There may have been a tactical error on my part.
Get the eyes for me, Althea, the client said. Contact me afterwards to arrange the drop-off, he said.
And I did. I have the eyeballs, sure I do. Plucked fresh from the head of the client’s own son.
They’re resting at the moment. Floating gently in a special fluid, in a special container, right now. How brown cow. Wow.
The eyes are waiting. Waiting to be alive again, part of the client. Made whole.
That’s some heavy metaphors right there. Father consuming the son, coopting his very body.
For I was blind but now I see.
Lazarus vision.
Alive.
Dead.
Alive.
Five and thrive gimme that jive.
Point is. The point is I did the job. Smooth like greased cats and fast as a nervous guy getting his first blowjob.
The job isn’t the problem. Went off without a hitch.
No big sitch, bitch.
Except for that one, pesky tactical error.
Error operator.
I have the eyeballs. Eyes eyes eyes on me, Miss Althea. Pay attention or you’ll have no sweets.
The eyeballs are ready to be exchanged.
Meet in the lobby. Client wants witnesses, as if that matters in a place like the Nine. As if I wouldn’t annihilate him onstage in a crowded theater if I wanted to.
But sure. Witnesses make him feel safe? Caveat emptor, motherfucker. We’ll trade off these delicate little details under Pinch’s bored gaze. Drooling junkies who can’t remember their room numbers and twitchy guests checking in under assumed names.
Here’s where things went awry.
I assumed the dropoff would be tomorrow, the day after completion.
I assumed the client would show up for the exchange, and leave. Like they always have before.
And yeah, sure, technically speaking I could have waited to talk to the client first thing after the job was done. I could have confirmed the dropoff before getting five types of fucked up with Moxie and Godfrey. Sure.
But when your girlfriend shows up in black thigh highs and a new wig the color of a raven’s wing and asks so sweetly for you to do a line or two off the firm curve of her ass, well.
She’s Moxie. And I’m only human. No matter what some people think.
Godfrey tried to get us both in bed straight away. High and horny and smug as shit after his enucleation. Very persuasive.
Good thing I insisted on calling first.
I didn’t know the client was staying in the Nine. He never mentioned that, not once.
I don’t like that. Tit for tat. The cat in the hat.
And yeah I get that the eyes are living tissue, that they need to be attached to their new host quickly.
Should’ve just told me they wanted same day delivery from the start.
But the drugs aren’t the problem, or at least not the whole problem.
As a rule I don’t work under the influence. I have and I can, but I don’t like to. Messy. Unprofessional.
The drugs aren’t an ideal situation, but one I can handle. Usually. Generally speaking.
The problem is something in this new concoction is slamming up against the walls in my head. Chemical interaction. It’s happened before. Whatever’s in my brain goes into sensory overload.
I should have fucking known better. Thought I could outsmart my own fucked up chemistry. Arrogant. A rogent.
The problem is I’m slipping. I know I’m slipping. I think I’m slipping. Slip slide gone away gone gone gone sing a song.
There’s a tunnel in my head, and sometimes I fall down. Or a well. That’s a better description. Well oh well. I slip and tumble down an open well.
I fall and I fall and I fall and I fall and I fall.
Everything is black. The walls too slick to grab onto. I feel slime and dampness and dirt under my fingers when I reach out.
Then I’m far away. Here and not. Gone and back. Everything is remote and far away and distant and I’m an automaton playing at being human. Synthetic skin, a computerized killer.
Sometimes when I come back from slipping, I have to fix things. Make apologies. Put out fires, literal and metaphorical.
It’s not like when the world is wrong and the inside of my head is screaming with a hundred different voices and a thousand shards of glass. I can breathe through that. Hide myself away.
When I slip, I lose myself. And sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever come all the way back.
Sometimes I don’t want to. It’s peaceful here. Quiet. Nothing can really hurt me because nothing can touch me. I’m something less than a person, and it’s safer that way. I do what needs to be done. Barely exist in between.
Everything is muted, far away, cloudy and opaque and translucent and distant. Sitting alone in a dark movie theater watching a life that’s somewhat familiar pass by on a big blurry screen.
I’m not Althea Parker. I’m not anybody.
It’s not multiple personalities. It’s the opposite.
It’s me with all my edges dulled and my colors washed out.
I’m a weapon, not a person. Put me in a drawer and leave me there until you need a throat slit.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ says Moxie in a tone indicating otherwise. She’s applying a red gloss to my lips. I sit obedient, mouth opened.
‘You just need to deliver the package, then scamper back to us,’ she continues.
She’s trying to be kind. I’m trying to accept it. We’re both out of our elements.
If my mouth wasn’t occupied I’d remind her I’m not a fucking child.
Moxie is wearing one of my old band shirts, riddled with holes and bleach spots. Her dishwater brown wig is back in place. She’s unguarded, no makeup and no costume and I love her like this. Open and real and tender as an arsonist.
I blink once to show her I’m listening.
Godfrey is pacing around behind me muttering to himself. He did two fat lines off of Moxie’s taut stomach, licking up the residue, while I navigated the phone call with the client. His pupils are blown and he keeps talking about jazz for some unfathomable reason.
I blink at Moxie again, slow and deliberate. I want her; please fuck me back into my body. I want her to cut me open so I feel something, anything, so I can remember what it feels like to hurt. Drag her nails down my back leaving bloody red love letters.
I want more of this wonderful chemical I’ve brought into the world.
I want to lie between the two people who love me best and remind myself it’s alright to exist.
‘This is different,’ Godfrey announces. Like we’ve all been having a serious conversation, and he’s at his wit’s end. ‘It’s not like the other times.’
Godfrey is still learning the language around how my brain works. So am I.
He stops pacing behind the chair, towers over me. I tilt my head back and look up at him. Eyes dark and deep and blinding in their intensity. Strong jaw, peppered with stubble.
From this angle, he looks like a stranger.
Godfrey brushes his fingers against my cheek.
I know he does this, but I can’t feel it. He stares into my eyes before letting out a puff of air, frustrated.
‘It’s like she’s gone,’ he says. ‘Like she’s empty.’
‘Godfrey,’ says Moxie. A warning and a hint of a threat.
‘I’m still in the room,’ I say. My voice is flat, free of inflection. I don’t care much about what I’m saying, but I know people talk to each other.
‘It’s not the drugs,’ says Godfrey. In another different neurochemical moment, I’d be offended by the touch of doubt in his voice.
‘It’s not the drugs,’ I repeat. Not for him. Godfrey has been blessed with good looks, a sharp mind, a big fucking dick, and fairly normal brain chemistry.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. Automaton. The sound I hear, I’m talking through a tinny speaker.
Or maybe not. Maybe I only think I’m talking.
Godfrey says my name.
Eyes eyes ides of eyes.
Beware.
If I die before I wake I pray the Nine my soul to break.
I need to go to the lobby. I have a job. A contract. An assignment.
I don’t leave jobs unfinished.
That would be bad. Sad mad glad dad.
Godfrey says my name again. Louder, but underwater.
I watch from the back of my skull, sedate and silent, as Moxie brushes and smooths back my hair. She’s concerned, a tight pinch at the corner of her mouth. That’s mine. The one I made. What if she stayed? Burn out and fade.
Her face is concerned. There’s a pinch at the corner of her mouth. Normally I would hate that, would hate I did that. But right now I feel a spark of satisfaction. I left a mark.
Godfrey’s hand touches the back of my neck, but I flinch away. Stand up, pull away from Moxie’s gentle, murderous hands. I crack my neck and scent the air, a blank eyed pit viper.
Someone’s watching us.
I hiss and drop to a crouch. Knife in my hand, scanning the room. Calm and focused and ready to kill.
I can’t see anyone. Just me and these two people. They’re not a threat. No. I know them. I no them.
‘Thea,’ says a voice I know. Coaxing me out of the white noise.
I turn my head without getting up, in case something lunges. All I see is Moxie and she’s beautiful and mine like strychnine.
I have to protect her. Moxie and Godfrey. Protect them from whoever’s watching us.
Whatever’s watching us. I can feel it, a dagger between my shoulder blades, sharp and twisting and I just want to make it stop.
‘Maybe one of us should make the delivery,’ says Godfrey from across the world. There’s a hesitation in his voice and I know he’s going to volunteer.
Take the package to the lobby. Alone, because Moxie won’t trust me like this. Even if she knows I’ll sit staring at the wall until I come back.
Probably.
He’ll go into the lobby alone with no backup and nothing but a lovely little package to present to some sadistic fuckhead. Take an envelope full of money.
There’s a million ways he could die before he makes it to the goddamn elevator.
‘No,’ I say. I sound unfamiliar, kind of like the killer computer from any movie. You know the one. No sun no fun over and done.
The one with the apes.
‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘I can do it. Just needed a minute.’
It occurs to me I’m saying this from a low crouch with a large knife in my hand. I smile. This does not seem to reassure them.
With careful movements, I stand and put away the knife. I take Godfrey’s ridiculous red smoking jacket from where he’s draped it over a chair and put it on like a suit of armor.
A smile tugs at his mouth, despite how worried his eyes remain. Possessive bastard.
‘Thea,’ says Moxie. Makes it two syllables, what she does when she wants my attention. ‘Are you feeling better?’
She knows I’m not. It’s a more complicated question.
I look at her, the contours of her body and the angles of her face and she reminds me of a ballerina with a machete.
‘It’s quiet,’ I say. Moxie nods once, unhappy but understanding.
Sometimes everything hurts too much and I feel everything and it burns and the colors in my head are screaming and the noise is coming from inside the house and reality crumbles and none of it will stop no matter how hard I beg.
This is better. Safer.
For me and mine, at least.
I wink at Godfrey. His long fingers are tapping out a complicated rhythm against his upper thigh.
At least one of us is having a good time.
I light a cigarette, even though I can’t feel the smoke in my lungs. Hold it between my thumb and pointer finger and wonder if I’d feel the embers cooking my skin.
Probably not. No time to test the theory, anyway.
I have a job to do.
‘Now you mustn’t kill anyone, darling,’ says Moxie. Hands on her hips and trying not to argue with me. ‘That’s not the assignment.’
I nod once. Pick up the case containing the eyeballs. Got my eyes on you, baby. Knife in each boot and a grenade in one pocket and a syringe in the other.
‘Being a bit overly cautious, don’t you think?’ asks Godfrey. He’s flopped onto the bed staring at the ceiling in a sort of bemused ecstasy. Moxie pokes him in the side.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Stay here. In this room. It’s not safe. Don’t do anything. We’re being watched. It’s not safe here.’
‘Where?’ asks Godfrey without looking at me.
‘Anywhere,’ I say. ‘Den of thieves and murderers and monsters and miscreants.’
Arsonists at the fireworks factory. Or is that just me?
‘Maybe-’ begins Moxie.
‘I’m not a child,’ I say, already halfway to the door. I ignore Godfrey smacking himself on the forehead.
‘I have to deliver the package to the client,’ I say. ‘You have to stay here, my dear.’
There’s a hint of a plea there. Wish I could force them. Lock them in trap them chain the doors shut. Sedate them and tie them to the bed.
I’d be so gentle. I swear. Like when I was little and would pin moths against pieces of ripped cardboard.
There are eyes everywhere and people with ill intentions and despite my best efforts and the Nine’s creative ideas about time and space, I still can’t be in two places at once.
I’ve tried.
And Godfrey is strong and smart and and ruthless. Moxie is the most dangerous person in the Nine on almost any given day.
That’s not the point of the joint.
The point the point the point is they’re mine and they belong to me and it’s my privilege to protect them.
I will keep them locked away and safe like a sin like a secret like a suicide like whatever lives under my skin that makes me the way I am.
‘Don’t leave,’ I say. I close the door.
There’s no trust in the Nine.
For the Nine.
In the Nine.
I don’t question her but I do trust her.
No I don’t.
Yes, I do.
I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.
The things whispering in my head aren’t even human.
The drugs have shifted, are helping keep the paranoia in check.
Relatively.
Overall. Stall hall ball.
I walk down the hallway to the elevator. My hips sway, violence in each step and gesture.
I smile at a passing guest. Big ugly man with olive skin and a lot of bad tattoos.
In my head I’ve already killed him. Smeared his blood under my eyes and down my arms.
No. Not really. At least not right now.
He passes by, leering and stinking of cheap cologne but otherwise unharmed.
I make a note of which room he’s in.
Mr. Valentine smiles at me when he opens the elevator. Always knows it’s me, even though he’s blind and I haven’t breathed or said a single word.
But he’s smiling, happy that I’m here, grin big enough that the satin cloth covering his eyes wrinkles.
‘Hello, Miss Althea,’ he says.
The elevator reeks of bleach. I’ll have to ask Malick what happened.
Or the dead woman with the bones. Jones phones moans.
The ghosts won’t hurt Moxie, won’t hurt Godfrey.
I wouldn’t let them.
I know about things that scare even ghosts.
‘Hello, Mr. Valentine,’ I say. He cocks his head to the side.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘One of those days, then.’
‘Lobby, please,’ I say. Sound formal even to my own attached ears jeers tears for fears. Feers.
I lean against the elevator wall and cross my legs. My movements are loose, fluid. I’m acid I’m an ocean I’m a snake.
There’s silence between us as the elevator descends, comfortable and familiar even now when everything is strange and distant and menacing.
I’m always safe with Mr. Valentine. I peer at the parts of his face I can see, studying him even though I’ve probably seen him every single day of my entire life.
He has dark weathered skin like tired storm clouds, ghost grey hair and is more dangerous than he looks.
‘You keep well, Miss Althea?’ asks Mr. Valentine, almost gently. Like when I was real little and woke up scared and lost and alone and the noises were inside and outside and the colors were wrong and I was alone alone can’t phone home.
So I’d run. Run in my stained footie pajamas with the ducks, clutching my worn blanket and trying not to cry too loud because Mr. Pinch will yell at me for bothering the guests. I don’t like to be yelled at.
Mr. Valentine never yelled. Never chided me or lectured me. Never once sent me back to my room, even though I’m pretty sure ‘raising a feral orphan’ wasn’t in the original job description when he started at the Nine.
I’d stand there covered in snot and my face damp with tears and he’d sit me down in the corner with my blanket. I’d sit there snug as a bug in a rug while Mr. Valentine went about his job of ferrying guests throughout the hotel.
When we were alone he’d tell me stories. Fairytales and stories from when he was a little boy. Old folktales and scary stories and songs sung by people trying to remember what freedom felt like.
Eventually I’d doze off, lulled by the cacophony of the gears and Mr. Valentine’s voice. Wake up in my own bed, blanket tucked securely beside me.
‘If anyone ever hurts you, I’ll destroy them,’ I say out of nowhere. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.’
Mr. Valentine chuckles softly. Normally I don’t like when people laugh at me. I make sure they don’t do it again. But Mr. Valentine laughs with me, not at me.
‘That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me, Miss Althea,’ he says.
I nod. It’s just a fact, after all. Interesting piece of trivia I hope he shares with the other guests.
I should know more about the guests. Be our guest be our guest. There’s ways to see everything in the Nine. Nickel and dime. In for a penny in for a pound never hit the ground.
I know we’re being watched, all of us even me. Not by the Nine but by other eyes, living human eyes that see and covet and strike and leak and bleed.
There are cameras everywhere and in everyone and sometimes I can see the circuit boards under my skin like shimmering fish scales.
The doors of the elevator open. I straighten my shoulders and crack my neck. Mr. Valentine frowns.
‘You’re not going to cause a commotion, Miss Althea,’ he says.
Mr. Valentine uses the word ‘commotion’ whenever I do something untoward.
Like the thing in the kitchen with the cockroaches.
Or the time me, Tuesday, and the Knife set the room with the shadow people on fire and burned the room up to a crisp but it was alright once you closed the door, only guests complained about the screaming and the smell and oh well what the hell. Arthur was fucking pissed. Something about cooking paying customers, even though I explain to him they weren’t even real people.
Or the time I beat those sick fucking torturing bastards to death and then threw their bodies off the roof, one at a time.
Splat.
Commotions happen more often when I’m like this, drug induced or otherwise.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not a commotion. Delivery.’ I shake the container. Wonder if Mr. Valentine would like a set of eyes. I could get them for him.
Godfrey showed me how.
‘Don’t you go happening to anyone, Miss Althea,’ Mr. Valentine says, which I know means ‘be careful.’
I smile and I know he can see it, somehow.
‘See you later, Mr. Valentine.’
‘Not if I see you first, Miss Althea,’ he says with a grin.
I see the client almost immediately. It’s not hard to pick him out, especially with all my brain cells turned up to eleven and the lights bright enough to burst your eyeballs.
The lobby is quiet. It’s late. State date fate, mate. There are some of the regulars milling about. I nod at a pair of amnesiac drug dealers I work with. They give me twin confused, puzzled smiles as I pass.
Of course this dumbfuck insisted we meet in the lobby.
He looks like an older, fatter, crueler version of his son’s pale corpse. His eyes are covered by thick dark glasses, like buttons.
He’s even wearing the same type of suit his son had on when he died. Fried pride suicide.
I wonder if it was deliberate. I have the sinking feeling that it was.
No wedding ring. Soft hands. Manicured nails.
The client is sitting in a stiff wooden chair with itchy red cushions and the name ‘Althea’ scratched underneath with a stolen Wharncliffe. Even though there’s a perfectly comfortable couch right there. There’s a cocktail in front of him, leaving a ring of condensation on the tired oak coffee table.
Looks like a cognac, the motherfucker.
The client’s legs are crossed at the ankles and he’s smoking a cigar. Manchmal ist eine Zigarre nur eine Zigarre, but not in this case.
Face place erase. Hollandaise. Focus, Althea. Pay attention to your guest.
The client brought his bodyguard. It’s cute. The muscle stands next to the chair, hands folded in front of him. Tall, skin the color of the dunes and dark hair cut short military style. He’s built like a brick shithouse. I wonder where he buys his clothes.
Our eyes meet. He looks me over and sneers, his gaze condescending and dirty all at once. Stunts fronts cunts.
I smile, fluttering eyelashes and gentle curved lips.
He’s a predator. Like me. And this is my fucking turf.
Muscles leans down and whispers into the old man’s ear without taking his eyes off of me.
I walk through the lobby like I’ve done a billion times before. Every inch of the floor is haunted by my footsteps. There’s no part of this place that doesn’t have my name on it.
I’m in my element.
I smile at Muscles again and pray this fucker gives me an excuse to hurt him. There’s violence burning under my skin, an urge a need oh yes indeed. I need to hurt, to cause pain. Not meaningless, random. Pain with a purpose. I want a deserving subject.
I sit across from the client in a high-backed armchair that Pinch thinks is classy for some bizarre reason. Put my package on the floor between my boots.
‘Miss Parker,’ says the client. Rich voice. Aiches in places they were never meant to be. The sort of voice used to getting what it wants without delay. Genial up until the moment you say no.
Muscles watches us shake hands with narrowed eyes. I resist the urge to slip a knife into his nostril, quick and clean lean mean daydream.
Focus, Althea.
‘The Alchemist,’ the client says. Sounds pleased with the melodrama of the moment. Rolls my sobriquet around in his mouth like he’s savoring a fine wine.
‘Hello, Mr. Zirm,’ I say. Loudly enough that Muscles winces. Probably thinks that’s the client’s real name, the stupid shit. ‘If I’d known you were staying at the Nine I could have dropped this off at your front door.’ The client shakes a finger in my direction, making a tsking noise that’s almost a reason to go full berserker mode, but I restrain myself. Mr. Valentine would be so disappointed.
‘Ah, there’s the rub,’ says the client. ‘I didn’t want you to know I was staying here, you see. I wasn’t sure how you’d react to the information.’
I’m silent. Ignore Muscles completely, even though he’s doing his best to loom. I stare at the client, still and unblinking as a lizard being cooked on a hot rock.
‘So!’ The client claps his hands together. Rubs them together, all business. ‘Tell me, Miss Parker. How did it go?’
I shrug, even though I know he can’t see it, not like Mr. Valentine would. Fucking hate this shit. Retelling the steps of the job like I’m a special type of phone sex operator. All the gory details. Did they suffer? Were they scared? How did you do it, exactly?
I know why. Client wants to get his rocks off on his own cleverness. Congratulate himself on being the master of life and death. A real important guy.
Fine. Fuck if I would ever deny a person their private delusions. Not my pig, not my farm.
But I don’t want to indulge the behavior. It feels gross, obscene in a way the job itself did not.
Unfortunately, this is a customer service gig.
‘No problems,’ I say. ‘Everything as you requested.’ I tap the top of the case with the heel of my boot. The client frowns. Looks disappointed, I spoiled the end of the movie for him. His face is smooth and pink from a recent chemical peel.
His face hardens and cracks and shatters, all that skin bursting like overheated glass and showering me in rock-hard hunks of flesh and skull and alright, maybe the drugs are part of the problem.
This is your brain on drugs. Hugs bugs slugs rugs.
Eyes on the prize, Parker.
‘Details, my dear,’ says the client. Muscles snorts and rolls his eyes.
‘Not here to give you Cliffs notes,’ I say. ‘Did the job. Everything went to plan. Next.’ Speaking is hard, my tongue is a thick soft shag carpet.
I’m hungry. I hope Godfrey will get me something from the kitchen.
I probably shouldn’t be there right now. All that fire.
‘How was my dear boy?’ asks the client. Called it.
‘Compliant,’ I say. ‘Cooperative. Past tense, now.’
I love the lobby, but right now I’d rather be almost anywhere else in the Nine, barring the places that actively try to kill you. I’m too exposed here, can’t watch the whole place at once. Could be creatures behind the furniture, cats with teeth for eyes and human fingers waiting to tear me apart.
Then there are the cameras, but it’s okay because I’m invisible. I don’t really exist, not all the time, not here and now, and the cameras know that. I show up as a blur, moving static and shadows with no real shape or form.
There are no pictures of me, not anywhere in the whole world.
I risk glancing around the lobby. Pinch isn’t in his spot behind the front desk, either smiling like an executioner or scowling like a priest, depending on who stands in front of him. It’s not unusual - Pinch, always scampering around underfoot like a water bug - but right here right now his absence puts me on edge.
Pinch despises me, but nowhere near as much as he loathes anyone who interferes with the Nine.
It’s one of the few things we have in common.
I don’t see Malick either. There’s a drunk weeping into the payphone in the corner with the cut wires. I think I hear Moira’s harsh smoke voice drifting behind me but I don’t dare turn around.
Muscles is eviscerating me with his eyes.
The client smiles like a suicide bomber. I realize he can see me, not the way Mr. Valentine sees me though.
To the client, I’m not a person. I’m a tool. A weapon. A piece of entertainment.
I need a shower. Dour sour flower power.
‘Is there a reason you’re being so reticent, Miss Parker?’ asks the client.
‘Maybe she did something wrong,’ says Muscles in an unexpected nasal voice. ‘Fucked up the job.’
‘Services were rendered as requested,’ I say. Wonder if the client is wearing a wire. Probably wouldn’t work - the Nine doesn’t take kindly to most technology, except in certain special cases. Anywhere, wearing a wire here is throwing a manatee into piranha-infested water. Zero chance of survival. Blood bubbling on the water.
‘Payment delivered in full upon completion,’ I add.
‘I’d like some information before I turn over any funds,’ says the client, voice is an oil slick.
I put my feet up on the container, making each movement loud and clear. I light a cigarette, one foot resting on top of the other.
‘Could just keep the package,’ I say. ‘Could find another buyer. Hot commodity and all.’
‘Not before it’s nothing but dead tissue,’ says the client. I shrug.
‘Make a nice pair of earrings,’ I say.
‘Or I could have my dear colleague Nathaneal here take what’s rightfully mine and forgo the fee,’ says the client. Testing the idea, brainstorming. His cigar smells, chemical shit out a diseased asshole. The colors are starting to have flavors. I have a headache and I hear gunshots ricocheting down the halls.
No one else seems to notice them, though.
‘He could try,’ I say.
Muscles cracks his knuckles. I roll my eyes. Pies fries midsize goodbyes. Slump in my seat and take a drag of my cigarette. I want to eat it, gnaw on the end like a juicy piece of asparagus.
‘What do you want to know?’ I ask. ‘What he ate for dinner? The type of luggage he used?’
‘Did it hurt?’ asks the client, his voice quivering with anticipation. ‘Was he scared?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Extremely. To both.’ I could put the burning tip of the cigarette to my tongue, absorb the fire and the heat and blow out flames and burn these fucking smug shits like strips of bacon. Fat dripping on the floor.
But Pinch would throw a fit about such a mess.
‘The coins?’ asks the client. I nod. Force myself to stop nodding.
‘Exactly as requested,’ I say. ‘Message delivered.’ I toy with my cigarette, rotating it between my fingers. ‘Saw the girl on my way out. Seemed pretty young.’
The client smiles, wet-lipped and slimy and I feel my stomach roll with regret over accepting this job.
Don’t get me wrong. Son was no prize either, but at least he has the decency to be dead.
He’s probably what’s keeping Malick busy, come to think of it.
#####
‘Are we doing this?’ I ask. ‘Like you said, these babies have a short shelf life.’ I kick the top of the container with my heel. The client flinches. There’s a tic in Muscle’s jaw. I open my mouth wide and blow out a wave of smoke. ‘And I have plans.’
‘I’ve heard quite a few stories about you, Miss Parker,’ says the client. ‘It’s one of the reasons I specifically chose you for this role.’
Well, I don’t like that one little bit.
‘Should I be flattered?’ I ask. Only Muscles seems to be paying any attention, but it could be a ruse. The bird flying through the rafters cooing is really a demon sent to firebomb the Nine to shit. The young woman with tits like beach balls and a face like a death wish isn’t really a junkie but an assassin. The weeping man is a sharpshooter.
‘You should be respectful,’ says the client. I’m sliding back into my skin inch by excruciating inch and I could be in bed with Godfrey and Moxie right now instead of listening to this horseshit.
I’m getting angry.
‘Nathaneal,’ says the client. ‘Is Miss Parker pretty? Is she a vision?’
Muscles looks me over. I wiggle my feet. Smoke my cigarette. Can feel his eyes crawling over me like termites, but I don’t shudder.
‘She’s all right,’ Muscles says. ‘Tallish. Average pretty. Pointy face. Not my type,’ he adds. ‘Sorry.’
As if that isn’t a fucking compliment.
‘I’ve wanted to meet you for a while, Miss Parker,’ says the client. ‘I’ve heard so many stories, and I needed to see if they were true.’ He’s leaning forward, hands clasped on his knees. He’s sweating on his forehead and along his upper lip. Rip strip dip.
I can be in the elevator in under 12 seconds if I move fast. Package in my hand. Fuck him. I’ll eat these things before handing them over without payment.
If I disappear into the Nine, they’ll never find me.
Might never find their way back at all. Fall fall fall.
‘I’m flattered,’ I say. Smoke swirling around my head like the opposite of an angel’s halo.
The client chuckles. Sucks on the wet brown tip of his cigar with an obscene slurping noise.
‘Very unusual working situation,’ he says. ‘Tell me, are you agoraphobic?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘You know, Nathanael,’ says the client in a mocking tone, ‘there’s a rumor Miss Parker here never leaves the Nine. Ever.’
‘Weird,’ says Muscles with a laugh. His voice makes me want to clear my throat. I stay silent, cigarette smoke curling between us. The sobbing drunk has fallen silent. Or died. It could be either, really.
‘We all have our little peccadilloes,’ says the client. ‘And I can’t imagine Miss. Parker had an easy childhood.’ Sing-song voice, head bobbing from side to side. ‘Still, insisting on doing all your work within such a small area must limit opportunities for career advancement.’
‘Your point?’ I ask. ‘I have somewhere to be.’
‘What’s stopping me from taking that case away from you and walking out the front door?’ asks Muscles. ‘You gonna burst into flames in direct sunlight?’
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ I say. ‘And you wouldn’t make it to the front door.’ I smile at him, slow and filthy, and his lip twitches.
‘Hmm,’ says the client. He raises a hand in Muscles’ direction. Muscles grins and odds are he’s got a rage boner right now. He walks towards me. I know posturing when I see it. There’s no teeth behind the threat.
But that’s just bad manners.
The knife is in my hand and I’m across the table and my fingers are slippery with blood and I’m holding something warm and throbbing and alive. Muscles is on his hands and knees, blood pouring down the side of his face. Falls over, clutching where his ear used to be. He bellows, wounded bull he is.
The client smiles.
‘Nathanael,’ he chides. ‘I fear you’ve made Miss Parker upset.’ Muscles moans from the floor. He stumbles to his feet, unsteady and swaying like a drunk.
This might count as causing a commotion.
I stand over the client, bloody hunk of meat in my hand. Toss my knife and catch it.
‘Are you going to pay me?’ I ask. ‘Or shall I have you escorted out?’
‘Of course I’m going to pay you,’ he smiles. Reaches into the depths of his ugly suit and pulls out a thick brown envelope. Turns it over in his hands a few times, his expression thoughtful.
‘Do you have children, Miss Parker?’ he asks. Muscles leans on the armchair. He’s taken off his tie to staunch the flow of blood.
Good. It’s a heinous tie. Lie my die bye high pie sky.
I take the tissue box off the coffee table. Grab a handle and wrap the ear up. Wait until it soaks through, then wrap it again.
‘We have an excellent doctor on staff,’ I say. ‘He’s occupied at the moment, but I’m sure he could squeeze you in.’ I look at the client. He turns his head like he knows.
‘And no,’ I say. ‘I don’t have children.’
‘Pity,’ he says. ‘They’re extremely useful. A valuable commodity. And of course, it never hurts to have some extra organs on hand when the ravages of life begin to wear one down.’
‘Good to know,’ I say. He hands me the envelope. Muscles reaches for the gun at his side. Took him longer than I expected. I kick him under the chin, hard. Feel his teeth click together. He falls backwards in a crash. Smash rash brash.
Nobody else in the room reacts, but I’m almost certain it’s real.
‘Your friend’s not dead,’ I say to the client. ‘Although I really do suggest a doctor.’ The client shrugs, as if it’s all the same to him. Probably is.
‘Pity you can’t work as a bodyguard,’ he says. ‘I’d pay you in gold and you’d see the world.’
I hand him the container.
The floor is a mess, streaked with blood and mud and what a dud, right bud.
I hope nobody slips in it.
Muscles lies panting in the middle of the mess. I toss the tissue box onto his chest, even though I’ve used most of them to wrap up my little prize.
I get a warm, fuzzy feeling when I look at his face and realize how utterly he detests me.
I take the client’s free hand and press the ear into it. Fold his soft, stubby fingers around it gently, the ear could be a blue bird’s egg.
‘This one’s on the house,’ I say. Give them both my goofiest, toothiest grin, even though I know neither of them is in a position to appreciate it.
The client laughs. I wonder how many of his own kids this guy’s killed for spare parts.
And people say I’m the crazy one.
‘Thank you,’ says the client. Sincere, grateful. Almost a person, or a good impression of one.
The Nine hums around me, content and purring like a lazy cat. I feel the throb of the dead in the walls and the scent of the unreal in the air.
‘Thank you,’ the client says for a second time. Muscles struggles to his feet, keeping his eyes off me.
‘Are you done making a scene?’ the client asks. I snort.
‘Yeah Nathaneal,’ I say. ‘Don’t go to pieces.’
Muscles wants to hit me, beat me, take me apart piece by piece. I can see it in his little piggy eyes.
But he won’t. Won’t try to make a move against me, because he knows how it’ll go for him. He knows how it would end. That’s where the rage really comes from. The impotence.
I wink at him.
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,’ the client says. Extends his hand for me to shake. ‘I will heartily recommend you to my friends.’
I smile, and wonder what the world will look like through the eyes of his dead son.
I leave them to it, Muscles grabbing at scraps of dignity and flesh. The client with that strange little smile on his lips and a piece of his dead child in his hands. The two speak in low whispers before disappearing back into the Nine.
I hope they check out soon.
They don’t belong in the Nine. Not for long. Song wrong bong.
I smoke a cigarette. Finger the envelope. Wipe blood off my hands best I can. It’s mostly dry by now.
Moxie and Godfrey are probably worried sick.
Still, I linger. Look at the streaks and smears of blood, the outline of a hand pressed against the old tiles, mixed with the mud from countless boots.
I’m not cleaning this up.
‘What am I looking at here?’ asks an unpleasant, viscous voice.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ I say. His face lives up to his surname, pinched and red and tight. Mouth in a downward curve of distaste I’ve seen almost every single day of my life.
‘Is that blood?’ he asks, voice brittle and shaking a bit with anger, like I’m four and shit myself and hid the diaper under his desk because I didn’t know what to do with it and he’s just discovered the evidence.
I laugh at the question, can’t help it. The man’s seen more blood than an oversized tampon and now he’s clutching his pearls over a few pesky puddles.
‘In my defense,’ I say, ‘they started it.’
To see how this all ends, read tomorrow’s story. Everyone Gets What They Deserve