Pie Box 1

by George Saoulidis

  DROP ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN

  Hector stared at the blood-spot on the floor for the better half of an hour, before Pickle came in and started to clean it.

  Was he in shock?

  How could he tell?

  "I got it!" he exclaimed. "We'll throw a party, that should get us some support, help us raise some cash. We can do it at that bar you girls like, which one was it?" He clicked his fingers at Pickle.

  "Taf?" Pickle replied, scrubbing the floor with cleaning solution. The blood spot wasn’t easy to clean.

  The ambulance left, Hector was still shaking.

  "Yeah, that one. Let me find the phone number for the bookings," Hector said and pulled up the bar's website on the veil. "There we go," he mumbled, going through the site. "Oh, shit, they have prices listed for the VIP lounge."

  Cherry leaned in close and squinted to see better. She sucked in air through her teeth. "Yeah, I don't think we can afford that. Not that I have any clue about finances," she said, raising her hands, "but that amount seems to have far too many zeroes at the butt-end."

  "Well, skata," Hector said, swiping away the site from his veil. "There goes that brilliant idea, straight down the drain." He sat on the stool, shoulders slumped. His eyes went right at the blood spot. It was mostly gone by now, after the hard scrubbing Pickle did, but he’d always know it was there. In the middle of his shop.

  Cherry walked between his legs, pushing her way through. She kissed him on the lips softly. "Don't worry, honey, we'll figure it out." Cherry turned to Pickle, who was gathering up the mop and bucket. "Won't we, Patty?"

  Pickle replied without paying any attention. "Yeah, yeah."

  Cherry turned back to Hector and flashed him her widest smile. "See? It's all being handled."

  Hector put his hands mechanically around her waist and kissed her right back. "Yeah, it is..."

  But his mind was elsewhere.

  DROP ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN

  Hector walked inside the bakery class, snorting all the way. The big, top-heavy man he was looking for was wearing a silly cook’s apron that said, ‘Real men beat eggs.’

  There were a bunch of people there, mostly retired with nothing better to do, chopping away at vegetables, boiling water, pouring salt and spices while wearing their chef’s hats and aprons. Hector walked through the kitchen counters that were splayed out for the class and leaned on the one his favourite bouncer was working on. He snatched one of the delicacies being prepared and ate it. “Mmm, this is nice. Plenty of cheese in it. What is it?”

  George frowned at him and his overblown muscles twitched through his t-shirt. “It’s Crispy Asiago Frico, and thanks, but don’t eat any more, you’re ruining my plate presentation.”

  “I won’t,” Hector said, raising his palms up in surrender. “Hey, buddy...”

  “We’re not buddies,” George said, waving a spatula around and being the most threatening person in the world with a kitchen utensil. “We’re acquaintances.”

  “Nah, I think after all that feeling up one another, it almost counts as first base, so there’s more to it,” Hector taunted. “I wanted to repay you for getting you in the dog house with Nicomedes...”

  George turned to him, apparently having grabbed his attention. He was still prepping some doughy thing with his fingers.

  “...And instead of just giving you something, I thought I’d hire you for the opening party the Pies are having. What’s better than actually hiring you for the skill you’re good at? Huh?”

  George pressed his lips together and smushed some cheese into shape. “Yes, it does make me feel appreciated, thank you. And no, I wouldn’t have accepted a gift or a money transfer just like that.”

  “See?” Hector exclaimed. “We’re so in tune with one another, it’s crazy...”

  “What’s the venue?” George asked, like a professional should.

  “Ugh... To be decided. I’ve hit a snag there, thought you’d be able to help out with your contacts?” Hector’s voice trailed off.

  “Don’t push it.”

  “Fine, we’ll figure something out.” Hector reached for another one of the fricos or whatever they were called.

  George slapped his hand away, it was like a robot hitting you with a metal fly-swatter.

  “Ow! Okay, I won’t try any more of your canapes.”

  “There’s a competition today, that’s why I’m tense,” George grunted, still prepping his dish.

  “Uh-huh,” Hector smirked.

  George pointed a flour-white finger at Hector. “And no telling anyone I like cooking!”

  Hector raised his palms up in surrender again. “Never! Only if it’s a hot woman looking for a bachelor, promise.”

  “Good,” George said. He turned back to his task. “It calms me, my job is too stressful,” he said, pressing his lower lip like an overgrown baby.

  “Excellent! I’ll leave you to your competition,” Hector beamed and turned to leave.

  “Hey, how did you find me anyway?” George asked, rolling something between his enormous hands.

  “Oh, your phone checked you in automatically, there’s some way to look that up if you know what to look for,” Hector said, shrugging.

  “Damn! Need to turn that off. Okay, now leave, I’ve got cooking to do,” George said, not looking pissed off anymore.

  “See ya,” Hector said and walked between the other cooks towards the exit.

  DROP ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN

  Frank’s message was cryptic. ‘Come over, brng yr truck.’

  Hector was ready to simply dismiss it, even block the British bastard altogether, but Pickle insisted. “You didn’t even speak to him. You just grabbed him by the throat. Just give the man a chance...” she said softly, touching his arm.

  Hector pushed her hand away. “You really don’t get it, do you? If he hadn’t sold that rifle, my father would have been alive right now.”

  Pickle turned pissy, her hand on her waist. “Really? Did Frank aim the rifle at your house? At this house? Did he fire the gun? Was his finger on the trigger? Did he somehow mastermind whatever argument the gangbanger had with your father?”

  “Fuck off,” he spat out.

  She stood firm. “No, tell me. Did he cause the argument?”

  “No.”

  “Did he fire the rifle?”

  “No, he didn’t. Stop this, really, Pickle. Just drop it. Now!” he snapped back at her.

  Her voice turned softer. She touched his arm again, and this time he didn’t push it away. “Hector, I can’t possibly imagine what you’ve gone through. I can’t even imagine what Frank is going through. All I can tell you is that maybe, he feels sorry for what happened. Maybe your sorrow is not that different from his own.”

  Hector looked out the window, keeping his expression away from her. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Always the strategist, aren’t you?”

  “No,” she said softly. “Just being a friend.”

  Hector parked outside of Frank’s condo. He was alone, after promising Pickle he wouldn’t attack the man again. He tapped on the steering wheel for a long while, thinking it over. Then he said to himself, ‘Fuck it,’ and went inside.

  “Come on in,” Frank’s voice said through the doorbell.

  Hector knew the way, of course. The old bastard hadn’t made a single change in his life for twenty years. He climbed the familiar stairs and up to the third floor, turning left. Frank waited for him at the door.

  Hector only then realised the weight of the years on the man’s shoulders.

  “Hi,” he grunted.

  “Welcome, come on in.”

  Hector just walked past him and into the lobby. “What’s this about?” His house was the same way he remembered it, only now it smelled even worse. A widower living alone is even worse than a bachelor when it comes to housekeeping. On the living room wall, there were antique rifles and pistols on display. Those were immaculate, Hector knew that. He could smell the distinct tinge of gun oil wafting arou
nd the place, soaking into every nook and cranny. He was certain you could pick any of them up and load a bullet and it would be ready to fire.

  “Can’t an old friend invite you over for no reason?”

  “Not really, ‘cause we’re not friends. I see you keep maintaining your collection,” Hector said, pointing with his chin.

  Frank puffed up in pride. “Of course! I never stopped.”

  “Right. Enough chit-chat. What do you want to tell me?”

  Frank frowned. “Follow me,” he said, walking further inside the condo.

  Hector sighed but went along. He wanted to be done with this.

  Frank presented a spare bedroom. There were plenty of boxes and dusty stuff, but the thing he was pointing at was a treadmill. If was, of course, full of clothes, just like any person who buys one at home and never uses it. “My doctor made me walk 5 kilometres every day, for my heart. I only used it once. It’s been sitting there for a year now, gathering dust. It’s a shame, I paid good money for it. Oh well, good intentions and all that. I assume your girls could use some extra gym equipment?”

  “Are you giving this to me?” Hector asked, frowning.

  “If you want it, sure. If you don’t want to accept it for yourself, let’s make it a gift for that lovely woman of yours, what was her name? Pickle?”

  “No, I don’t want it,” Hector said, and turned away to leave.

  Frank didn’t budge. He said in a small voice, “He was there for me when Maria died, your pa.”

  Hector stopped at the door, his hand on the door frame, his head bowed.

  “I should have been there for you when he died. I owed him that, best mates and all. I’m sorry,” Frank said, his voice breaking.

  Hector turned to him, bitter. “But you weren’t.”

  “I know that! That’s why I’m sorry. And I...” Frank propped himself on the treadmill handle. “I’m sorry for getting him killed.”

  Hector raised his chin and ground his teeth. An admission. He felt so angry. He was about to beat the shit out of this wanker. Then it all went away, a puff of hot air in a cool winter night. He felt his shoulders hang. “I... uh, know you are.”

  Frank’s eyes seemed brighter. “Thank you, son.”

  “I’m not forgiving you, not yet.”

  “It’s alright. It’s a start. Now,” Frank clapped his hands together, “let’s carry this thing down to your truck, shall we?”

  “I said I don’t-”

  “Oi, shut your piehole and accept an olive branch when it’s offered!” Frank snapped back.

  Hector grinned. It was one of those phrases that his dad used to pick up by hanging around Frank all day. For a split second, it was as if he was a teenager again. “Let’s see if you can still carry a load, you creaky old bastard.”

  “Me? I’ll run circles around you, little twat.”

  DROP ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

  Patty’s mind went of to her first meeting with Diego, for some reason. She met Diego during a drug bender. He had recently come into some money, one of his many schemes and surethings finally worked out, and he had wasted it all on two things: a midlist jugger athlete and a sizeable bag of coke.

  Patty delivered both these things to him, herself and the bag. "Hello," she said a bit disgusted.

  Diego wasn't exactly a man to take a shower often. "Hi, Patty Roo! It's so great to meet you, I've had my eye on you for a while now. Please, sit," he said and offered her a spot on the flea-ridden couch. He pushed some junk off of it.

  "I'll stand, thanks. Here's your delivery," Patty said, offering him the bag. She was happy to get rid of it. Getting it here hadn't been easy, nor pretty. Two junkies somehow figured out she was carrying the good stuff, perhaps she was naive enough to give it away with her body language. They jumped her with rusty pliers. Not knives, rusty pliers. That detail would never leave her memories, not matter what else had happened that night. Patty mulled her options over. The logical thing to do was to ditch the blow and let them have it. Sure, they were physically weak but you never knew, a junkie has no self-preservation left and sees nothing but the next hit. If you're unlucky, or stupid, to be standing between them...

  Let's say you deserve to be plied.

  Patty wanted to ditch the bag, but she couldn't disappoint her new owner. Not on a thing like that. He'd certainly add it to her own debt, and she'd get into his shitlist without uttering single word. Usually people disliked Patty after they'd gotten to know her for a few minutes.

  So, she engaged the two junkies, dropping the weakest-looking one first. He could take half a punch, nothing more, and she overestimated even that. She bitch-slapped him with her augmented hand and he came crumbling down like a bag of bones. There was some crunching involved, and Patty felt bad about her attacker.

  It was cut short by the second junkie, who, shocked, moaned and cursed at her, then charged with the rusty pliers. She slapped the weapon away with a practised motion that looked very fast and precise and she disarmed him, twisting his wrist. He complained and she just kicked him away. He got his legs all fumbled up and landed on a garbage bin.

  Patty checked to see if the first one was breathing, he was, and she left them both in the alley, going to meet her new owner.

  "Here you go, Diego. Should I call you Diego?" Patty asked, passing the bag onto him.

  Diego looked like a kid in Christmas. He dove his nose inside the bag and sniffed loudly. "Aww, yeah! That's much better, the good stuff. This, this is why having money always beats having none, right Patty?" he said in an endless litany.

  "Um, yes. Of course," Patty was confused, and decided to agree on everything. Yes, everything, even whatever carnal impulses a male owner would have on a newly-acquired female athlete. She was old enough to know her place by now, and wise enough to know that she needed to give in, and live to fight another day. Getting your skull caved in because you didn't want to sit still and take some dick was a stupid thing to do, in Patty's mind. Of course she didn't like it. Of course she was disgusted by this unwashed junkie that held power over life and death over her.

  He could do whatever he wanted with her. But if she raised a hand at him, even in defence, they'd charge her, imprison her, strip her augmentations which would leave her an invalid, and possibly doom her to death.

  Patty was smarter than that. She was ready to accept whatever this new owner had in mind for her.

  Diego clapped in excitement, the drugs obviously kicking in. "Oh gods, where are my manners? I haven't offered you anything." He went to the fridge and poured some coke, of the drinking variety. The glass wasn't exactly clean but Patty didn't care at this point.

  "Thank you, master," she said and drank some. It was stale coke, at least a week's old. Still, she drank some, she was thirstier than she thought. She knew that her body language radiated that she wanted to flee, so she forced herself to relax and lean on a questionable item of furniture. It seemed like a library, but it held no books. Instead, it was full of junk, literal garbage, that Diego had found and must have considered worthwhile enough to display like that. One of the items was mouldy.

  Diego waved her comment away. "Just call me Diego." He looked woozy.

  "Perhaps you should sit down," Patty said helpfully, crossing her arms.

  "Good idea," Diego said and plopped his ass down on the sofa. "Oh, much better. What was I saying? Right, the team. You, my dear, are my first acquisition. I'm gonna make a jugger team and make it big, you hear me? Mark my words. Diego's team. Yeah, that sounds nice, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, it does!" Patty said, trying to sound joyous.

  Diego made a fist. ""I knew it! I fucking knew it sounded awesome. Yes. Yeah. Oh, yeah." He licked his lips and his mind was elsewhere.

  Patty decided to be done with the ordeal, she couldn't take the suspense any more. "Diego, it's been a long day. Do you want something from me so I can go to sleep?" She looked around, being more worried about the condition of her bed than her inevitable rape.

 
"Nah," Diego grinned. "You're tired, I get it. I brought a mattress for you, fresh pick off the garbage men. It wasn't even sitting on the pile for more than a minute." He darted to the corner of the room and ran his fingers over it as if it was a piece of treasure. "Clean, see? All yours."

  Okay, now Patty was curious. "Shouldn't you keep this one, if it's the best one, Diego?"

  "Nah," he chuckled. "My mother raised me to take care of my woman. And since you're now my woman, this one is yours." He bowed and walked backwards. It would have seemed caring if he hadn't bumped on the table and cursed loudly at the bloody piece of pointy wood.

  Patty snorted at the funny scene. This was not what she was picturing, at all. "Okay, thanks, Diego. It means a lot to me. Can I crash now, or did you want something from me?" She braced for it.

  "Nah, Patty Roo. My Patty Roo," he tried out the words and seemed to find them funny in his mouth. "Get some rest. Want some coke?" He offered politely.

  Patty smiled wide, "No, but thank you, Diego. It's the tournament rules."

  "Right, right!" he rubbed his head with his palm. "See, you're so clever, that's why I had my eye on you. You're clever. Brilliant, fucking brilliant."

  Patty perked up. "Well, thank you..." She felt a slight blush on her remaining fleshy cheek. She sat down on the mattress, indeed, it was the cleanest thing in the room. Almost immaculate. Someone must have tossed it out when he bought another. Or, he didn't like how it carried his spine, or whatever. Patty didn't care, she thanked Athena for this tiny bit of luxury at this point. She looked around. Diego was on the sofa and was playing a videogame with a controller, only the controller wasn't on and the game system was turned off. Still, he seemed to be having the time of his life, coked out completely. She smiled a bit. He wasn't what she feared. Oh, sure, he was filthy, but she could stand filthy. It was the other kind of filth she couldn't really bear, the one that was internal, the people that carried it while being spotless externally to fool others and themselves. And there were plenty in this damn business, far too many. She laid on her side and felt her eyes droop. The background noise of the happy Diego killing aliens or whatever in his imaginary videogame worked wonders for her constant anxiety, it let her go for a sweet moment.