Full of Grit pt. 2

We're Not Friends, We're Family

Making my way into the office behind the sanctum. Every room in the 9 has at least three ways to get into. And if you ask nicely, she’ll show you how. Arthur doesn’t want me to get in here and be here alone. Can’t prevent me from doing it either. Let’s call it a draw. Not my fault, he can’t secure his office from me. His monkeys. 

Looking at the mail. Going through it. Lot’s of nice little envelopes made of the thinnest paper, blue tinged, with red and blue borders on them and par avion marks pressed into them. Am inspecting the stamps. Lifting the ones I like. Pretty pictures. Nice additions to my collections. Let them vanish into my coat. Have Pink Panther stuck in me head. No more stupid legion shit.

Arthur stalks into the place.  “You aren’t supposed to be here without me.” He comes to his desk and organizes his mail back into his neat little stacks. Doesn’t mention the ripped envelopes, the missing stamps. Not sure how much of that is fear and how much is resignation. 

“How can I help you?” he says in a tone of voice that makes it abundantly clear he would much rather not help me at all.

“Bloke in vat 7, how did he get here? Who was he with?”

He’s raising his right eyebrow. Twirling his mustache. Evaluating me. Thin lipped and calculating. I’m staring back. Wondering if he hasn’t seen my ugly mug enough already. It’s not gonna change. Not gonna go away, for sure. 

“Why would I know who is in vat seven?” he asks. “Once they’re cleared off the floors and down there, they are no concern of mine.” 

Not gonna answer a stupid rhetorical question. Trying a different approach. Arthur never appreciated the calm and the peace down there. Never will. Too much entropy for his taste. Not enough order. 

“Bloke who got found two days ago with two gold coins and an amateur whore. Big fella. 5th floor.”

“Ah.”

Impasse. Stand still. Like so many times before. Why am I related to this walking rulebook? Rules, ruler, little prick, sitting on a throne of information. Not sharing. Fuck you! Getting out my kukri, starting to carve into his desk. Just a little hole for starters. That makes his eyes go wide. Bell rings from the sanctum. He ignores it. 

“Let me see,” he says. Walks over to a file cabinet, opens it up and gets out a folder. Fusses about with it. “Barton Holm was his name. He had a scheduled business meeting on five. The fifth floor I mean. He made it up there with ample time to spare. He was not seen again until Malick picked him up.”

“Little whore saw him.” I say. Putting my kukri back into my coat.

“Yes, but she was in shock, confused, and did not make a whole lot of sense. Please leave her alone. She’s just a minnow without any pull or knowledge and she’s more than scared enough already.”

I nod. Not trying to interfere with her fucking business, her business fucking. Not my monkeys. 

“Why are you interested in him anyway? He’s already dead,” Arthur asks.

“Coins.”

“I see.”

Putting the name in my old marble. Trying to hold on to it.  Barton. Barton Holm. Barton had business. Who with? No, with whom? Mit wem? Third case, dativ. No sense asking Arthur. He’s discreet. If he’d wanted to tell me, he already would’ve. Could ask him with the kukri, but that'll be a one time thing, so not wasting it on this trivial stuff. Standing in his office like an oversized reminder of wrongness. Like a bear at Swan Lake. 

“Anything else?” he asks as he puts the folder away. Closes the file cabinet drawer with the softest sound. Yeah there is. I nod. He gets out some golden blue plastic bottle and a rag, squirts grayish goo out of it and starts polishing his metal sign. His pride and joy. The rules. The shit he lives for. 

“And what would that be?”

“I need new boots. Rubber soles. Size 15.”

“Why the hell would I have to buy you new shoes?”

“Boots,” I say. Sitting down now. Watching him puttering about and shaking his head. He’s still not done rubbing one out on the sign. Only half way pays attention to me. Still expects an answer.

“Supply store I used to order ‘em from closed down. Don’t know where else to get ‘em,” I say.

He gives an exasperated sigh. Got all the trimmings of ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ in it. Not brother, no, just cousin. But family. Family in a way that yeah, we are fucking responsible for each other. Family in a way that we hate each other, but carry the same name. Family as in, we would’ve never talked to each other if we weren’t related. That kind of fucking family.

“Just go to a shoe store.”

My turn to eye him. Look at his old marble, hiding under that hideous cap of his. Wondering if he thought this through. Smiling about the fact that he didn’t. Smiling about just the possibility to be let loose.

“You want me to leave the 9? Go out there, into the world, being righteous among the rubble? Bring peace to the masses? Okay.”

He pales. Shakes his head vigorously. Negates copiously. Yeah, didn’t think so. Gets one of his lime green sticky notes. Looks at my feet. 

“So boots, you said? Size 15?”

“Yep. With rubber soles. Just like these.”