The Thanks You Get by Paul McGoran

They shared a room in a rundown courtyard motel at the north end of the Strip where it turns kind of sleazy. Off and on, Henry Shevlin had been living with Duke Santoro for three years and had known him a couple years more in stir. Shevlin didn’t like Las Vegas much and he didn’t like the way his life was going. But he was the type to do anything for a friend.

  The bed was near the window overlooking the cars in the courtyard. Shevlin was lying there in his skivvies reading a magazine when he saw Duke out of the corner of his eye. He was snaking through the rows of parked cars, taking a diagonal route toward the stairs to the second floor balcony that the rooms gave out on. He had the easy long stride of an athlete, really a pleasure to watch. In a minute he pushed open the door to the room.

  Right away, Shevlin could tell Duke was agitated. He walked in real quiet, took off his jacket and draped it neatly over the desk chair. Then he turned, walked to the right side of the bed and sat on it. After loosening his tie, he shook out a cigarette from a pack on the bedside table and lit it with a kitchen match. All this without a word.

  Shevlin figured what the hell, get it out in the open. “Hey, big fella, what’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can’t be nothing, Duke. You’re pissed off. Anybody can tell.”

  “It’s that little bitch, Lana. She didn’t show up tonight.”

  “She, uh, told you she would?”

  “No, but she always does on Tuesday. She’s stepping out with that kid Randy she talks about.”

  “Hell, that’s just to make you jealous is all. She’s crazy about you.”

  “I don’t like anybody cutting in on me. I can’t take it and I won’t.”

  He got up then, still smoking, and started pacing the floor. Shevlin watched him for a minute before saying: “Just let it go, Duke. Show her you don’t fall for that routine.”

  “You know I won’t put up with it.”

  “That’s right, big guy, you don’t have to. Just ignore her. She’ll come calling.”

  “Shit!”

  If Duke seemed agitated before, he was at the boiling point now. His lip curved up in a sneer and his nostrils flared. He stubbed out his cigarette out, stopped pacing and undressed completely to the waist. Then he sat on the bed, his back to Shevlin.

  Shevlin knew he’d best shut up and wait. He tossed the magazine to the floor and shifted down in bed, lying there with his head propped up to keep an eye on Duke.

  When he was sure the storm had passed, he turned to switch off the bedside lamp. 

* * * *

Next morning, he was in the parking lot, reading the paper and waiting for Duke to come down. He always took longer than Shevlin to get ready. Duke would shave and shower, same as him, but he put a lot extra into it. He was especially fussy about the way he dressed. Neither of them had a lot of clothes, but Duke sure knew how to vary his look and keep his duds looking fresh.

   Shevlin saw him step out to the landing from the room and look up to the clear, bright sky. He headed down the outside stairs to the parking area. That quick stride of his brought him over to the car in no time. He was dressed in a dark sport jacket, tan slacks and an open-collar shirt. Shevlin pushed himself off the side of the car and folded his newspaper.

  “I have to be at the bar by nine for my shift, Duke.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Me, I’m gonna take the day off. Want to go to breakfast?”

  “Yeah, well I do, but I’m nearly broke. I was figuring on maybe a coffee and donut.”

  “Hell no, dude, I’m flush! Tell you what, I’ll spring for the whole megillah.”

  Shevlin pointed to the car and smiled. “Lead the way, my man! What are you going to tell your boss?”

  “Haven’t decided. But I picked up eight hundred bucks shooting dice last night and I’m not gonna be dealing no cards for a couple of days.”

  “Say, Duke, you almost never gamble.”

  “Never for long, anyway. The percentages are lousy.”

  They drove to a diner-type restaurant just beyond Fremont Street and were eating breakfast in a booth by the front window when Lana Firewood walked in. She had a slim young dark-haired guy with her who was grinning from ear to ear. Shevlin saw her glance around and then turn to speak to Smiley. He figured she must have spotted them and he kind of held his breath for what would happen next. Duke hadn’t seen a thing yet.

  Lana walked straight towards them, high heels clattering across the tiles, her boyfriend trailing behind like a happy puppy. Shevlin looked up as they came close. She gave him a little wave while she still had Duke’s back to her. Finally, she made a point of stopping and turning around when she passed them by.

  “Oh hi, Duke!” she said, acting all surprised. “I didn’t recognize you from behind.”

  Duke looked from one to the other, still chewing on a piece of toast. He nodded real quick and grunted. This may have been rude, but Shevlin was glad he didn’t speak because it sure as hell would have been ruder. Lana looked annoyed, squaring her shoulders and biting her lower lip.

  “Good to see you, Henry,” she said, turning and walking past with Smiley to an empty booth further down the aisle.

  Duke put down his knife and fork, took the napkin out of his lap and tossed it on the table. His face had flushed.

  “Come on,” said Shevlin, “don’t let her get to you. You know what she’s doing.”

  “When I was a bouncer, I occasionally took a certain amount of pleasure in leaning on somebody who insisted on getting out of line. Pain is a terrific agent for rapid attitude change.”

  “She’s trying to make you jealous. So forget it. Screw her!”

  “Screwing her is apparently one of the easiest and cheapest things to do in Las Vegas. Like being comped for a buffet lunch. I think both of them need a rapid attitude change.”

  “C’mon man, take it easy.”

  Shevlin was getting nervous and Duke had to see it. But he took a deep breath and seemed to calm down.

  “Listen, no rush,” he said, “but as soon as you’re done here, I’ll drop you off at work. I’m gonna take a long ride.”

  Shevlin asked him where to, Duke didn’t answer. His face was set tight and he stared straight ahead with a kind of dark expression that Shevlin couldn’t even begin to describe.

* * * *

Randy and Lana pulled up to her place in the suburbs around ten o’clock and parked in front. They had no idea Duke followed them. Lana was in the passenger seat, the side nearest the curb. She pulled herself up close to Randy at the wheel for a long, wet kiss.

  Jesus, he was ready to do them right there and then, whoever might see it be damned. There were red spots in his vision and his breath was coming fast, but he shook it off, “Got to do this right,” he said to himself.

  He knew what was going on because Lana had brought him there just last week. She had given him the same kind of wet, lingering kiss she favored Randy with today.

  He even remembered their conversation in front of the house.

  “You know, nobody’s home right now and I could sure use some company,” she had said.

  “Use me baby, I’m your boy!” Duke laughed.

  “O-o-o-o, it’s a boy!” she squealed, moving her hand into his crotch.

  Both of them were laughing by then. They rushed out of the car, met at the curb and ran to the front door holding hands.

  Today, he parked on the new service road behind Lana’s house at the edge of the subdivision. A wooded ravine separated her neighborhood from the road. No way they could see his car from her place. He doubled back, climbing through the ravine and brush behind the house. As he approached, he could hear Lana’s dog barking.

  It didn’t take long for him to get into the garage and quietly jimmy the door to the kitchen. It was cool inside and a little dark. After hesitating a moment, he walked to the kitchen island and sat on a stool, where he waited patiently.

  Lana and Randy came into the living room through the front door. Duke heard her making baby noises to the dog and laughing with Randy. The television came on loud, nearly drowning out their conversation.

  The kitchen’s right through there, Randy,” she said. “Why don’t you get us a couple of beers?”

  When he pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen, Randy headed for the refrigerator. Then he spotted Duke staring at him with that ice-cold look of his, “Get out, son,” he said in low, even voice. “Just leave.”

  “Who the hell let you in?” asked Randy.

  “It’s real simple. I belong here, Junior. You don’t.”

  “Really? Well, it’s not like we’re in competition, pal. Lana’s been around the block. But I’m here now and intend to get what I came for.”

  Duke stood and moved toward him, Randy pulled a knife. The boy was nothing if not game. Duke grabbed his blade arm and stripped the knife away with his other hand. In close quarters, Randy tried to bring his knee up, but the big guy pivoted slightly and launched a right uppercut.

  As he went down, Randy’s arm cleared the kitchen counter. While sprawled out on the floor, he reached for the wooden knife block that had tumbled down with him.

  Deftly, he withdrew a meat cleaver and rose to attack.

  The first blow struck home and Duke sustained a wicked defensive cut across the back of his left hand. But he sidestepped the second strike, pulled the cleaver out of

Randy’s grip and knocked him down again with a right-hand blow that crunched into his face and broke his nose. Blood gushed out and Randy moaned, beaten. Duke felt his own blood rise inside him as never before.

  “A cleaver, you fucking idiot!” he blurted. “I don’t believe you went after me with a cleaver.”

  Randy had to see it coming from the way Duke looked at him. The big man hefted the cleaver and hacked at him from the throat down, pausing only to kick his head in when Randy feebly raised his hands to make him stop.

  The sound of their struggle was muffled by the television, but Lana must have heard something. “Randy!” she yelled. “What’s going on in there?”

  Her mutt yapped now in that hysterical way small dogs have. Duke scrambled out of sight to the side of the refrigerator. He was covered in sweat and his hair hung down on his forehead. He saw Lana come through the door with the pooch trailing. She looked at Randy on the floor and all that blood, made a choking sound, and wobbled backwards. When she turned and spotted Duke, her eyes registered confusion, then relief – as if she were glad to see someone who could help. He moved to her quickly, spun her around and snapped her neck before she could utter more than a quiet whimper.

  He needed a minute to calm down. When his heart stopped pounding, he tried to think logically. Lucky for him, he didn’t have a whole lot of blood on his clothes. He washed up, found a dishtowel to stanch the cut on his hand, then wiped down every surface he had touched. Before leaving, he coaxed the quivering dog into the living room, took a careful look around the kitchen and pocketed Randy’s knife. A minute later he was back in his car on the service road.

* * * *

Shevlin was at the motel when Duke came back that day at two in the afternoon. It was sure easy to tell something was up. He looked glassy-eyed, and he was chain-smoking. There was gauze wrapped around his left hand with some white tape over that.

  At first Shevlin didn’t see the stains, but the big man’s clothes were all wrinkled and there was a bulge in his jacket pocket that turned out to be a little towel with blood on it. When Duke whipped that sucker out, it seemed to trigger something. He laughed, sat on the bed and talked about what happened at Lana’s house.

  Shevlin couldn’t believe it at first; Duke was saying some scary stuff, over and over. When it all came clear, he figured the best he could do was not act upset, but be calm, help him out.

  “You totally lost it, Duke,” he said. “But you gotta get yourself together fast. Take it easy now, real easy. We have to stay cool. Okay, pal?”

  “Okay, Shevlin. I get it,” he said.

  They both knew the clothes had to go. Shevlin had him strip absolutely everything off so he could take care of getting it incinerated. Shoes and socks, and the towel too. All of a sudden, he was into it, helping his friend, telling him what to do. Did he think Duke would be grateful, or like him better? Probably that was it.

  He did a damn fine job. He unwound the makeshift bandage and saw that Duke needed stitches. Now this was a little tricky, but biting the bullet and going to an emergency room with the right story should take care of it.

  “You got that dough from gambling last night, Duke, so what the hell. Give them a phony name, tell them you was chopping up a chicken with a butcher knife, and get a few stitches.”

  “All right. Sounds good to me.”

  “Other than that, get cleaned up and get out of town.”

  Shevlin figured he would stay in Vegas, go to work like usual. Nobody had anything on him; that part he didn’t have to worry about. The motel room was in his name alone, nobody could link him with Duke too much, he was just a buddy who came and went. They hadn’t been here so long that a lot of people knew them.

  Duke made a bundle of his bloody clothes and shoes, wrapping it all up with his jacket and tying the arms together. Shevlin knew just where to go when it got dark. There was an alley not far away where a few alkies would be warming themselves over a fire barrel. Even Las Vegas gets cool in January.

  Piece by piece in the darkness, the clothes flared up and disappeared. An old greybeard wino laughed like hell every time Shevlin popped another article of clothing into the barrel. The shoes went in last, and somehow that made the old man mad. The poor bastard probably saw they were better than what he had on.

  When Shevlin walked back to the motel, he had that nice feeling you get from putting things in order. As they agreed beforehand, he rapped softly on the door four times and waited. Duke opened it and pulled him in, that thousand-yard stare of his telling Shevlin everything had changed. Still, the little guy got his shiv out fast, like a magician pulling a dove out of his coat. Not that it mattered too much with Duke grabbing his wrist and spinning him around, jamming the hand with the knife back into the doorframe, where it stuck. He was pretty much defenseless then, held tight and a foot off the floor.

  Shevlin saw the blade fly up to his throat from behind. Duke was carving him deep from ear to ear, like you might take a pig on the farm. He gagged and went limp as the blood poured out in a warm cascade. Dropping him quickly to the tarpaulin spread out on the floor, Duke stood over him to watch. He began to laugh, just a chuckle at first, then loud and derisive.

  As his eyes were closing, Shevlin could burble out just the one question.

  “Wh . . . wh . . . why, Duke?”

  “Hey buddy,” he shouted, making sure Shevlin could still hear, “I appreciate what you did. But there’s no such thing as a perfect crime . . . when you’ve got an accomplice. Can I help it if I’m a perfectionist?”

  Fading fast to black, Shevlin whispered, “So that’s the thanks I get?”

  Duke roared, then crouched down and leaned in close. “You got it, pal,” he said. “That’s the thanks you get.”

© Paul McGoran 2007 All Rights Reserved