacko laughed knowingly and followed James into the back of the store. Even though the machines weren’t running, the place still reeked.

  The boss was sitting behind his desk. James waited to be waved in, then set the transport cooler down.

  “How’d it go?” the boss asked.

  “He wasn’t happy, but as you can see, there wasn’t much he could do about it,” James said, gesturing to the cooler.

  The boss opened the lid and looked in. This time he didn’t wait for Jacko, but instead pulled the bag out himself. He held it up for inspection.

  “This one I’m gonna keep,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits as his mouth clasped into a tight grin.

  James was startled. “What about it being evidence?” he said. “Don’t you want me to get rid of it?”

  “No, not this one,” the boss said. “This one I’m tempted to cook up and eat. I want to devour this shitheel, you understand?”

  As he continued looking at the bag, his eyes widened. He turned it from side to side and poked at the organ inside with a finger.

  “What the fuck’s going on, Jimmy?” he said.

  “What, chief?”

  “Don’t you ‘chief’ me. This doesn’t look like a heart,” he said. He set the bag on the desk and pulled it open.

  “Do you believe this guy, Jacko? He brought me a fuckin’ liver or something. Thinks I’m an idiot.” The boss reached inside his jacket and Jacko did the same. James was quicker. He pulled his pistol out of the back of his waistband and put two bullets in each man before either could unholster their gun. As the boss fell, he grabbed at the edge of the desk. He pulled the bag down with him and the kidney slid out and skittered across the dusty floor.

  James had just lost one job and knew he couldn’t afford to lose the other. Remembering what the transplant people had said about keeping things clean and cold, he figured the kidney was no longer any good.

  He went to the desk, pulled open drawers until he found what he needed, then went over to the boss. James flipped him onto his stomach, cut away his jacket and shirt, and prepared to do a little surgery. For once he was glad for the dry cleaning fumes, hoping they’d cover the smell of what he was about to do.

  “Bet that fuck Tarantino never thought of this,” he said, making the first cut.

  Pick’s Place

  Colin O’Sullivan

  A gecko sticks to the outside of the window, attracted to all the lights inside, the flashing faux-retro disco-bar bulbs the owner Pick got from some junk off-load. The gecko could be dead for all we know, plastered there, like a rubber toy some kid licked and flung, foot suction pads sticking to the surface—or is it just some damn creature, plain giving up in the summer heat? We’re all a bit like that in here this evening, flung, stuck, and giving up—Pick setting the beers in front of the three of us, Gert, Mixxy, and me; Pick taking our money and keeping the change. He doesn’t even thank us anymore, and we never offer, we’ve been here so long—years I mean, and communication is such a labor we don’t care how out of pocket we get. Our lives are all torpor anyway, only early thirties, but still, bad luck, bad decisions, the usual. We’re in a bar after all, what kind of story were you expecting? That’s what has us here staring at a gecko, and at Pick, his Takamine electric guitars hanging over his head. We don’t even mind that he picks his nose the way he does—only one of the reasons for his moniker—rummaging like that, same hands he pours our beer with, same fingers he uses to flip nuts into our bowls, same dirty bowls we stick our heads over and sniff like the dogs we are.

  Mixxy is really Mick, a straight London guy with a gay nickname. He doesn’t like it but that’s the way with nicknames, they glue to you and you can’t do anything about it.

  Gert’s another regular guy and he must be from Germany or someplace. We forgot to ask, and it’s too late now. We’ve known him for years and it would be rude.

  I’m Milly, and that’s not a nickname. My parents called me that and thought it was a nice name for a pretty girl like me. Maybe they meant Molly. Who knows? My parents were Irish, and people easily get confused.

  Three of us here, we’re not really from anywhere, that’s the way the world is now, full of wanderers. Pick seems to be the only stationary thing in our life. He’s always standing there, doing his job. That’s admirable. A couple of Japanese girls enter and smile and wave at him, and Pick smiles and waves back, though he senses trouble. We don’t see many natives in here anymore—maybe they’re all scared of us. I overheard someone call us vampires once, thought that was a bit of a stretch.

  When Pick locks up and the other two have staggered off somewhere, I go upstairs to a room over the bar, Pick’s place, and soon he has me on my back, legs in the air. When we’re done, I keep my legs up, hoping the sperm will stay in and at least one swimmer makes it so I can become pregnant. There seems to be little more that I’d want from a life. I’d even stop drinking. Plus, I’d have more of a right to be here. Pick has his stance going on, that kind of look, eyebrows and forehead lines, as if all he’s ever wanted was to be in a shadowy ’30s film—or better, a novel. He chooses this moment (me: legs akimbo, him: scotch and ice cubes swirling) to say that if it’s gonna be a guy, he wants him to be called Marlowe, and if it’s a girl, maybe Marlowe. I ask him, does he mean the playwright or the private investigator? He says: what playwright? It’s then I wish the sperm to flow back down and the swimmers not to bother. Pick’s English is pretty good. It’s not that we don’t understand the words we send out; it’s that we don’t understand each other.

  Gert’s on about the things he remembers from childhood. No gecko tonight, unfortunately, no such distraction. He’s saying: orange bedclothes, a bucket he used to get sick into when he had some virus or chicken pox or whatever used to cause that yellow bile to up and spew-burn. And Debbie Harry. On a big poster looking down at him. Not all sexy and sultry as you’d expect, but in a peach scarf, strangely conservative, incomparably beautiful. No one has ever surpassed Debbie for Gert; he set his standards very high from the onset. No wonder he failed and is here. He still has Autoamerican on cassette. We all sigh at this, remembering cassettes, how they were once our future. In Japanese they have a word for this feeling of nostalgia, natsukashi. Shame we don’t have an accurate word in English, nostalgia too wistfully sepia, not quite cutting it. I like listening to him talk about Debbie Harry, except when she’s within the same sentences as virus, pox, and spew: she doesn’t deserve that. I say this to him and he starts to weep a little, as if he’s betrayed her. Well, he has. Pick’s good at moments like this and brings us more drink and keeps the change for himself.

  It’s all your fault, Pick.

  Pick smiles.

  Every night one of us says that to Pick, and he always just smiles, a crooked, leering grin that he’s been working on.

  It was Mixxy who said it this time. And when we say it, it’s like we mean every word of it.

  Mixxy says he hides out in the bar because he is afraid they will come looking for him. He says if they find the people he’s killed that it’ll be the end of him, and of us, as if we are all complicit by listening to him and drinking with him. We like these stories he tells; he sounds so sincere. And Pick never smiles when Mixxy’s in the throes of the telling. I wonder sometimes, sometimes get a shiver—like what if even one of the stories was actually true? He says hiding in a bar in this part of town is so obvious that the police would n
ever look. They’re probably looking for murderers in the decent part of town, some guy trying to blend in with the norms, not here in the docks. Mixxy says he doesn’t know what it would be like to be in a Japanese prison. Says he’s heard horror stories, abuse, things being stuck up asses. One of us at least is tempted to say, what’s new and original about that? But no one says anything, we just look up at the guitars hanging, wonder who ever plays them. I never seen Pick use his fingers on a guitar, just sticks them in his nose, or up me.

  A cockroach this time scurries past my bare feet as I go towards the bed in Pick’s place. Pick is ready already, and I’ve yet to take all my clothes off. Sometimes I don’t even take the shirt or bra off anymore. It’s not about that now, just getting a job done. I don’t know why there is so much wildlife in Pick’s bar and natty apartment; something is always crawling around when we’re there. Pick says there are lizards about too, and I think of Mixxy and Gert and say: yeah, I know. Pick is on me then, delivering, and as I lie back after—it doesn’t take long, nothing about life really does—I feel it squiggling up me, some tiny reptile thing making its way home perhaps, making its way to where it should really belong, a nice place where Debbie Harry isn’t befouled, but handsome in her peach scarf, and cassettes were in people’s hands and loved, and people had names that weren’t dirty but were their own real names in their own real places. Pick holds me tight and I can forgive him his dirty bar and the way he picks his nose, and I can forgive him the pretence and everything else. He’s the only worthwhile thing in our life, me and them boys. Why do I say life and not lives? And I can forgive Mixxy too for the things he does, and why those two Japanese girls never came back, and the screaming behind the building with Gert and Mixxy laughing, and I heard shouts in Japanese, words I can understand now, words of hateful protestation, and I try to block them out and think of Pick instead. How he’d get them pregnant too, if they wanted maybe, those girls, but it was too late for them, too late. He’s good like that, many of the natives are just like that around here, decent, taking care of us, putting up: Pick especially, pouring out the beer when he knows it’s what we need. Some nuts in our bowls. He’s always standing there, doing his job. That’s admirable. The police have yet to come and ask a single question, and so we wait, stuck, given up, and Pick never says a word to anyone, just serves us.