THUGLIT Issue Twelve Read Online Free Page A
Author: Leon Marks, Rob Hart, Justin Porter, Mike Miner, Edward Hagelstein, Kevin Garvey, T. Maxim Simmler, J.J. Sinisi
the car. I will come down by rail on Friday and bring the car back on Sunday if you do not need it any longer." He clapped his hands happily, as if pretending they were arranging a vacation rental. "How does that sound?"
" It sounds perfect," Ruben said. "Are there still pay phones around here?"
Ruben climbed to the fourth floor, two flights above Carole 's. He stood next to the stairs for a moment and listened to the midday quiet. He opened a pocketknife he just bought from Patrice, who tried to push away the Euros Ruben had placed on the counter. Crouched by the circular staircase, he eased the blade under the edge of a wood panel surrounding the gap under the stairs and pried until it came loose. He reached in and felt under the fifth riser from the bottom until he found a lump attached with masking tape. He pulled at the tape until the entire package ripped loose, and came out with a tightly wrapped plastic freezer bag. He opened the bag and removed a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm pistol.
He paused as the door to the compact elevator closed on the ground floor. The elevator rose through the shaft in the center of the circular stairway. Ruben waited and watched as the elevator rose through the fourth floor and stopped on the fifth.
He reached back under the stairs as he listened to someone emerge from the elevator, unlock a door, and enter an apartment above. From the seventh riser he untaped another baggie holding a full seventeen round magazi ne.
The panel eased back into place, held by the putty —bought at Patrice's—he had beaded around the groove five years earlier.
Carole was out. He found a pair of thin rubber gloves with the cleaning supplies, pushed the package aside, laid a three-day-old copy of Libération on the table and cleaned the pistol with a rag and oil he found in a closet. He took comfort in the ritual and recalled the international irony involved in taking the American pistol from an Iranian in a narrow street behind the Embassy of the United Arab Emirates on the Quai d'Orsay several years earlier. He pondered no further on the outcome of that incident.
Ruben removed and examined each round from the magazine. The baggies had kept the weapon and ammo dry. He checked the spring on the magazine and wiped each round before he slotted it inside. He wiped the entire pistol clean as he reassembled it, then loaded it and racked a round into the chamber. He wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket.
There was a framed photo of Anne on the computer desk in the foyer. He hadn't noticed it earlier. She wore a t-shirt and the background was a beach. Ruben didn't remember being there when it was taken. The photos killed him. He kept his filed away in a box in the RV and brought them out when he wanted to sear himself.
He found what he wanted in Carole 's grocery bag collection and placed the ski boot in it. He wrote a note saying he would be in touch and left her keys on top of it.
Ruben skirted Lyon on the A432 and came into Grenoble on the A48, the gray mountains looming above. He tuned to Jazz Radio when he could find a clear signal, Europe 1 the rest of the time. Patrice's Saab was no rocket, but never faltered in the six hours he had it on the road. He drove her gently, like the middle-aged lady she was.
He filled the Saab with fuel, was appalled at what it would cost to run the RV here, parked it on Rue Monge across from Patrice 's uncle's building and pocketed the keys. He would not use it again.
He walked past the build ing where he'd stayed at the Agency-owned apartment in the month after the avalanche. The balcony had flowerpots now and looked lived in. They had to sell it when he was photographed coming out of the building after his third trespass arrest on the mountain.
The man he was meeting was closing in on fifty and looked like someone you 'd find parked on a weeknight at the bar of an Irish pub in Queens.
" Dan Fiddler," he said, extending his
" It sounds perfect," Ruben said. "Are there still pay phones around here?"
Ruben climbed to the fourth floor, two flights above Carole 's. He stood next to the stairs for a moment and listened to the midday quiet. He opened a pocketknife he just bought from Patrice, who tried to push away the Euros Ruben had placed on the counter. Crouched by the circular staircase, he eased the blade under the edge of a wood panel surrounding the gap under the stairs and pried until it came loose. He reached in and felt under the fifth riser from the bottom until he found a lump attached with masking tape. He pulled at the tape until the entire package ripped loose, and came out with a tightly wrapped plastic freezer bag. He opened the bag and removed a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm pistol.
He paused as the door to the compact elevator closed on the ground floor. The elevator rose through the shaft in the center of the circular stairway. Ruben waited and watched as the elevator rose through the fourth floor and stopped on the fifth.
He reached back under the stairs as he listened to someone emerge from the elevator, unlock a door, and enter an apartment above. From the seventh riser he untaped another baggie holding a full seventeen round magazi ne.
The panel eased back into place, held by the putty —bought at Patrice's—he had beaded around the groove five years earlier.
Carole was out. He found a pair of thin rubber gloves with the cleaning supplies, pushed the package aside, laid a three-day-old copy of Libération on the table and cleaned the pistol with a rag and oil he found in a closet. He took comfort in the ritual and recalled the international irony involved in taking the American pistol from an Iranian in a narrow street behind the Embassy of the United Arab Emirates on the Quai d'Orsay several years earlier. He pondered no further on the outcome of that incident.
Ruben removed and examined each round from the magazine. The baggies had kept the weapon and ammo dry. He checked the spring on the magazine and wiped each round before he slotted it inside. He wiped the entire pistol clean as he reassembled it, then loaded it and racked a round into the chamber. He wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket.
There was a framed photo of Anne on the computer desk in the foyer. He hadn't noticed it earlier. She wore a t-shirt and the background was a beach. Ruben didn't remember being there when it was taken. The photos killed him. He kept his filed away in a box in the RV and brought them out when he wanted to sear himself.
He found what he wanted in Carole 's grocery bag collection and placed the ski boot in it. He wrote a note saying he would be in touch and left her keys on top of it.
Ruben skirted Lyon on the A432 and came into Grenoble on the A48, the gray mountains looming above. He tuned to Jazz Radio when he could find a clear signal, Europe 1 the rest of the time. Patrice's Saab was no rocket, but never faltered in the six hours he had it on the road. He drove her gently, like the middle-aged lady she was.
He filled the Saab with fuel, was appalled at what it would cost to run the RV here, parked it on Rue Monge across from Patrice 's uncle's building and pocketed the keys. He would not use it again.
He walked past the build ing where he'd stayed at the Agency-owned apartment in the month after the avalanche. The balcony had flowerpots now and looked lived in. They had to sell it when he was photographed coming out of the building after his third trespass arrest on the mountain.
The man he was meeting was closing in on fifty and looked like someone you 'd find parked on a weeknight at the bar of an Irish pub in Queens.
" Dan Fiddler," he said, extending his
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