“I recognize in thieves, traitors and murderers, in the ruthless and the cunning, a deep beauty-a sunken beauty.” – Jean Genet

For J., J. and S.

 

Captain sails the ’64 Lincoln Continental convertible over deserted highway, midnight landscape sliding by. Ocher light bastes you in shifting chiaroscuro. Could be any highway in the states except for Gunn’s dead-ahead stare; you’re in Michigan, driving straight into his past. Sixteen years of ghosts heavy in his face.

Last call, Captain says. Audible hush in the car. Then sun, rum and young boys. Gunn doesn’t respond. Not a word out of him tonight.

The month you’ve been casing Flint, Michigan, Gunn had retreated into his head. On his laptop nonstop, up all hours, flying solo. Then he’d slip into your shared bed unannounced, fit like a missing puzzle piece. Three of you merging into one creature, six arms and legs, three tongues and cocks, commingling with infinite variety. Afterward he’d peel off, crash into the second motel bed, switch off like a light. You wonder what happened to him here, how deep the wound goes.

You roll off the 475 and tool through the faded glory of downtown, purpled sky muddied by streetlights. Silence in the car, even the radio mutes as if to conceal your arrival. It’s just before midnight. Plan is you go in on graveyard, business as usual. Captain and Gunn return at 2am when bossman goes into his private office for a wank and a powernap; like clockwork. Gunn will set up at your cube, geeking like desktop, Captain will feed him the transfer codes. You run interference. Twenty-seven jobs to date, this one could be the last.

The Lincoln sidles up to the curb, parks in the Christmas glow of 7-11. You stand, tuck Gunn’s old man’s .38 down next to your cock, slide the suit jacket over. Always take it for good luck and precaution. Family heirloom. Captain kisses his knuckles, you smack rings together. Wonder Twin Powers. Gunn looks up, face a frozen lake. Bad feeling, eyes faraway. We’ll be fine. Car slides back as Captain spins away. Hand raised above the windscreen in salute. Off to nab a new ride, take you down to Detroit or Ohio, depending on the take.

Give a high-sign to Rashad manning the 7-11. Grab a coffee and bagel, box of donuts to sweeten the late-night stiffs. Remember you fondly, defend your honor when investigators descend tomorrow. Pay with exact change.

High step over to the glass-faced warehouse where you’ve been pulling checks as Peter Schmidt, faked SSN and background check. Dust the donuts with sleep agent. Crystallized like sugar, makes Ambien look like children’s aspirin. Late night workers are sugar fiends; brought in often to test, know their preferences. They’ll still be out after you and the boys are long gone.

In the lobby, make small talk with the old fucker, Charlie, night security. Piss about pussy and sports. Tell him your computer’s got the squats, expect desktop to arrive. Give him a bear claw with a wink. He grabs with dentured smile. Poor old codger, won’t know what hit him.

Inside you’re remembering Gunn’s bad feeling. Cubes around yours are empty, bossman looking anxious to lay blame. Two called in sick, one quit. Just you and him left. You offer up the box as sacrifice. He claims diet, patting pregnant belly overflowing his buckle. Then takes two with smarmy grin.

Flick on the computer, blue screen of death, just as planned. Curse the damn machine. Isn’t it always…

Bossman gets nervous, looks at his watch, hand on your shoulder. Reminds that you’re a techie, suggests you fix it, complains you’ll fall behind schedule. Stands too close, tarnished wedding band sends off a warning. You feed him a line of techno-babble to shock and awe.

Fake a call to desktop. Bossman pulls up a chair, mouths a jelly doughnut, white powder snows his slacks. Knee touches knee. You start to sweat. Stare ahead at the blue screen of death, listen to a synthetic voice give the current time at the beep.

They sending someone? he’s asking, tongue wetting teeth. You nod, Two hours. Look at your watch, sweat burns your eyes. Worry that the bossman’s gonna try to pound your ass if the doughnuts don’t do the trick. Been after you from day one. Always gave you the once over in the john when no one was around. Leg touches leg, him saying how tense he is.

Bossman stands, sways, says his computer is working fine. Rubs hairy hand down his gut, idles on crotch before sliding into pocket. You shake your head, pull out paperwork you hoarded for tonight. Working on a special project, recoding software that was never used in the first place. Corrupt companies have to spend money to make it all look above board. Desk fills with complex printouts.

No one’s around, we could… leaves the invitation hanging. Bossman hovers.

You say no. He turns on his heels, huffs to his office and slams the door. Sigh, knowing it’s gonna be a long night. Shoot Gunn a SMS, balls-up, go go go, whats your 10-20? No answer.

Stare blankly at figures across pages. Thinking of Captain and Gunn, out there pinching a ride. Worried about Gunn’s bad vibe, seeing omens in the sprawl of wrinkled paper. Eyes close, mentally stretching out to meet them.

Was more than two years since you and Captain hooked up with Gunn. Saw him on the street, trailed him to the Mac store in Kansas City, back when you two were pulling penny-ante shit, living like Bonnie and Clyde. Kid had eyes like a movie star. Captain felt the calling. You scoped Gunn out, watching him chat up the help while sliding merchandise into deep coat pockets. Killer smile. Boy had you both by the balls.

Outside Captain grabbed Gunn by the shoulder, spun him around. Anger flavored his blues. Captain asked, Want to pull a job with us? A flash of confusion played over the boy’s face, turned to you to validate what he’d heard. Smile brightened, I know just the place.

He sweated the ’66 Mustang convertible. New state, new car, Captain smiled. Tossed you the keys. Gunn in the backseat, Captain shotgun. You laid rubber, taking directions from Gunn, flew across town. You waited outside, Captain on the sidewalk voyeuring, Gunn inside, his dad’s police issue .38 pointed at the fat cow in the movie ticket booth. Cool as silk. Smooth as ice. Boy had his game down.

They ran back to the car whooping, pocket full of Jacksons and Hamiltons. You popped the clutch and started putting distance between you and Kansas City.

On the highway, passenger seat dropped down and Captain spilled into the back. You drove watching them in the rearview. Struggle for position. Clothes torn, air fragrant with cock and ass despite wind sweeping the car. Gunn pinned Captain down, condom on his cock, rammed hard into him. You angled the mirror, watched them sink into the backseat, Gunn pumping into Captain, pronounced growl on his face when he came. They end up entangled, tumble of dark clothes, laughter and whispered commentary. You stared ahead, wondered if it was the end of the road.

Motel room; two. They’re at it for three days with room service and you’re a free agent. Out in the plains of Missouri, spinning your wheels over blanched highways cracked from the waning winter. Nights spent in your room, listening to them go at it, ear on the wall, cock in your hand. Memories of your own honeymoon six years earlier.

When they returned, Captain is silent, Gunn’s eyes bluer than Krishna. They stood in your doorway, parking lot lights haloed their forms like superheroes. You comin’ or what? Captain asked. You picked up your shit and trailed them to a white ’62 Caddie convertible. Gunn in the backseat, you shotgun. Nothing is said crossing the border into Nebraska, kid asleep, wind dancing with his brown curls.

What’s he to us, you asked Captain, afraid of being cut loose, on your own after all those years on the road. He’s us too, he said. You look in the rearview, see Captain at the helm, Gunn in the backseat, worried where you fit.

Rose colored morning, motel on the 80 outside Lincoln, three of you sharing one bed. Gunn slipped into you with the ease of a long-term lover, Captain behind Gunn; three pieces meshed together. Slept like dogs. Woke in the dark, continued the fuck. Fluid bonded.

Then you’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, only Gunn joked, We’re three Clydes. Got that laugh, just bordering on obnoxious, made him more attractive for the flaw.

The latest string of ventures sparked by his idea. One night lying in each other’s sweat and spooge, Gunn painting the future with words. Had that glint in his eyes. Said that companies have firewalls to protect them from outsiders getting in, but almost no security from insiders sending out. Wants to pose as techie, jack into the server from the inside, transfer out. Got hard mentally bilking big business out of millions.

Captain ran with the idea, set the stage. You, innocent-faced conman of the trio, go in as temp, scout out the scene. Make nice nice with management, get their trust up. Use your charm to get balls-out systems access. Couple of weeks go by, sneak Gunn and Captain in. Gunn mindmelds with the server, fishes out accounts. Captain gives a series of transfers to execute; middling amounts to various dummy corps. All washing through a clearing house where the e-trail goes cold. Untethered digital funds wend their way to your account in the Caribbean.

Tonight it’s Able Bodied, Inc. Government funded agency here to help the good people of Flint recover from the loss of American industry. Only they don’t do more than cash their checks and get applicants to sign up for the Army. Recruitment Central. The government scams the people, business scams the government, we scam them. Everyone’s a thief. We don’t pick corrupt corps for karmic vengeance, they just have high turnover and the most booty.

Two o’clock comes and goes, no word from the boys. Sweat burns down your back, into the crack of your ass. You SMS Gunn again, drop the hammer, copy. Bossman emerges from his lair, in a snit, weaves towards you drunkenly. Wonders where’s desktop. Slurs, We’re not paying ya to jerk off for two hours. You wondering why he’s not dead asleep.

Captain’s calling on your cell, bad sign. Bossman wrinkles his face as you turn away for a private. Says they almost got nabbed. Swirl of sirens in the background. Be there in ten. Need to shake smokey. Signal dies. Fingers slick, run through greased-back hair, have to think. Gotta get bossman off the floor, need to get the boys in the front, old fucker be down for the count after the bear claw. Think fast.

You stand, bossman kissing distance. I gotta hit the john. Massage your package, finger the gun. You turn, saunter to the pisser, look back to make sure he’ll follow. Wets teeth with tongue but hovers. Blow into the men’s room, take the last stall, pull out the crotch warmed .38 and wait.

Bossman takes his time, pushes inside, whistling nonchalant. Stands in front of the stall, feigns surprise. Peter, what are you doing in here? Play the game, Looking for some cock. Why don’t you show me yours. Flushes and then fumbles with his belt. Gun connects with thick head, head meets wall. Blinks. Rubs his skull, What the f… hit him again, harder. In movies, you only have to hit a guy once, this guy needs five. Slumps down in a pile, head bleeding. Your eyes on fire with sweat.

Tuck the .38 back into your shorts, thinking of when Gunn taught you to shoot. Arms wrapped around yours, guiding the shot. Says the only good thing the sperm donor did was teach him to shoot and swear. You’ll never be as good as him at either.

Douse your face with water, not sure what to do with bossman. Leave him there or plug him. Never wanted any victims, only money. Out of the bathroom, onto the floor, dashing past faceless cubes to front desk. Old Charlie’s still at it, bear claw on a plate, napkin shawl over it. Fuck, Charlie, not eating your doughnut, got it special. Pats his chest, belches. Heartburn, get to it later. Too much fucking coffee.

Looking for desktop, you see anybody? You scan the parking lot, only Charlie’s old Dodge and bossman’s Beemer. Where the fuck are they? You ask to bum a smoke off the old fucker, guardman squints. Give you cancer, he hack laughs. You laugh back. Give him the entertainment. Give me the keys, let me light up. Guardman hands you a stogie and a Zippo tarnished with hand sweat. You take it with a nervous wink, Here’s to cancer. He lets you out.

You smoke and pace the sidewalk, waiting, arms crossed and getting pissed. It’s after three, you’re ready to walk off the job, Gunn’s worry for real. Another SMS, highball it home, go or no go. No answer.

Back inside, worrying Charlie’s gonna be a problem. Check bossman making zs in the crapper, blood drip-dripping on the tile. Pale face pale. Out front again, Lincoln sitting idle, no sign of the boys. Get Charlie to open the door, peer around the deserted lot. Then there they are, walking to you. Where the fuck…coming out of your mouth. Captain looking pissed, Gunn wired. The cops. Car’s hot. Meaning drop it. Captain’s pushing past you into the lobby, takes in old Charlie with a firm grin. Gunn’s shooting past, pulling out his laptop, asking where’s your desk.

Old fucker looks at them quizzically. Desktop, you say, they were due hours ago. Captain’s sunglasses shelved for the gig, looks deep into Charlie. Got held up at a job, how it goes. Old man not sure what to do, looking to call bossman, absolve himself of responsibility. Charlie, you know the bastards dead asleep, let the boys in. Give him a pat on the back like you’re war buddies. Eat your bear claw, you say, steering them inside.

On the floor you tell Captain about the bossman in the crapper, why the night guard is still awake. No time to waste. Captain’s cool as a lay in the snow, Gunn at your desk, jacking into your hookup, usernames and passwords memorized by the system. Switches his mind over to binary, zones into the server, works his magic past internal security.

Captain stands behind Gunn, lick of paternal pride in his eyes. Watches the numbers dance on the screen. Gunn’s fingers massage the keyboard, plunge into digital spaghetti, teases out data.

Bossman’s been out for more than an hour. You tug on Captain’s sleeve, point to the pisser, silent not to break Gunn’s focus. Captain nods. You run back to the bathroom, peek into the last stall, guy’s trying to sit up, eyes unfocused. Slurred accusations. Gun rises up, sends bossman back against the toilet rim. Loud thunk, wet meat of his head on the floor. Dude needs medical. Mind races, no deaths, no injury, only rock them to sleep, steal in and burgle, then out to the next job. Only bad karma can come of this. You grab his feet, drag him out of the stall. Superficial wound, nothing deep. Stop the bleeding with wet toilet paper and depart.

On the floor, watch says that Charlie’s about to do the rounds, need to get going before he finds bossman in the crapper. Whisper to Captain that you got to call it off. Wait, wait, Gunn mumbles, almost there. Hands fucking the keyboard, skimming the cube. Starts rocking back and forth, curses. Desk slammed. Gunn doesn’t do obstacles, same as Captain. Types furiously.

You’re wired, Captain catching the vibe, taking you down a notch with his eyes. Guard’s coming through, you say. Knew this like the back of your hand, knew everything about the place. Information is power.

FUCK, Gunn slams his fist hard, mouse jumping. Captain takes the bossman’s vacant chair, asks what’s going on, calm with enough tension to let Gunn know he better fix whatever was broke and fast. Gunn ignores, bends over the laptop, breathes heavy.

Your turn. Need to stall the old codger, back out front, try to bum a smoke. More talk about tight pussy and football, as if they were interchangeable. Charlie’s up, getting ready, old man keeps his schedule. Rounds first.

You follow him in, he peers at the boys, gives them the ex-cop once over. Sees something that doesn’t jibe. Gunn is cursing a blue streak, Captain stands and flags you with his eyes. Friends, Charlie says to you, euphemistic. You assure him, Just desktop.

Old man sweeps the floor, checks bossman’s office, nobody home. Eyes you. In the crapper, you laugh. Had Mexican. Sweat stains your pits, suit jacket tightens. Charlie moves to the men’s room. Nerves tight as piano wire. Disappears inside. Holy mother of god. Old fucker comes out quick quick. Hand on his belt, unsnapping his holster.

No one explains the power of a gun, holding steel between your hands. Not in any NRA brochure. You hold someone’s life in your hands, godlike. That’s what you feel. Anyone knew that, they’d be packing. One thing to hold a gun on someone, another to protect the only two people you loved in life. It’s old Charlie or them. Split second decision. Aim smack center on his shit brown tie. Old man goes over like an empty keg at a frat party.

Blood like ice, breathing stops. Captain behind you, making sure you’re not shot. Look down at the old fucker, life spilling into the industrial gray carpet. Oh, shit. Your nose full of snot, eyes watering. You liked the old man, never wanted this. You want to go to him, Captain holds you back. Nothing you can do now, kid.

Gunn shouts, Got it! Shoots fist into the air, head dives down as he sets up the transfers, covers his tracks. He smacks his hands together, another gunshot sending a riot through your nerves. Unable to look at Captain, knowing you’d blown it. They knew who you were, now it’s murder and mayhem, not just embezzlement.

Captain guides you forward, trancelike, into bossman’s office. Keys, he says, for the car outside. You pull yourself together, dig in his jacket pocket, toss them to Captain. We’re gonna motor. Captain gives you a hug, Take care of the witness. We’ll all be ok.

Skin crawls. You take yourself back to the shitter while Gunn packs up. Bossman asleep on the floor, pained grin. You put two slugs into him without thinking. Do it once, it’s not much harder twice. Had to keep you safe, keep him from IDing you. Wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do to protect the family. Hated the shithead anyway. Best to your wife.

In the parking lot, Gunn and Captain on opposite sides of the Beemer, waiting. Gunn’s big smile. Four and a half. Million. Set us over the two-hundred mark. You’re history.

In the car, Gunn in the front seat with you, hand on each of your thighs as you tear out of the lot. Ghosts falling from Gunn’s eyes like snowflakes. Snagging 96 east, down to Detroit, grab a plane to Florida where you could slip out of the country easier that immigrants sneaking in. Luxury awaits you on the other side.

Wrestle out of your corporate drag. Suit jacket, drenched shirt and tie fly out the window, followed by Gunn’s geek wear and heavy glasses. Gunn steers as Captain follows suit. Radio blasting. Mary MacGregor singing how she’s torn between two lovers. Gun squeezing your thigh, Captain laughing at the shared joke. Feeling like a fool.

Flint falls away, highway bound, sun rises over the skyline of Detroit. Endless summer ahead. Nothing behind you matters, only forward. Captain sails you into city, sunglasses regain position. Three of you fly into the future. Dawn breaks on a new day.

 

© 2005 Sean Meriwether - Contributor's Bio