Killer Instinct

A crime fiction story about decisions and the space between doing what we're told and doing what we do.

Photo by Heber Davis on Unsplash

Fathead Tuggle didn’t want to be a killer. It was just how it had turned out.

Even when ole’ Coach Morley wanted him to have a ‘killer instinct’ as a defensive end at Overton High, Fathead hadn’t liked the idea. He hadn’t liked his moniker either, and Coach Morley had given him that too. “Get it through your fat head, Tuggle” the man had screamed. “Or is your head too fat for anything to get in there?” Tuggle couldn’t even remember what the coach had been trying to teach him during that blisteringly hot August practice freshman year. His nickname was the lasting lesson from that day. A ruined knee during Tuggle’s senior year had ended whatever college prospects he had specifically, and whatever life prospects he had more generally. Instead of going to Austin Peay to play college ball, Fathead Tuggle had established a lifelong addiction to Percocet. Killer instinct, my ass. Fuck you, Coach Morley.

The percs had pulled him into a new life like a rip current, sweeping him into deep waters whose placid surface belied the dangers below. He had been working as a bouncer at one of the honky tonks downtown, one of the few jobs off the playing field where being as large as a refrigerator had actual value. His doctor was cutting him off from the percs. It was too dangerous, Tuggle had been told, since the drugs had a high propensity for addiction. Fathead Tuggle didn’t need to understand the word “propensity” to know that it was far too fucking late to be suddenly concerned about addiction. Desperate to find something that didn’t make his knee feel like someone was twisting a hot piece of rebar inside it, Tuggle had turned to another bouncer, Devo Clancy.

“Fitty bucks,” Clancy had said, his arms folded.

“Fuuuuck, Devo. You know we don’t get paid ‘til Tuesday.”

“Then I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“C’mon man. I’m not gonna make it. I’ll take a shift for you or something, man.” Tuggle’s voice dropped to a plea. “Please.”

Devo Clancy was not a man who had enjoyed the sensation of advantage on many occasions, and it suddenly felt to him like the random soft, cool, breeze during what had been lifelong summer. Clancy pretended to consider Tuggle’s plight sagely, as if searching for just the right maneuver that would assist his friend and colleague. His head – which was, to be fair, fatter than Tuggle’s – tilted slight to the left. A mean little smile crossed his lips.

“You could earn it.” Clancy’s voice had been low. Conspiratorial. They were standing outside the loud honky tonk, the neon-washed sidewalks of downtown Nashville were packed with the hoots and hollers of weekend revelers; a cacophony of music floated from the open doors of a dozen bars. But despite the noise, Tuggle heard him. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t.

Five percocets had been his thirty pieces of silver. Barely enough for two days but they didn’t cost him any money. In return for that largesse, Tuggle was fronted ten more pills to sell for the guy who supplied Devo. “Fronting” was a key engine in the narcotics economy. Tuggle took the ten extra pills on credit, owing Devo’s guy – a skinny little redneck named Zane – a couple hundred bucks until he sold the ten pills. When Tuggle sold the pills, he would pay Zane back for the “front” of pills. That’s how, Zane had explained, Tuggle could score more percs without paying cash. But they weren’t free. Zane would always have more pills to sell and, once Zane saw that Tuggle was good at selling the percs – “an earner” – then the only way Tuggle could get pills was to agree to sell more and more for Zane. The first curling fingers of the rip current had circled around Fathead’s legs, and he hadn’t even felt it at first.

The pill game had worked okay for Tuggle for a while. Real percs were hard to get and Zane would run dry from time to time. That not only pissed off the regular customers that Tuggle had for pills but a dry spell would leave him in agony while he sweated out the moments until he could score more percs. Tuggle tried befriend Zane, who a mean streak that was routinely amplified by a wicked methamphetamine addiction. But Tuggle was hoping to get close to the front of the line for when the meth-head got a re-up of percs. That’s why they had been out at the titty bar that night, Tuggle was trying to make Zane his best pal in hopes that Zane would text him first when fresh product was in hand.

It was the night Tuggle first met Kiko.

Kiko was foreign, that much was obvious. Maybe Hispanic, maybe something European, Tuggle was never sure. Kiko’s clothes fit him well, his hair was neatly trimmed and gelled in place, a massive gold watch hung from his wrist like Kiko was embarrassed by it. This old thing? I never wear it. Tuggle didn’t even know why Kiko was there in the first place. It seemed like the place was beneath him.

“What do you do, Mr. Tuggle?” Kiko had asked over the pounding bass of the strip club. He hadn’t been called Mr. Tuggle anywhere in his life before that moment.

“Fathead’s a fucking earner, man,” Zane had offered from where was sitting with one of the strippers on his knee, a girl named Janie that Tuggle knew was more strung out on percs than he was.

“Is that a fact?” Kiko’s question was more of a statement. Kiko’s eyes had showed interest in him and, while he couldn’t explain why, that interest had infatuated Tuggle. His cheeks flushed and he mumbled something that couldn’t be heard over the din of the strip club music. The three of them then sat awkwardly as the pulse of sensuous beats thrummed around them and a woman took her clothes off disinterestedly just a few feet away. Bored, Tuggle had stepped outside for a cigarette when he heard Kiko’s voice behind him.

“Big earner, eh?” Kiko’s smile was warm on the surface, but his eyes were cold; his demeanor reminded Fathead of the televangelist that his granny used to watch every Sunday morning when they lived with her.

“Zane’s full of shit.” Tuggle took a drag of his cigarette. “Like usual.” Kiko nodded.

“He is full of shit.” Kiko didn’t have as much of an accent Tuggle had thought he would. “And a moron. But he has an eye for talent. Are you talented, Mr. Tuggle?”

“Everyone calls me Fathead.”

“And does everyone call you a talented man as well?” Kiko smile gleamed in the neon glow of the strip club marquee. Like a crocodile’s. “Mr. Tuggle?”

“Talented enough, I reckon.”

“I have an opportunity for a talented man. Talented men can make a lot of money if they seize the opportunities before them.”

Kiko explained that he had a slight problem, and he needed a man to solve it. A very important delivery was to be made. Kiko needed a man he could trust. Naturally, he would be willing to compensate such a man for his dedicated service. And his discretion. Perhaps Tuggle showed the killer instinct that would have finally made Coach Morley proud. Because he described himself as just such a man.

Two days later, Tuggle met a man in the parking lot of a worn out strip center only half-full of failing businesses. The man handed him a black duffle bag without a word. Fathead Tuggle drove the bag to Cincinnati where he gave it to a guy in dive bar’s back alley near one of the city’s housing projects. The next morning, Tuggle got in his beat-ass Chevy for a run to the Gas’N’Sip and a pack of cigarettes when he saw, sitting in the driver’s seat, an envelope. Two grand cash inside. If Tuggle was able to hold all the money he had ever held in his hands over his whole life, it would still be far less than the cash in that single envelope. 

A month later, Kiko was coming back to Nashville and he asked Mr. Tuggle if Mr. Tuggle would do him the courtesy of picking him up at the airport. Mr. Tuggle would. On the ride from the airport to the fancy downtown hotel where Kiko was staying, Kiko asked if Mr. Tuggle would like to receive a package for himself this time instead of just delivering one to Louisville. Mr. Tuggle would.

Two years later, Tuggle’s Escalade pulled up to the valet stand at Narimasen, a high-end sushi restaurant in The Gulch, a fashionable enclave of Nashville southwest of downtown. Tuggle stepped out of his ride carefully, so his Air Jordan 1 Retro High OG Chicago high tops wouldn’t land in or near a puddle in the street, and oozed into the restaurant. He saw Kiko at a booth near the back of the restaurant and slid in opposite him.

“Ah, Mr. Tuggle, something to eat?” Kiko gestured to the array of sashimi before him.

“I’m good, Kiko.” Tuggle wasn’t above throwing down some sushi at Narimasen, but his stomach was churning. He knew what this meeting was about. It wasn’t a subject best paired with raw fish.

“Your old friend Zane has been careless.”

“Zane and I were never friends.”

“Nevertheless,” Kiko shrugged, “his carelessness has become a problem. Your problem.”

“I know that.”

“There is a suggestion,” Kiko popped a piece of sashimi in his mouth, “that Zane was more than careless.” Kiko swallowed the sashimi. “That he was greedy.”

“Zane ain’t that stupid, Kiko.”

“Morons can be greedy. Often the greediest.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, Tuggle asked:

“What are you gonna do?”

Kiko took another piece of sashimi and ate it. Appeared to savor it. He took a drink of the still water, placed it down on the table, and then looked directly into Tuggle’s eyes.

“What would you have me do?”

Tuggle shifted in his seat and looked at the table.

“You see our problem then, Mr. Tuggle. Zane’s…lost shipment has cost me quite a bit.”

“A hundred grand.”

“As you say. But it is more than ‘a hundred grand’. And I don’t just mean transport costs, opportunity costs, lost profits. Even having to bear the scorn of my competitors.” Kiko, always deliberate, took another drink of water before continuing. “The loss of trust is paramount, Mr. Tuggle.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know that you do. You see, even if you came to offer to take on Zane’s debt,” Tuggle squirmed, unnerved at Kiko’s seeming clairvoyance, “you would not come close to filling the trust deficit. And this is the deficit that concerns me.”

“Kiko…”

“Mr. Tuggle, I see in you a man who takes his opportunities despite the risk. An uncommon man. A man who could be a great man if only he had the certain instinct.”

“A killer instinct,” Tuggle scoffed. “Ain’t the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Who said anything about killing?” Kiko replied with a wan smile. “I mean a man who knows to solve small problems before they become large problems. Personal problems. Such a man does not ask what to do because he knows what to do to solve his own problem.” Kiko finished his sashimi, and the two men sat without speaking for a long time. Finally, Kiko stood up from the booth. “I believe you are a man who solves problems, Mr. Tuggle.” He patted him on the shoulder. “You look like you could use a drink. Order the Dassai sake. It’s really quite excellent. My treat.”

The solution to the problem of Zane was not one that Fathead Tuggle wanted to leave to chance. Or others. He had not taken Kiko’s offer on the $750 bottle of sake but instead had gone to D.J.’s Bar & Grill in South Nashville where he threw down three Crown and cokes chased them with a couple of shots of Tito’s. Finally, resolved, he made the call.

“Yo, Zane!” Tuggle said when Zane answered.

“Big Poppa! What’s good my man!” The nervousness in Zane’s voice was enough to shake the phone in Tuggle’s hand.

“I talked to him.” There was a long pause as Zane considered his future. And it’s length.

“Fuck…what’s the good word man.”

“I gotchu. I squashed it.”

“For real?” Zane’s relief gushed over the phone line like the breaking of a dam.

“I need to get up with you to talk details of how we solve this.”

“Right on man, when you thinking?”

“Thinkin’ bout now,” Tuggle said. There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Okay.”

“You at your place?”

“Yeah.” There was something in Zane’s voice.

“What?” Tuggle asked.

“My girl’s here.”

Fuck, Tuggle thought. He grimaced. “That’s cool. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Okay boss…hey, man?”

“Yeah?

“Are we good?” The nervousness had returned to Zane’s voice. And something else. Fear.

“We good.”

Tuggle parked his Escalade two streets over from Zane’s place in South Nashville. It was a faded brick ranch that had belonged to Zane’s grandparents once upon a time. Tuggle leaned over from the driver’s seat and opened the glove compartment. He looked at the butt of the gun illuminated in the light of the glove compartment for a long time. Finally, he took the pistol out of the glove compartment and stuffed it in his waistband. He caught the reflection of eyes in his rearview mirror but looked away quickly.

At Zane’s doorstep he looked around quickly, saw no one and knocked on the door. No one answered. He banged on the door with his fist. When it opened, it was Zane’s girlfriend Janie standing there.

“Hey Fathead, what’s up?”

“Hey Janie,” his voice was low, “can I come in?”

“Zane? It’s Fathead!” Janie called out behind her. Fathead saw Zane emerge from the shadows behind her.

“Well let him in, babe, damn!” Zane’s voice was shaky, despite the command. Janie shrugged and walked back inside the house. Tuggle followed and closed the door behind him. He threw the deadbolt.

Zane had sat back down on the couch in the dirty and cluttered living room that still had knick knacks from when Zane’s grandparents lived there. A framed embroidery that read “To Have a Friend, Be One” hung on one wall. The coffee table was littered with the detritus of near constant meth use and a half-filled bag of crystals sat off to the side.

“Want a bump?” Zane offered, gesturing to the bag. Tuggle shook his eponymous cranium in disgust.

“You really think I do? Take a bump from Kiko’s delivery? Do I look like a fucking clown?”

“Hey, man…” Zane said, shrugging as his eyes darted nervously, “I told you I don’t know what happened to the bag, man”. Janie curled up next to him on the couch, almost protective like a lioness except that her eyes were glassy and she weighed about a hundred pounds after Thanksgiving dinner. Tuggle remained standing. Menacing.

“I got a clue,” Tuggle said, gesturing to the patina of crystal meth that dusted the coffee table.

“Shit, man…” Zane stammered. “It ain’t like there ain’t more were that come from.”

“Not your decision, though.” Tuggle’s voice was flat, his eyes dead like a shark’s. “Made it my problem.”

This is it, Tuggle thought. He took two steps toward them, his hulking body casting a shadow of dominion over them. The room was silent. The sound in his ears was like the ocean crashing against the surf. Janie screamed when he pulled the pistol out and pointed it at Zane. She screamed until he pointed it at her and told her to shut the fuck up. In the room, the seconds passed like days. In Tuggle’s mind however, the thoughts ran at light speed. Finally, Tuggle spoke.

“Get out.”

On the couch, Zane and Janie just stared at him. “I said get out,” he repeated. When nothing happened Tuggle bellowed: “GET OUT!”

For the next few minutes Zane and Janie scurried around like mice, trying to grab things without leaving out the essentials. To that end, Zane stuffed the half-filled bag of crystal meth into the pocket of a worn backpack. After the pathetic couple had grabbed everything that they intended to leave with, Zane turned back to Tuggle.

“Where’m I gonna go, Fathead?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Can’t they find me?”

“Not if they think you’re dead.” Their eyes locked.

“Why they gone think that?”

“Leave that to me,” Tuggle said, simply.

“Thank you.” Zane’s voice was small.

“Get the fuck outta here. ‘Fore I change my mind.”

When Zane and Janie were finally gone and the house was quiet, Tuggle walked back into the now-abandoned living room. He reached out to the wall, took down the framed embroidery, and read its message. He grunted, tossed it onto the couch.

Killer instinct, my ass, he thought.

Over the mantle was a painting of a beach scene. The shoreline was faded. But it was still there. Tuggle put the gun back in his waistband and walked out of the house.