Caper 18: Bile

“Y’think I wouldn’t hit a woman.” Guts laughed. She tapped the hilt of her skinning knife.

“Never crossed my mind,” she said. Then, “Where’s your better half?”

He propped the bags between them. She watched a thought cross his face and swallow itself. He didn’t say anything. Guts leaned forward to rest the bones of her hips against the counter. She liked to watch him. He was amicably threatening. Her interest kept him at bay. If she stared at him long enough, he’d stop meeting her eyes. Shrivel. Power through the business and leave. And she liked that too.

“Is he…out being gross or is he…out. Hm.” Tapping the blade. ‘Is he out…doing-“

“Stop talking.” Less a command. More a mantra. He cut the first bag in half, jerking the zipper down, and her heart sang when she caught the first wet reflection of light. The telltale glisten of fresh flesh.

“How much skin’s in here?”

“Four people.”

He moved before she had a chance to brush against him. Guts ran her hands through the bags. All damp, a little slimy with fascia. She whistled the first few notes of “Thank Heaven for Little Girls”. She almost had to wriggle in the joy of her bounty, so pleased she wanted to touch him. Thane turned to look the stuffed cat by the storefront. Guts threw him a wink he wouldn’t see and sang,

“Thank Heaven, for psychopaths. For keeping me in business every day. Thank Heaven, for-”

“You…gotta stop talking.”

“I’m messing with you. Who were these for? I can’t be your first choice. I just don’t see a lot of skin from you two.”

“Markoury doesn’t want ’em. He’s doing scalps for a thing or something. I dunno.”

“Very nice by the way, Thane. Delicate work for your hands.”

“Don’t. Look at my hands,” he said. He chose to look in her direction although not at her. His hands wound into his pockets.

“I’ll be right back. Let me unroll these and take measurements.”

”Yeah.”

”Sit anywhere. I’m going to be thorough, okay?”

She struggled briefly with the bags. The average body carried 9 lbs of skin and, if he was right, she’d be handling nearly 40 lbs of it tonight. Not that she minded. This was her job and her bliss. She couldn’t help seeing herself slog the cargo in wide, awkward sweeps while Thane idled, very aware of her but disinterested. She didn’t expect any help and he didn’t disappoint. He made no move to make himself comfortable after she bandied a bag over each shoulder and took her weighted steps through the curtain into the back workshop. Guts called over her shoulder,

“Need to be somewhere?”

“No.”

Thane wandered from the counter, ignoring the walls pregnant with shelves of oddities; taxidermied wildlife, mounted body parts, jars with who cares, road signs, flags, wind chime, nothing of interest by your fifth or sixth visit, to squint through the store front’s window. The earliest traces of evening had begun to slide along the streets and buildings. The Reisan deli towards the end of the street emptied out. For once, he didn’t need to check in with anybody. Markoury seemed alright with the presentation of four human skins, in addition to the requested scalps, but declined politely. He meant it to be a veiled threat but maybe it didn’t land. The guy was alright, sure, but the idea of being on call, following orders, requests, what the fuck ever mafia bullshit scutwork settled in his throat like a sore. But Sef had made it clear he was in it for the long haul and the work wasn’t hard. He would bear with it. And, for somebody in charge, Markoury struck him as good-natured, polite. He had even thanked him.

On second thought, maybe the guy did take the threat for what it was and chose not to pick a fight. He could respect that. What did he need the scalps for though? Extortion? Send them in the mail one by one with a formal letter of request. What would a smart guy like Markoury do with them? What would Sef do? Wear them as hats while he pounded out an extortion letter then, day by day, leave them where they’d make the most impact to family probably. Or legislators if another Do Not Call bill attempted to make itself known.

Sef wouldn’t be waiting for him today either. He was gone wherever he goes once in a while. Maybe he could go home and sleep or eat or watch TV and be alone and it’d be nice. Maybe he would shower too because no one’d be around to marvel at his capacity to shower. He wondered if Guts thought he smelled any specific way. Thane rubbed a hand against the back of his neck then pressed it under his nose. Cigarette smoke masked everything. Seemed fine.

Maybe he’d sleep in Sef’s bed then.

He became aware of the light dusting of footsteps behind him. The woman waited politely just along his periphery, polishing her hands off in her apron and dispelling some of the wet, metallic foulness of human offal. Easy smells reminiscent of dusk falling. She came close enough to touch him.

“Thane. I like you.”

“You say that a lot,” he said.“Believe it or not.“ He squinted through the shop window with his back turned like a shield.

“Oh but I do, sir. Anyone outside?”

“Guys with shit all on their face going in and out.”

“It’s a Reisan kind of place. I won’t get any of those guys round here often. I mean, not usually. Not unless there’re tourists from the Crossroads side. It’s the season for it but I don’t expect much until maybe, I don’t know, the end of the month when that holiday, Harlenis — Arlena-something, rolls around. They’re big into alternative medicine and stuff.”

Thane glanced over her hands. A knife and the other empty. “You got my money.”

“I’m not more than halfway but if I do the job I want to do I’ll be here with you all night.”

“Hhhh.”

“And I assume you don’t want that.”

“No.”

“So how does this look to you.” She fished an envelope from her back pocket. The weight of it seemed sufficient. Thane moved his lips as he counted. She did her best not to smile. He stuck his tongue out before becoming aware of her once more and knitting his brows together, counting a little faster but still carefully. When he was done, he bent the wad sharply, slipped it back into the envelope, and tucked it into the collar of his turtleneck.

“Thane, you’re a Belly Guy, right?”

“‘Belly guy’?”

With a twinkle in her eye she traced her knife in a line across her abdomen. No doubt envisioning intestines spilling between them. Thane recognized something similar in Sef.

“Belly Guy. They talk about you taking a bullet or few to the belly. Specifically through the liver is my understanding?”

“Couple months ago, yeah.”

“You know, there’re a lot of arm, ankle guys. Couple chest guys. An eye guy, if you can believe it.”

“Head Guy?”

“Head guy’d be dead, Thane.” She held a forefinger to the side of her head and cocked the trigger, her thumb, pew! “Dead and here with me, ideally.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Can I see?”

He peeled his sweater just enough to reveal the irregular, truly ugly transverse scar traveling above his navel. The surgeon, the cocksucking prick with the sleeve tattoos and the glasses, had told him not to pick at it. He did as much as he was allowed under a weeks-long twilight of narcotics and benzos. Being ignored in a concrete room with no window and nauseous with anxiety because maybe that was it and he’d be left behind. It healed in spite of them both. He remembered coming to with a reeking peppermint jacket bunched over his chest and Sef shotgunning smoke into his face. “Who told you that.”

“They talk.”

“‘They’ can suck a cock.”

”A cock?”

”Every cock. What d’you wanna talk about.”

“Do you know what a gallbladder is, being a Belly Guy and all?” She spun her soft accent on it and made her way back to the counter to fiddle. It released the threat of casual contact. He relaxed.

“‘Gallbladder’,” he turned the newness of it over. “No. You just want me to do you a favour, ask, and I’ll see.”

“No favours, it’s business don’t worry. But it’s business I know you could handle. You and Black are the only suppliers I have who’d be capable of making a dent in this tiny, very particular market for human bile. There’re some folks out there — alt medicine folks — who’ll kill for what’s inside a full gallbladder. Hell, even the gallstones are worth something. They think it,” she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, “brings wealth-”

“Happiness, huh.”

“Basically. It doesn’t. It won’t but, with the Reisangrit holiday coming up, it’s a matter of time before a practitioner, shaman, even one of those New Age-y girls, will be in here asking what I got. I want to be ready. And if I’m not, they’ll find it somewhere else and you bet your ass Markoury’s Dr. Stone — the one you’re so very fond of-”

The corner of his mouth jerked reflexively.

“-has a few somewhere. He’s a surgeon. Someone comes in shot in the belly, bet your ass he’ll remove the gallbladder while he’s saying howdo during an ex lap.”

“Do I — do people- need it?”

“No, that’s the beauty. Maybe he took yours too but it’s not fatal. Not having one doesn’t take you out. It’s a common procedure because there’re people out there that, hey, sometimes they’re fat, sometimes it gets all clogged with bile and hurts, hell, there are a few reasons. ‘I would like to provide it to alternative medicine junkies’ may not be medically necessitated but no one said it wasn’t financiallynecessitated. I’d bring it up Mr.Black himself but, you know how it is. He’s…a type. He’s not always listening.”

“But, I guess, I’ll listen.”

“You did. So thanks for that.”

“You wanna use me.”

“With your permission. If you happen upon, in your adventures, to find you can extrude a gallbladder with little or no trouble, stop by and I’ll pay you guys.”

“I’ll think about it.” He watched the streetlamps flicker awake. “Lemme ask you.”

“Shoot.”

He half rolled a sleeve in anticipation of offering. ”Do…I smell?”

“Oh. Absolutely.”

“Fr-from here? By the door?”

“I would love to use this opportunity as an excuse to press that big hairy arm against my face but, Thane, you smell no matter where you stand.”

“Ah.”

[To be continued]