The Light of Day

Donnie had spent the balance of darkness buried in rough scrabble and dirt, breathing through a seam he had created between the roots. His lone peephole into the lurid hunt was sufficient for him to see the thugs come and go. He could hear, and almost feel the thumping of a machete among the bushes above him, he breathless below. Like an infant who covers their head alone in a blanket thinking they are hiding from the world, he had the overwhelming anxiety what he thought was securely secreted was ass-out in the glowing white of his boxers. He held his sphincter tight as they rummaged above him, as some added leverage for them to pass him unnoticed.

After their first scrounging about, he wasn’t imbecile enough to abandon the security that had already fooled them, so he decided to stay nestled in. Maybe they would conclude he made it to the highway, maybe a completely different direction was being searched. If either of these were options, it still gave him no encouragement to come out too soon, for exposed to the barren rankle of the Mojave, a man just did not have the places to hide other animals did.

And as he contemplated his varied fates, at least getting through this first gauntlet, Donnie realized he wasn’t very cold, in what surely had been a growing chill as he ran. And pretty soon, cloistered in the relative warmth of scrabble and dirt, those ranging thoughts somehow had Cliff in them… and Mark… and dice in Vegas… and Iraq was there, then not… then food... all kinds, some served on a woman’s bare stomach… Then sleep…

*********************

Art had completed the research for the group. What they couldn’t secure in information going through the traditional, lawful process, they would get in another manner. The White Pages.

“Clarence Cunningham, 1914 Bracket Circle.” He immediately pulled up Google Maps and located the little bungalow maybe four-miles from the hotel.

“Pull a full background on him, Art.”

“Already done. It’s cycling through.”

The three had decided they weren’t at all tired. Sunrise came unnoticed, coffee cups and pots indicated their diligence, as they were working on their theories and tactics, and their plan was all but in place. It wasn’t the end of their work, they knew, but it was the next necessary step.

“Bingo! Clarence Cunningham has a little past. Seems he had worked for Bally’s early on and got to taking bribes for information. Oh, and a little extortion, appears pled down to misdemeanor. No time. How the fuck did this guy get hired in another casino?” Art looked up at his mates, eyebrows hovering like a high sky above his dark Latin eyes. “He’s in it, guys. Bet my little pecker.”

Johnny threw him his hoodie, one of three they had purchased at the Army Navy Store, all nondescript, in the Las Vegas chill that prevailed. “I wouldn’t bet that little thing, you’d have no takers.”

Jaunty fun in normal times, this time, it brought a light hiccup of a laugh, and all that meant was they had work to accomplish, for they had brothers in the desert.

**********************

“1914… there it is.”

The three had the Uber driver drop them at a Dunkin Donuts almost a mile away. From there on out, it was a different kind of subterfuge.

They separated, and walked different routes to the coordinates, each monitoring the route through their phone. Radio silence. No texts or calls. They started out in regular civvies, button-ups, colorful, in a ‘be noticed’ sort of way. Then in their varied paths, half a mile into their walk, they all threw on the hoodies. Nothing more than early walkers on a cold Nevada morning, before they met in a stand of Mesquite trees outside the home of Clarence Cunningham.

They split up again and approached the house consecutively along different routes. Their aim was to assess the easiest way in. Cliff found a pane of glass on the garage window busted out. He gave a single curt whistle. The other two veterans crept along what was an unspoiled blind of Creosote bushes, keeping everything appropriately undiscovered, and united with their Sergeant.

It took Cliff all of 18 seconds to be inside the security guard’s garage. He opened the side door and all three were out of the light of day. A Toyota was in the garage.

Being Clarence did the nightshift, they suspected he was sleeping, and as Johnny and Art discovered, virtually every window was covered with curtains, most likely accommodating the man’s unique sleep hours. They listened intently for five-minutes… with not a sound. Cliff turned the knob into the home, and it swung easily. A small laundry room with a stacked washer/dryer and a pile of stinking clothes – well past their due date for a washing. Again they waited… then proceeded.

Into the great room and kitchen, big spaces with only a small table and chairs, a sofa and recliner and a coffee table – the spartan décor of a bachelor with bad habits. Nothing but diffused light and silence.

There were two bedroom doors, and a bathroom that were left, and they easily saw the one room open and empty with a small vacant bed and a large stack of papers and periodicals. At least this bad guy was a reader, Cliff thought. He turned to the others and pointed at the last door. “Right here!”

*********************

Cliff had Clarence zip tied with one hand to the headboard as he conveniently slept with one hand held high. It was done before he breathed funny. Then Art loosely lashed each foot with a slipknot in nylon cord, and at the count of three, they pulled all into action. Art yanked his legs secure and had him bound to the bed in an instant. Johnny had ahold of the big man’s right hand, keeping the hand folded inward in a crippling submission move, while Cliff was on his chest shoving a heavy gag in the man’s gaping mouth.

Piece of cake. He was theirs to do with what they wanted.

The ski masks were the last trick, and it wasn’t Clarence they were trying to fool – they didn’t give a shit about him. It was any other eyes that might accidentally find them. Clarence would know he fucked with the wrong guys after this little tete de tete. And he would tell no one. He would have too much to lose if he did. One way or the other.

“Hi Clarence. Don’t bother fighting. We’ll just hurt you bad.” Johnny put more pressure in his submission hold and Clarence winced, and nodded. “And son, that ain’t the half of it, and you know what I’m talking about.” He was nodding at Clarence, letting the words sink in.

Cliff climbed off the previously slumbered man, well into feverish fear. And the first thing he wanted to do was give Clarence assurances. “We’ll be fast here, Clarence. We don’t have time to waste, and you want to get back to sleep. So, what we’re going to do here is speed things up.”

Cliff pulled open a small canvas bag and withdrew a small acetylene torch, the thing welders use, and he set it out on the bed, Clarence’s eyes big and screaming. Cliff just easily said, “Don’t worry about this thing. It could be your best friend.” Nothing more.

Then Cliff went to his boot and withdrew what looked like a bear claw; it was a Karambit Knife, a curved tactical knife meant for in-tight hand to hand combat. He held it up for Clarence to see.

“Now this might be your motherfucker! And I’m being dead honest.” Clarence was grunting out in pitched wriggling fits, and Art punched him in the side, just in front of the kidney, the man stilled… then a subdued wriggling that said, ‘I’m not done fighting’, and Art hit him again with a short blow to the same spot. Then nothing.

Cliff continued, “Now you got some decisions to make. But I’m gonna make them easy ones for you.” He pulled the sheets off the man, exposing the full naked torso. “Good, this will make it convenient.” He said nothing more, he reached down and grabbed the man’s scrotum and lifted it, Clarence blaring in muffled silence for all the world to come save him, and Cliff showed him the blade, then went below the sack, and made a quick, little slit at the last of that loose skin, and an instant stream of blood began pulsing out. Clarence had converted to this mantra-like scream, “RRRRRRH!” “RRRRRRH!” almost precisely following the pulse of blood, already dampening the bed sheet.

Cliff just looked him in the eyes and told him straight, “I just cut your testicular artery. It runs from the aorta, so it bleeds like a motherfucker. You probably already feel your ass all wet and warm, right?” Cliff was nodding in knowledge, nothing else. “Unfortunately that thing twines around with your ureter – that piss organ – and…” he shrugged, “… the spermatic chord. That’s that wonderful delivery system to that nice big erect Johnson when you’re fucking the ladies. Am I right?” Cliff was still nodding, eyebrows lifted in childlike enthrall. “Sorry about that. Maybe it can be fixed, I don’t know, but that’s not my point.”

Clarence had been reduced to a panicked deep huffing, like he’d run a marathon… now subdued enough for a real conversation. Cliff pulled the gag, while he said, “You scream, and this knife is cutting your jugular. Yes?” More nodding… Clarence followed.

“Now, I’ll finish your science lesson. You will bleed out in…” he turned to Johnny, “What, another 10-12 minutes?”

“10 maybe.” Was Johnny’s dark response.

“So, there it is big man. Tough guy that you are, you can go out bravely without divulging a thing, or I can save your ass…” he reached over and picked up the acetylene torch, “…with this.” Clarence was shaking his head no, without words, he was too close to dying to expel any energy. “Hey, marine, trust me. This thing will save your ass. Would I lie to you?”

Cliff then looked at Art, “How much time does he have, ya think?”

“Eight, maybe seven minutes. You better ask him, or we might not even get our information.” Clarence whispered in frightened eagerness, “I’ll tell you who it is. I’ll tell you anything you want…” he started crying, drooling…

Cliff, more nodding, “I know you will. And if you do, Artie is gonna light this dude up and cauterize the wound. It’s gonna hurt, man, and I mean hurt like a mofo! But it will save your life. What do you say marine?”

“Yes… yes… yes…” and just tears otherwise.

Facetiously, Cliff glared back at Clarence, “Oorah!” and he let that simmer over the conman for a long moment, no brother to any marines they knew. “Since you only got about six minutes or so, who is it? I got two business cards, Mitchel Coggins, or Jack Smart?”

“I honestly don’t know that man!” fully in panic, “But I can tell you where if it’s either one.”

“That’s too confusing, Clarence. You don’t have time to give us mysteries, pops. You better give it straight.”

Now bawling, “I am, as much as I know. Mitchel is Amber’s man… and they work the hotel every weekend… they’re from Reno… they come over for the better clients, more big wheelers…”

“Stop your fucking crying Clarence! It isn’t making this easier for you, man. Any confusion works against your odds, dude!”

The guard, his bed now saturated with his blood, sniffed back the spittle, and pretended to pull it back together.

“What about Jack Smart? He’s the guy you tried to distance from our questions, kind of a misdirection thing to the pool vids. What game you got with Jack?”

Gasping, holding himself together by thin strands of endurance and want for life, “He pays me when he gets guys they want.”

“Whose they, Clarence?”

“I honestly don’t know. Jack’s just a recruiter scab. Zanzibar something. Shows up and buys guys drinks, selling his whores out in Pahrump. But I honestly don’t know anything about them. I only help them with information…” Clarence was getting sleepy, maybe they had guessed wrong on the time they would have.

“What information, Clarence?”

“Money… money information… high rollers… the ones who might want ladies… but high rollers is what they want…” Clarence was almost gassed.

“Stay with me, Clarence. This means everything to you. Why Mark then? Mark ain’t got money. He can punch his own ticket, but he’s no high roller.”

“But… your friend… the Pollack is.”

Cliff looked up at Artie, “Light the torch. Johnny, go get this fuckhead some orange juice, whatever he might have in the fridge.” Both were instantly engaged. Clarence too weary, drained to a dry sponge, to react to the torch.

“How did you know Donnie was rich?”

“I’m not the only one… who gets paid by Jack…”

Johnny hefted the man’s head and poured OJ down his mouth, most of it splashing all over.

“Who else, Clarence?”… silence…. “Who else?” Cliff felt his pulse, very light. The man was unconscious. “Heat him up, Art.”

With that, Art lifted the man’s package and aimed at the purple blood, center point to the wound and hit it with the torch, instantly sizzling, blood bubbling with the 4000 degrees of blue fire. A smell of singed hair and something darker, something that reminded them of Fallujah… the smoking bodies of the enemy… and friends.

*************************

Donnie awoke, spitting dirt, remembering where he was and why. His drunkenness broken by the terror of the night, it was no way to chase a hangover. He couldn’t recommend it.

He lay in place for a few minutes contemplating things, listening for any sounds of a search party. Nothing, so he pushed the matted earthen tapestry, still holding together fairly well, and he slithered back out of his cocoon. He crawled back into the thick of the butchered Creosote bushes they had hacked up, and he sat, with the best perspective of his surrounds as he could hope, without sticking his lame-ass head up to be shot. He got his bearings, knowing the Zanzibar Club was roughly due east of him as he ran west in the chase. He gazed around seeing nothing of activity. He glared long at the Club, hoping to see nothing… or something… not knowing what was the worst thing.

He doubted he could make a beeline for 160, and pretty damn sure they would be patrolling the highway. How he was going to get back to Vegas was a wild-assed dream with too many risks; there was no general assessment one could make. So, he reflected on the star-covered night and his first notice of the absence of civilization… there was only a halo of lights to the west, northwest. It would mean moving away from Club Zanzibar, and probably defying the logic that he might try, foolishly, to get back to Vegas on his own.

It was all guesswork at this point, so he decided, “You got to decide something, because you’re dead otherwise.” Then he thought about how hungry he was.

Absently he felt his flat belly, thinking what was the last thing he had eaten… and he saw the sharp blades sticking out around the Creosote… Banana Yucca. He knew it from his trips into Central America, a side order to meat dishes… he hit the jackpot again, wondering how long his luck would run for him like this – as if mere survival was luck. Certainly was when death was the alternative. He sat at the plant and pulled a couple burgeoning fruits, and rough scraped the husk on the edge of a rock, just to get the bristle off it. He then smashed it as well as he could exposing the fibrous meat inside. Much like a potato, he didn’t have the convenience of cooking it, and he knew too much might give an intemperate side effect as the carbohydrate heavy plant had minor doses of toxin in the raw stage. But he knew he needed sustenance if he still had miles and another gauntlet to run. He started gnawing on thick pieces, with no appreciation of flavor. There was none.

Then, more to his liking, he spotted the red fruits blossoming on the Hedgehog cactus. Two smallish plants, but easily 30 or 40 buds that would provide a sweet, seedy mash… it was getting into the sonsofbitches that was the hard part. Numerous long spines protected every inch of the cacti, so it might prove as dangerous as tangling with the thugs… but worth it.

He depressed the spines, parting them as one would dense hair, and using his thumbs, while the fruit was buttressed against the rock so he wouldn’t get speared, he separated the fruit exposing its interior food, and he scooped it with his two fingers and slurped up the sweet center. He ate seven of them, then realized he had to get moving. But he didn’t know if he’d ever get another chance, so, being the temperature was swiftly rising, the shirt was no longer serving him on his back, he shed the garment and began tying it into a bundle, and filling it with a yucca fruit and seven more cactus buds for later. He knotted the sleeves and tucked over the body like an envelope, then rose, tentatively, looking around. All remained silent.

He set out northward, staying to the arroyos and dried flows, ducking behind bush and desertscape where he could. Where exposed in open places, he would sprint with an eye over his shoulder… unable to dismiss the humor of the scene; a man running across the Mojave Desert in his undershorts and boots… A man avoiding death needed a sense of humor. This day would be work just to stay alive.

But the Pollack already knew all about that stuff.

***********************