The Thug and the Three-Handed Lady by John Weagly

THE THUG AND THE

THREE-HANDED LADY

By John Weagly

    “Do I look happy?” Vincent said.

      “No.”

      “I’m not. This isn’t me. I’m a thug.”

      The woman named Peggy was tied to a chair. Vincent’s orders were pretty straightforward. Jimmy owned an old house out in the middle of nowhere.   He used it for out of town guests and used the basement for this sort of thing. Jimmy told Vincent to grab Peggy, take her to the house and take care of it.

      And here they were in the clammy, dark basement. Taking care of it.

      “I’m not used to this,” Vincent said. “I get muscle jobs, because I’m so big, and I’ve got a mean face. I beat up smart alecks. I drive people around. I say ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir’ and ‘Whatever you say, sir.’ I’m a glorified yes-man. But now here I am, with you. I guess you could say this is a promotion. Do I look happy that I’m moving up?”

      “No.”

      “I’m not a killer. I’m not an assassin. I’m a thug.”

      “I think you have my hands tied a little too tight,” Peggy said.

      “Excuse me?”

      “And this chair is digging into my back.”

      “I could’ve just hog-tied you and thrown you on the floor, would that be better?”

      “No,” she said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

      Now Vincent felt bad, Peggy seemed nice. Five foot four, short blonde hair, late thirties. Wholesome looking. She’d seemed very trusting when she opened her door to him, not a suspicion in the world until he grabbed her. The friendly type.

      “What did you do anyway?” Vincent asked.

      “Something I shouldn’t have done.”

      Vincent looked at her. She smiled at him. “This is serious you know,” he said.

      “I know.”

      “You seem pretty calm about all of it.”

      Peggy shifted in the chair as much as she could. “Where’s your gun?” she asked.

      “I don’t have one.”

      “No gun?”

      “Jimmy gave me one once, but I didn’t know how to take care of it. You have to clean those things, polish them. Load it, unload it, take it apart. It was too complicated.” Vincent reached into his coat pocket and took out a folding knife. He’d only used for threats before. He opened it and showed her the three inch blade. It gleamed even though there was little light. “Now I just use this.”

      “Very nice.”

      “All I have to do is sharpen it every now and then, fold it up and stick it in my pocket. It’s easier to take care of and a lot more reliable.”

      “They should put you in a commercial.”

      Vincent didn’t understand her relaxed attitude. He folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. “Do you know what I’m supposed to do to you?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Aren’t you scared?”

      Peggy sat quiet for a moment. The cold walls seemed to close in. There must have been mold in the old basement, Vincent’s sinuses were itching. “I knew what I was doing,” Peggy finally said. “I knew this would probably be the outcome. We should just get it over with.”

      “What did you do?” Vincent asked again.

      Peggy didn’t answer.

      Vincent walked around the room. Cement walls with water stains here and there that he could barely see; one bare light-bulb hanging in the corner where it could do the least amount of good. Two support poles evenly spaced. He stopped in front of one of the water stained walls to see if he could find a pattern in the marks like with clouds: a hand or a door or maybe a couch.

      “Is there a problem?” Peggy asked behind him.

      Vincent kept looking at the wall. “No, no problem.”

      He used to bounce at a bar down by the docks. He was great at it, never had to block a punch and never had to throw a punch. Most other bouncers, drunks wanted to try them. Not Vincent. Something about his look, his face, it stopped them. That was where Jimmy found him.

      After going to work for Jimmy it was different. Vincent ended up in situations where punches had to be thrown. He maneuvered his hands so he didn’t do too much damage. It was the beating that broke guys, not necessarily the pain. Still, it was nerve wracking trying to do the right thing in a wrong situation. Better pay but more guilt.

      “If you’re going to kill me, you’re going to have to get a little bit closer.”

      Vincent turned to look at her. “This isn’t exactly easy, you know. I never killed anybody before. I’m just a thug.”

      “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never been killed before,” Peggy smiled again. “So I guess that makes both of us new to this particular situation.”

      “What’s wrong with you?” Vincent said. “This is serious!”

      “You’re thinking about it too much! Just put your knife against my throat and start slicing. Once you get started, you’ll get the hang of it.”

      Vincent walked back over to Peggy. He stood behind the chair. “You think it’s so easy?” he asked. “You think you could kill someone?”

      Peggy sat a little straighter. “Sometimes I have this dream where I have three hands,” she said. “Right hand. Left hand. Middle hand. It grows right out of my belly button. It’s a weird dream, but I don’t think it’s a bad one. If I had three hands I could wear more jewelry. I love coloring my nails and a third hand would give me five more nails to paint. It would increase my hand-holding ability by fifty percent. I could hold more hands. It’s not a bad dream. Then, when I wake up and see that I only have two hands, I’m sad.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “It’s a dream,” Peggy said. “There’s nothing to understand. In a dream you’re holding hands, when you wake up you’re not.”

      “What are we doing here?” Vincent asked. “What did you do?”

      Peggy didn’t answer.

      Vincent took the knife out of his pocket and opened in. The handle felt cool in his palm, like the chill of the room was seeping into the weapon.

      He placed the blade against Peggy’s neck.

      Peggy’s body tensed.

      Vincent tried to move his hand. He couldn’t.

      Take care of it, Jimmy had said.

      Vincent tried to slice. He couldn’t.

      This was a promotion. He was moving up.

      Vincent tightened his grip on the knife. He tried to cut, to carve, to scratch. Anything.

      Nothing.

      He glanced at the wall, at the water stain. It still didn’t look like anything.

      “This isn’t me,” Vincent said. He took the knife away from Peggy’s throat.

      “Once a thug, always a thug,” Peggy said. She sounded both relieved and disappointed.

      As Vincent stepped away from the chair he folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. “I’m sorry.”

      “It’s okay,” Peggy said. “There are things certain people aren’t cut out for. It’s not your fault.”

      “Jimmy’ll still get you. He’ll just have somebody else take care of it.”

      Peggy smiled. Vincent noticed that she smiled a lot. “It’s okay,” she said again. “I’ve prepared myself. It wasn’t easy, but I’m ready. I have people to see on the other side. I’m ready.”

      “What did you do?”

      “Should I tell you?”

      “Why not?”

      Peggy was quiet for a moment. “I made a mistake,” she said. “That’s what I did. I made a bad mistake. But I don’t regret it. Stephen and I were in this restaurant, this Chinese place.”

      “Who’s Stephen?”

      “My brother. We weren’t saying much to each other, focused more on our food than anything else. Now, of course, I wish we’d been talking. Saying something, even arguing. Anything but that silence.”

      “They killed him?”

      “These three men came in with guns. They opened fire. I guess Jimmy was mad at the owner for some reason, he sent three killers to take care of him. They did. They also took care of Stephen.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “One thing about my brother and me, we never outgrew holding hands. We’d walk down the street hand in hand, just like when we were little. As soon as I put Stephen in the ground, I decided to find the men that killed him. I took care of them, all three of them.”

      The basement seemed to grow cooler. When Vincent exhaled he swore he could see his breath.

      “I took my time while I did it,” Peggy said. “They screamed. It’s a very undignified way to die, screaming, begging for mercy. It’s so degrading.”

      “But you’re…”

      “A middle aged woman? And they were three strong men?”

      “Yeah.”

      “I have my ways. One at a time all three of them screamed and bled and died. Then I disposed of the pieces.”

      Vincent walked over to the wall where he’d scrutinized the water stain. The air was making the itch in his head worse. He was disobeying orders. Not only was he not going to move up, he would probably be in even worse trouble. Orders were orders. Was he willing to buy this woman’s life with his? He looked for the water stain and couldn’t find it. It seemed to have evaporated.

      “Jimmy’ll still get you,” Vincent said.

      “If I stay alive,” Peggy said, “Neither one of us gains anything.”

      Vincent took the knife back out of his pocket and slid it open.

      “It’s good that you’re hesitant,” Peggy said. “That apprehension means you’re normal, you’re human. I felt nothing.”

      Vincent moved back over to the chair.

      “If I leave here alive,” Peggy said, “I’ll have to prepare to die all over again.”

      Vincent put the knife back to Peggy’s throat. Time to prove he was more than a thug.

Copyright 2006 by John Weagly

John Weagly has had over 25 plays produced by theaters across the country
and over 50 short stories and poems published in a variety of mediums. His
fiction has appeared in such publications as Plots With Guns, Hardluck
Stories, Blue Murder, Judas Ezine, Crimespree, Down These Dark
Streets and Blood & Donuts. For more information about John, check out his website at www.johnweagly.com.