Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  Maybe she’s not as amateur as I suspected. I let out a sigh, then eye the bed again. At first with disdain, then with curiosity. Or maybe… Bingo. Peeling the mattress from the box springs I spy all the pretty baggies nestled safely in the most cliché hiding spots of adolescent pornography. With one wide sweep of my arm, I scoop them all safely into the open maw with the rest of my confiscated goodies, zip it up tight, and head out the door.

  “Hey!” A gruff, masculine voice calls to me from across the living room and stops my heart for a moment. I turn to spy Mark, her roommate’s boyfriend, and am almost relieved to see recognition across his face. “Oh. It’s you again. Didn’t you two have a nasty fight or something?”

  “Yup. Just came to grab my stuff.” I give the bag a shake, then turn towards the door. “Take care of yourself, Mark.”

  “You too, bud.” That was a close one. Although leaving a witness isn’t the best turnout I could have hoped for, probably not the worst.

  Two steps from the door and it slides open to a purple pixie cut and dazzling eyes. And that would be the worst.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just came to grab my things,” I mutter uncomfortably.

  “Wait a second,” comes Mark’s voice from behind me. Uh oh. “He didn’t come in with you?”

  “No, I just got off work.” Think quick.

  “Then just how the hell did you get in here?” Think quicker.

  “You didn’t let him in, Mark?”

  “Nope.” I can feel all eyes on me. Time’s up. Looks like I’ve already tossed kerosene all over this damned bridge, time to light it up. My hand instinctively flies inside my jacket for the last resort tucked into its holster. Within seconds I’ve fired a tranquilizer into Jenna’s neck and two into Mark for good measure. The latter gets two solid steps in towards me before he starts to wobble, then slowly descend to the floor, anger and hatred never fading from his eyes. I manage to catch Jenna before her tiny frame hits the floor and drag her to the couch, laying her down comfortably.

  Holly steps into the room, “What’s all the commotion out here?” Thwip. She doesn’t get the same courtesy.

  “Well I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. Guess I’ll see myself out,” I say humorlessly to the three unconscious bodies in the room. Work just got hella awkward.

  *****

  I’m pleasantly surprised for the first time today, coming home to an apartment with everything intact. Mathan’s sprawled out on the couch, playing around on a datapad that’s mysteriously working again.

  “I’ll be damned. You really are a natural, kid.” He doesn’t look up to greet me, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth says everything I need to hear. “Don’t stay up too late. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow’s gonna be even busier.” That got his attention. He looks up at me inquisitively. “Okay, probably a lot busier for me than for you. But I still need you alert and useful.” He shrugs, nods, then returns to his datapad. Good enough.

  I make it to my room, kick off my boots, toss the bag of irreplaceable goods haphazardly into the corner before collapsing onto the bed. Landing hard on my stitches, I groan as the pain reminds me that I’m not ready to take on the world just yet. Within minutes I’ve left the bizarre reality my life has become and drifted off into the nonsense of dreams where everything makes sense.

  Twenty-Three

  Juan SanLuiseno’s eager voice dripped with honey and oozed with promise over the phone, not doing much to relieve my tension about dealing with realtors. One foot off the tram and I can instantly spot him in the crowd, his physical appearance matching the voice exactly. Thinning hair pressed tight along his scalp as if it was doodled on, cakey complexion as if he is wearing foundation, and of course a smile that revealed rows of white teeth that bear an eerie resemblance to some of the ancients I’d dealt with in the past. I suppress a shudder and approach the man, Mathan in tow.

  Today my companion opted for his own makeshift style of concealment, having used a yellow rubber glove meant for deep cleaning that had never found a use at my place. It gives him a bit more function of his alternative appendage, but a bit trickier to explain.

  “You must be Mr. Fallows,” says the realtor as we approach. “I hope your travel was smooth and uneventful.” He thrusts an open hand at my mid-section. “Juan SanLuiseno.”

  “Heath,” I offer politely, instantly regretting my decision to grip the man’s hand as I find it somehow firm and moist at the same time. “This is my kid brother, Mathan. He’s tagging along to help get an idea of how much storage space we’ll need.”

  “A pleasure,” Juan says, blessedly releasing my hand and offering the same trap to Mathan, who regards it with the same disdain as if he’d just seen the man wiping bug guts from a windshield with his bare palm.

  “Don’t mind Mathan,” I interject quickly. “He got some weird rash on his left hand. Doctor says it ain’t contagious, but it’s turned him into one of those… what’s the word? Germ-o-fearia types.”

  “Mysophobic.”

  “That’s the one.” Why does it not surprise me that this guy knows that off the top of his head?

  “Not much of a talker, is he?”

  “No.”

  Mr. SanLuiseno lets the awkward silence linger for a moment, then perks right back up as if no offense had been given. “Well I have a handful of properties to show you in the area. If we can’t find anything to your liking, we can always bounce on over to one of the other districts. Did you know that we represent property in seven of the major districts?”

  “That’s what it said on your website,” I offer with feigned enthusiasm, “But we’re looking to stay local. Less of a trek for both us and our business partners.”

  “Of course. Although I will say that this may not be the best location for a commercial business. Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to look for something with a bit more elevation? Or perhaps something a bit more central. This area is a bit close to the edge of civilization.” There’s humor in his voice, but it stops there.

  “It suits our needs for refurbish and resale.”

  “Then let’s have a look. Our first few stops are relatively close to the tram station for ease of access.”

  We follow the man through the shadowed streets of the Mobius district, Mathan already busying himself with the datapad as he maps a route to our first destination. Juan approaches a lockbox and my heart drops, instantly regretting not doing more research before agreeing to the proposed properties. While our realtor fumbles with an electronic key, I take in the memorial of an old deli I’d passed by a hundred times, but never dared eat at. Like so many other businesses in the area, it had shut down a while ago with nobody ever even noticing spare a few steady patrons. The grimy windows are difficult to see through, as if a grease fire had gone off inside kept contained with only the interior being washed in soot and flame.

  “Here we go. This property has been available for a little over a year now-“

  “You don’t say.”

  “-But as you can see it’s held together nicely despite the neighborhood. No vandalism from high density plexi-glass, which will save a bundle on installing security to protect against loss due to theft.”

  Juan opens the door invitingly and is greeted with a cloud of dust and debris that comes rolling out. “Naturally you’ll want to invest in a bit of renovation before you open your doors for business.”

  “You don’t say.” I meet Mathan’s humorless gaze. Even with his time underground with the techies, I can sense his reluctance to give this place the time of day. “I’m not sure this is the place we’re looking for.”

  “Possibly, but let’s give it a once-over just to see. I must admit I’m a bit curious myself, it’s been a while since I’ve set foot on the premise.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Five steps in and I’m pretty convinced my original assessment was correct. Scorch marks cover the walls in various patterns. Broken bits of furnit
ure still litter the ash-stained floors. A long countertop still holds the frames of display cases, though the glass now shimmers in the sparse daylight peering through the tinted windows. Even through the dust and soot I can smell the subtle hint of charred meat.

  Our tour guide remains blessedly silent as we follow him through the mess towards the swinging aluminum door, only slightly off-tilt, and into the back where the real magic hides. Or at least the vision of several large rodents gnawing on leftovers. Though judging by the amount of time that must have passed since the tragic fire accident, or insurance fraud, I’m guessing that they’re just feeding off the last creatures that found their way in here and died.

  Mathan holds up his datapad, the screen illuminating the dimly lit room with only four large bold letters displayed across the screen.

  NEXT

  We only travel two blocks before Juan stops us again and heads towards another lockbox. This time the windows do nothing to block the vision inside, having been reduced to little more than sharp, translucent teeth barely holding onto the frame. I grimace at the sight, but Mathan barely seems phased, already pulling up the floor plan on his datapad.

  Juan opens the door to the second establishment and we walk in through a more traditional, but by all regards not the only, means of entrance. “This was originally a shop dealing in mattresses. As you can see, there’s a large display room, plenty of space to put in all manner of shelving. It lacks a counter space. I believe they simply used desks before, so that might be something to consider. It even has restroom facilities, an obvious convenience for your customers.”

  The main room is surprisingly clean, especially with the missing windows. High ceilings with lots of lighting fixtures still in place. It has potential, but something seems off. The place is a little bit too clean, stirring up old personal memories as a squatter. “How long has this place been on the market?”

  “This particular location has been available for about six months.”

  “I see.” Without awaiting permission, I walk straight past the man towards the back door. He quickens his step as if to overtake me, but I keep ahead and push the door open without even trying the handle. Little to my surprise, it swings wide with no resistance.

  On the other side I’m greeted with the warm glow of various heat lamps, all connected haphazardly to a portable generator with frayed wiring criss-crossing like so many snakes across the concrete floor. The handful of tall, aluminum shelves have been toppled to one side and blanketed with poorly stitched remnants of cloth, creating several makeshift lean-tos.

  The smell in here is similar to that of the diner, and painfully familiar, turning my stomach. Roasted rat. I notice the large bay door, sealed with various odds and ends to cut off ventilation. Any inhabitants are well-hidden, but I know they’re in here somewhere, observing us with unseen ears and eyes. Mister SanLuiseno stands behind me, quaking with obvious rage. I have the sneaking suspicion that the inhabitants will be soon evicted in a less than friendly way. Already feeling for them, I regret having stepped foot on this property. Good finds like this are difficult to come by in the squatter realm.

  Mathan walks up beside me, datapad displayed, but I already know what four letters to expect. Despite the size of the display room, the back area is uncomfortably cramped and I know he’s going to want more space than this. “Let’s see what other properties you have for us.

  *****

  After a former tax office, massage parlor, small grocery store, and a salon that smelled a little too much like formaldehyde, we finally come to an old toy store. A sign that once read ‘GERRY’S DISCOUNT TOYS’ in bold, red lettering is now cleverly missing an O. The windows resemble that of the mattress place, but at least there are steel bars behind them. The front is covered in graffiti, some from the original establishment, and more colorful and suggestive images that were probably added on later.

  The day’s venture seems to have taken a toll on our fearless leader, his once perky demeanor now replaced with sweat stains and heavy mouth breathing. Mathan’s disposition seems the same as ever, but I’ve opted to instead laugh, recognizing that my jobs don’t seem near as bad by comparison. Although I doubt Juan spends much time street level.

  The interior has a fair bit of discarded cigarette butts, broken glass bottles, and other bits of refuse tossed in from the streets, but is otherwise blessedly void of vagrants, rodents or otherwise. Even better, the back has much more storage room, double bay doors, and a hidden restroom for employees only with a toilet and sink still in one piece.

  “What’s the history on this one?” I ask, voice now resembling his previous sweetness.

  “Foreclosure. Not much business for children’s toys this far from the buzz of central commerce areas.”

  I look to Mathan who is holding up an article on his datapad displaying, “Small Business Owner Arrested for Sex Trafficking Ring.” Juan catches a glimpse and quickly turns away. “Interesting,” I muse. “How’s the wiring?”

  “The electricity is still off, but there weren’t any reports of wiring or plumbing problems while it was still open.”

  I can just make out the fluorescent bulbs still present in the light fixtures above. One less cost to calculate. Only a few blocks from the edge of the district leading into the outlands make it ideal for bringing the truck in and out on deliveries. Mathan and I scourge the backroom for outlets. He walks around casually, eyes taking in every corner, then bringing the schematics back up on his datapad and staring intently.

  When the final verdict comes in, he holds up the screen with the words, “THIS ONE” displayed. Juan’s entire demeanor does a one-eighty and I’m reminded of the slimy creep awaiting us at the tram platform. “Excellent! Would you like me to begin drafting up the paperwork?”

  “Yeah sure, let’s go ahead and have a look. What’s this place going to run us?”

  Pulling out his own datapad, he looks up the details. “Oh wow, this place actually runs quite a bargain at only twelve creds.”

  “Twelve thousand?”

  “Oh no, twelve creds per square foot per year.”

  “How many square feet?” I ask, looking around as if I could judge by sight alone.

  “Four-thousand sixty.” He taps on the screen a moment longer. “That comes out to just shy of fifty-thousand creds for your first year’s rent. Paid in advance of course.” Of course. “Would you like me to put you in touch with our traditional banker?”

  “I have my own,” I lie. “But go ahead and get that paperwork ready. I should be in touch with you within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “That sounds good. Would you like me to have somebody come out to assess the foundation, wiring, and estimate repair costs for you?” I glance at Mathan. He shrugs.

  “Yeah, that would be good. Give me a head’s up and we’ll get this ball rolling.”

  Another toothy smile and he extends another unwanted handshake. “Sounds good, Mr. Fallows. I look forward to continuing our business together.”

  I prefer crime lords. No false pretenses there.

  Twenty-Four

  At some point on the tram ride back from our tour of facilities, Mathan had shoved his datapad in my face with an online article entitled The Complete Amateur’s Guide to Starting a Business. I only took insult for a moment as I began reading and realizing just how over my head I truly am. Aside from a year’s rent on the facility, I would have to factor in repair costs, machinery, utility expenses, employee salaries, property insurance, employee benefits, and initial inventory, which I hoped would be mostly provided by some third party dealings. The whole thing had my head spinning by the time we reached the apartment. Running gauntlets I could do, running numbers was a whole new venture. With zero experience in the field, I had no idea what to expect the legitimate side of the business to provide. There was even a linked article on business advertising that I completely skipped over.

  Looking over Mathan’s list, I tried to calculate the overhead costs while Mat
han researched fair market salaries, cheap benefits packages for small companies, and local bankers with good reputation. I had initially thought of inquiring about a good banker through Rex, but I didn’t want to arouse any additional suspicion on her part, I was already taking on too many favors for my liking. Instead, I’d called up my old pal, Jon Michaels, or Pimpenhammer as he portrays himself now. Little to my surprise, he wasn’t eager to speak to me, but came through all the same.

  After spending far more time with Mr. Hawthorne than I'd intended, it turns out I know absolutely nothing about business, banking or legitimate loans. At least his long-winded speech on interest rates made it quite clear how I was getting screwed over on my current dealings with a certain notorious loan-shark.

  Once I got settled on the tram ride back home, I made a point to find a digital 'Thank You' card with a spider on it and sent it Jon’s way, then dialed up Milton.

  “Hey buddy, got a bit of news for ya.”

  “If you’re locked up and looking for bail, you should know I’m broke.”

  “There go my plans of letting you be my sugar mama. And I only hit up crime bosses and people with zero patience when I want money.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “Hasn’t worked too well for me so far. But this idea is a fair bit crazier. While I was out with the techies, I may have negotiated my way into setting up a legitimate business front in the districts. Mobius district to be exact.”

  Silence. “Heath? Do you even know anything about business?”

  “Not a damn thing. Aside from slinging drugs on the streets. But people don’t really sell drugs, drugs sell themselves. The only trick there is having the right supply and not getting killed in the process.” Remembering I’m in public, I do a quick sweep of the car’s inhabitants. The only other patrons are three people across the car and out of earshot, huddled disturbingly close together. At second glance, the girl in the middle appears dead. Or at least catatonic. Whatever. Not my problem. No need to get involved.