The Clarity of Cold Steel

MAC HEATH, A.K.A. THE BUTCHER, proprietor of the cog-tavern Cartagena, is not what I expect. First off, he’s a she. Second off, she’s a dead knockout. Red hair cascades in curled ringlets to her shoulders, and those green eyes sparkle with amused menace as she sits poised behind her desk, scribbling in a massive ledger. Leaning on the arm of her chair is a slender kitten all swerve and sparkle, long sable hair brushed back over her bare shoulder. The sable beauty glides a hand up along Mac Heath’s back, her manicured fingers sluicing through the red curls and disappearing as she leans forward and whispers something soft and sibilant. The Butcher smirks, and I see desire flare like embers aglow for an instant in those verdant eyes, but she brushes it off. “Not now,” she says firmly then adds after a pause, “later, my love.”

“And here I thought they said you were a thespian,” I quip as Sable rises elegantly and heads for the door. The right side of her face is sheathed in gleaming metal. Bronze? Brass? Not gold. Good work, but not the best; the joint work and rivets are still visible. It detracts nothing from her beauty.

Mac Heath watches her paramour glide out the door then leans back in her chair, fixes me a hard glare. “How might I help you, Mister Shakteel?” Seagulls screech and wheel outside the window at her back, the Boneyard horizon beyond all grey with surf and wasted hulks.

“Things to see, people to do.” I gazing off dreamily to the door Sable just exited.

Mac Heath opens her mouth to say something decidedly wicked when I cut her off.

“You’ve heard of me.” I smooth my mustache, noticing for the first time that Mac Heath is tired. There’re dark circles under her eyes like maybe she hasn’t slept in a fortnight. Maybe more. Haunting. Hollow. Her makeup can’t completely cover it, nor should it.

“I’ve heard of your brother,” she corrects. “Mainlo, my associate whom you’ve recently become acquainted with, informed me of who you are. Now,” she clutches her pen in two manicured hands, “I am a busy woman, aye? What is it you want?”

“I’m interested in donating a kidney.” I glance over at a difference engine chugging and crunching away in the corner. “Hell, if the price is jake, maybe two.”

“Donate?” she echoes, tapping her pen softly on the table.

“Well, sell would be more accurate, I suppose.” I point to the chair before her desk. “May I?”

“You may, but you’re likely to be sorely disappointed. This is but a humble seaborne tavern. Not the nefarious underworld chop-shop you seem to believe it is.”

“You’re saying I’m misinformed?” I raise an eyebrow.

“About a great deal of things, I’m sure.”

I shake my head. “Not about this, though. This is up my alley. Missing people. Organ trade. I understand the market’s gone bullish as of late. Something to do with the slough, no doubt.” I grin. “It’s a sellers’ market.”

She stares impassively, glances at a grandfather clock holding post in the corner. She wants to be with Sable in the next room. So do I.

I lean in. “And I’ve experience from both ends, business and personal. I’m sort of a nexus between the two.” I shrug, hands out to either side. “If I had my druthers, it’d be different. But it ain’t. And I’ve heard of you, make no mistake. Not much, but enough, I assure you.” I stare at her in open admiration. “And allow me to say, the stories do you no justice.”

“Justice?” She leans back slightly, scoffs, bites the end of her pen, puts a leg up. Quite unladylike.

“And just what exactly does a pair of fresh kidneys fetch nowadays?” I ask.

She sets her pen down and poises a finger above a bell bolted to her desk. “I could request Mainlo to enter stage left, aye? No doubt he’d be overjoyed to open you up.”

“I’d prefer we keep this between the two of us.”

“I thought you might.” She pulls open a desk drawer, reaches in. “The man is quite adept at what he does.” In her grip is an antique pepperbox hand-cannon, fifteen tight barrels of black, staring me down. “Now, what is it you truly desire?”

“Well, to truly answer that question, your dark-haired paramour would need saunter her way back in here for a spell. A short spell, though, I assure you.”

“You are quite presumptuous, Mister Shakteel,” Mac Heath says, “and rude as well.”

“Only when lied to.” I ignore the pepperbox or try to, anyways. Nasty piece of work, that. At close range. I lean forward, skin prickling. “Look. A Hindu cropper boy of fifteen came here two days ago. Name of Gortham. Hit hard by the slough. Missing his right arm and most of the fingers of his left hand. Family claims he came here to sell you a kidney so he and his family could foot the bill on this year’s seed crop.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know this man.”

“Boy,” I reiterate. “He’s just a boy.” Or was.

She shrugs. “The east side is a rough side.”

“The city’s rough all around,” I say without missing a beat. “The family says the boy never returned.”

“Why, his mother must be worried sick.” She sits forth, hand to her breast, aghast.

“She’s sick alright,” I say, “and I’ve checked around. All o’ Boneyard knows about this place. Knows what you do. Don’t bother denying.” I sit back in my chair, cross one leg over a knee, make myself right comfortable. “And to be clear, I don’t care about what you do. I ain’t interested in spoiling your spoils. I’m discreet. Always.” Except maybe when attacked by a knife-wielding maniac. “Please, I just want to find the boy.” I place a hand on her desk, emphatic. Yearning. “What happened to him? Operation go south?”

“Mister Shakteel, I’ll ask you now to leave.” In emphasis, she lifts the pepperbox a mite and then rings the bell between thumb and forefinger. The eager staccato of gremlin footsteps pitter patter across wood, coming closer.

Stymied and terrified, I smile and tip an imaginary cap then rise slowly, hands out and empty cause I don’t fancy patching new holes in old wounds. “And a good day to you, madam.”