Slater Mill

by Ron Ripley

  “Even better,” the man chuckled, and Armand took a small step away from him.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson,” Pierre said, “what is it I might do for you today?”

  “Mr. Slater has informed me, Pierre, that you are by far the finest of his foreman. That you can exact the greatest performance from those under your care,” Mr. Johnson said. “Is this true?”

  “I make them work for the good money they are paid,” Pierre responded, trying to conceal his pride.

  “And that is exactly what I want to see,” Mr. Johnson said in a confidential tone. “I want to see how you make them work.”

  “Then you shall,” Pierre said, offering a second short bow. “Mr. L’Isle?”

  “Continue on, Pierre,” Armand said, dismissing him with a gesture. “Will you need me to see you out, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Hm?” Mr. Johnson said. “Ah, no. Thank you, Mr. L’Isle. I will be quite fine.”

  Armand nodded and left.

  “Do you have many malingerers here, Pierre?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “Not often on my floor, sir,” Pierre said, straightening his shoulders. “I have only one now. The machine will break him, or he will come in line.”

  “How would a machine break him?” Mr. Johnson asked, looking quite interested.

  “Come, I will show you,” Pierre said. He opened the door, sliding it back on its tracks and revealing the work floor to Mr. Johnson.

  No one looked back. None had moved from their assigned positions.

  Dmitri continued to struggle at the far end, where Machine Twelve threatened his life and limb.

  “He,” Pierre said, pointing at Dmitri, “is the only one who is difficult at this time.”

  “And what machine is he having such a difficult time with?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “Machine Twelve,” Pierre said, smiling. “It has a collection of limbs.”

  “Does she now?” Mr. Johnson asked with polite interest. “And has she taken any recently?”

  Pierre shook his head with genuine sadness. "An Irish girl in spring gave Twelve a hand. Nothing more, though."

  “It seems a shame to me,” Mr. Johnson stated.

  Pierre smiled at the other man. “Yes, it is a shame. I think she should be lubricated with blood more often.”

  Mr. Johnson chuckled as he nodded his agreement.

  He was interrupted by a high, wretched shriek.

  Pierre looked over and saw Dmitri’s hand caught in the Machine.

  Several of his workers made motions as if they might go to the man's aid and Pierre stopped them with a barked command. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Johnson looking at him. Pierre wondered if the man would speak with Mr. Slater. Perhaps he would tell Mr. Slater how well he did, how much control he had over his floor.

  “Would you care to follow me?” Pierre asked, ignoring the increasingly frantic screams of Dmitri.

  “I would be delighted,” Mr. Johnson said.

  Around them the other looms continued to thrum, the cowed workers ignored them. Each man and woman kept their attention on their work. Pierre had shown them what would happen to anyone caught shirking their assignments.

  By the time Pierre and Mr. Johnson reached Machine Twelve, Dmitri was on his knees, his arm sunk in up to his shoulder. Blood leaked out in a steady stream from beneath the machine, and Pierre could hear the gears grinding. He could picture the teeth threatening to chip and break from the wheels.

  Mr. Johnson leaned in, looked at Dmitri’s arm and then up to Pierre.

  “It’s nearly gone I’m afraid,” the man said, and there was no sympathy in his voice. “Nothing more than bits of flesh holding it together.”

  “Ah,” Pierre said.

  He reached out, grasped Dmitri by his wiry blonde hair and tilted his head back. The man’s eyes rolled freely in his head, both orbs looking in separate directions. Pierre had seen similar expressions before, and they pleased him.

  He let go of Dmitri’s hair. The man would be dead soon, but he had interrupted the smooth running of the floor for long enough.

  “Mr. Johnson,” Pierre said, “I hate to ask you, but could you step aside, sir?”

  “Certainly,” the man replied, straightening up and moving back.

  Pierre took a knife out of his back pocket, opened it and leaned in. With quick, deft movements he severed the last strands of skin and flesh which held the arm to the shoulder.

  The Machine let out a grumble, and what remained of the arm vanished into it as Dmitri tumbled back. Blood leaked out from the injury, more from gravity than anything else. The young man was already dead.

  Pierre cleaned the blade of his knife on his corduroy pants before he closed it and returned it to his pocket. He turned, called for Katerina DeWitt, and when the young girl arrived pale and breathless, he sent her off to bring the men to remove the body.

  Then he remembered Mr. Johnson.

  When Pierre turned and looked at him, he saw a cold, thin smile on the other man's face.

  “Well done, Pierre,” Mr. Johnson said. “I am distinctly impressed. I have only a single question for you.”

  “And what is that, sir?” Pierre asked.

  “May I return and watch you tomorrow?”

  Beaming with pride Pierre could only nod and hope he would be so lucky as to have another death on the morrow.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Passing Along Information

  Mr. Johnson sat in Noah Slater’s seat, behind Noah Slater’s desk, and smoking one of Noah Slater’s nasty cigars.

  Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because Slater would know he did and it would drive the man crazy.

  Mr. Johnson chuckled at the idea of it and reveled in it.

  He leaned forward, picked up the telephone and toggled the hook switch. When the operator picked up, he said, "Boston. Tremont three-three-two."

  In a minute the line was picked up, and Mr. Marks spoke.

  “Mr. Johnson.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Johnson said, straightening up and putting out his cigar.

  “What news?” Mr. Marks inquired.

  “I think this gentleman is excellent as a test subject,” Mr. Johnson stated. “He has a high level of violence, and he enjoys being cruel.”

  “More than yourself?” Mr. Marks asked.

  Mr. Johnson chuckled. “No. Well, perhaps. His taste isn’t as refined.”

  “You spend far too much time with Mr. Borgin,” Mr. Marks chastised. “I would be a little more cautious, Mr. Johnson. Many have fallen beneath the sway.”

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Johnson said, accepting the rebuke. "I shall henceforth limit my time with Mr. Borgin.”

  “A wise decision,” Mr. Marks said, and he let the matter drop. “Now, tell me more about this gentleman, Pierre Gustav, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Johnson said. “I observed him yesterday with those under his control. He was ruthless. At the far end of the room is a faulty piece of equipment. The young man he had assigned there was killed.”

  “An accident?” Mr. Marks asked.

  “An avoidable one,” Mr. Johnson clarified. “I could see the young man was in no condition to be at a machine, let alone one known to be trouble. Pierre seemed quite intent on observing the process of death as well. When he was satisfied that the young man had indeed perished, he cut the trapped limb free and called for the removal of the body.”

  Mr. Marks chuckled. “Excellent. How much more time do you need for observation?”

  “Another day. Perhaps two,” Mr. Johnson replied. “If that is acceptable.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Marks said. “I trust your judgment, Mr. Johnson. I look forward to receiving your next report in person.”

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Johnson said. He hung up the phone and took a fresh cigar. He rummaged around in the drawers, found the cigar cutter and trimmed off the ends. The smell of tobacco wafted out, and Mr. Johnson smiled.

  He lit the cigar, leaned back in the chair and
exhaled casually.

  Pierre Gustav was an interesting subject, and Mr. Johnson wondered what horrors the man might perform next.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 4: On Lake Street

  Night had settled over the city of Nashua, and the sounds of the immigrants on the Tree streets filled the air. The sounds of Greeks and Russians speaking in their native tongues were offensive and painful to Pierre's ears. From the windows came the smells of foods that curdled the milk in his stomach.

  Pierre hated them all.

  The palms of his hands were damp, and he dried them off on his old jeans. He had changed out of his work clothes, put on those he had once worn in the dye shop of the Mill, and he waited.

  He was in a dark corner, leaning against a wall beneath an overhang of the building that had burned down at the end of spring. A faint, residual scent of ash hung about the damaged structure. Pierre tried to focus on it rather than the smell of garlic that wafted in from across the street.

  She would be returning home soon, he knew.

  Dmitri’s sister.

  A pretty girl, with dark brown hair and a body that reminded him of the girls from his boyhood home. He felt the familiar itch at the back of his neck, and he struggled to contain the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

  And there she was.

  She walked towards her apartment, shoulders slumped and head bent. Her clothes were worn, and Pierre wondered if she had anything decent to wear to her brother's funeral.

  Not that it mattered.

  She reached the edge of her building, and his blood raged through his veins. He could hardly hear as he watched her. When she turned into the vestibule, Pierre left the alley.

  He crossed the alley with a nonchalance he did not feel, his hands tucked into his pockets.

  And by the time she was at her door, so was he.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Watching Him

  Mr. Johnson had left the remnants of Slater's cigar in the office. He continued to smoke, but it was a small, Turkish cigarette. The tobacco was powerful and laced with opium. A habit he had picked up from one of Mr. Borgin’s delightful young female friends.

  Mr. Johnson relaxed as best he could in the shabby apartment. The furniture was second hand, at best, and a reminder to Mr. Johnson of what true poverty was. He had stepped out of character when he had offered the elderly Greek couple who lived in the single room twenty dollars to lease it for the evening.

  They had agreed, of course, and the Greek man had pressed a curved blade into Mr. Johnson’s hands as they left.

  Mr. Johnson held the knife up. The handle was made from a piece of horn that was shaped like a crescent moon. A blade of steel could be pulled from the handle, swinging out so that its steel and horn made a long, elegant ‘S' shape.

  When Mr. Johnson held the weapon up and examined its edge, he smiled. The old man had made certain to keep it well-honed. Mr. Johnson folded the blade back into the handle and tucked the knife into the inner pocket of his coat.

  His generosity had been well rewarded. He felt certain that the surprise gift would serve him well at some point.

  Mr. Johnson shifted the battered ladder-back chair he was in until he could see clearly out of the window. The sash was up as far as it would go, a stave of wood holding it in place. An old man hobbled down the street and went through the laborious process of lighting the gas lamps. There weren’t many for him to light, but Mr. Johnson was surprised there were any at all. Few cities in New England continued to use them.

  This is where the poor live, he reminded himself. None of the buildings on the Tree streets even had electricity.

  Once the lamp-lighter had passed, Mr. Johnson looked to the far right of the street and caught sight of the woman. She moved along in a dejected fashion, and Mr. Johnson suspected she was the sister of the young man killed in the Mill.

  His eyes followed her until she entered her apartment building. As soon as she did so, a man emerged from an alley. He wore ragged, stained clothes, but Mr. Johnson recognized the walk and therefore the man.

  Pierre Gustav.

  Once Pierre entered the building after the woman, Mr. Johnson stood up and exited the apartment. He ignored the sights and sounds of the other apartments around him, descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, and then cut across the street. His steps carried him to the same building the woman and Pierre had gone into.

  The foyer was small and stank of urine. Mailboxes were set into the right wall, and Mr. Johnson bent forward to inspect the names.

  On one that bore the number ‘8’ was scrawled the name ‘Denisovitch.’

  Smiling, Mr. Johnson took the stairs and at the second floor wandered down a hallway that was both narrow and poorly lit. When he found the door marked eight, he paused and listened.

  Through the wood, he heard the sounds of violence. Beneath that the sound of someone's rapid breathing and faintest of all Mr. Johnson heard the sound of someone sobbing.

  Yes, Mr. Johnson thought, nodding to himself. Mr. Pierre Gustav is perfect.

  Mr. Johnson took out a fresh cigarette and lit it. He hummed a piece of Bach that had been stuck in his head for the better part of a week as he exited the building and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Mr. Johnson looked up into the sky, winked at the moon, and felt a thrill over what the future held for Pierre Gustav.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 6: Recruiting the Talent

  “Pierre,” Mr. Johnson said.

  Pierre looked up from his meal, surprised to see the man. He was shocked to realize the man had sat down at the table and Pierre hadn’t noticed.

  He swallowed his food, cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Mr. Johnson?”

  “How is your meal?” the strange man asked.

  Pierre smiled, not quite certain as to what to make of the question.

  “Quite good,” Pierre said.

  “Did you bring it in?”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Your wife, I suppose, cooked it for you?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  Pierre frowned and shook his head. “My landlady. I pay her extra to cook for me.”

  “No wife for you then?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “No,” Pierre replied.

  “I’m surprised,” Mr. Johnson said, and he sounded as if he truly were.

  Pierre waited for an explanation, and when one was not forthcoming he asked, "Why?"

  “Am I surprised?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  Pierre nodded.

  “You are a successful man,” Mr. Johnson stated. “I am honestly shocked no woman has attempted to secure you for her own.”

  Pierre made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t particularly like women.”

  Mr. Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  Pierre hurriedly amended his statement. “To live with, Mr. Johnson. They have their uses, of course, but I have no desire to have one in my apartment with me. My landlady is almost more than I can bear.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Johnson said, and a silence fell over them.

  Pierre was uncomfortable, shifted the food around the plate and then asked, “Have you a wife, Mr. Johnson?”

  The man’s smile was unreadable as he said, “No. I do not. Though there are many women who I visit.”

  “Oh,” Pierre said. He tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth as he tried to think of another question.

  “Are there any you visit?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  Pierre, still chewing, shook his head.

  “Not a one?”

  Again he shook his head in the negative.

  “Ah,” Mr. Johnson said, sighing. “I wonder what you were doing with Dmitri’s sister then.”

  The bread caught in Pierre’s throat, his eyes widening painfully. He stared in horror at Mr. Johnson.

  The man took out a silver cigarette case, extracted a long, dark cigarette, and used a silver lighter. He put both case and lighter away as he exhaled through his nostrils, smiling at Pierre.

  “Chew your fo
od before you choke,” Mr. Johnson ordered softly.

  Pierre did so.

  Mr. Johnson leaned in close, stinking of strong tobacco.

  “Now, Pierre,” Mr. Johnson whispered, “you didn’t think your little activities would go unnoticed, did you?”

  Pierre didn’t have an answer to the question.

  “Oh, but of course you did,” Mr. Johnson said. He grinned and sat back. “Of course you did. Now, here is a question I have for you. Do you wish to continue on with your particularly violent method of courtship?”

  Pierre could only nod.

  "Excellent," Mr. Johnson said. He tapped the ashes onto the floor. "I quite thought that you might. Now, listen carefully to me. I have three gentlemen who need to be educated this evening, and I will send them to your floor after the end of the regular shift. Do not, and I repeat, do not schedule anyone for overtime. This takes precedence, do you understand?"

  “Yes,” Pierre whispered.

  “Wonderful!” Mr. Johnson said, clapping his hands together. “Mark this day on your calendar, Pierre, for August the first will be an auspicious one for both of us.”

  Pierre nodded, thoroughly confused as Mr. Johnson stood up, tipped his hat, and left the room.

  For several minutes, Pierre remained seated, not quite certain as to what he should do next. Finally, he decided he would finish his meal and return to his floor. He had to put Marcel on the Machine. The boy had been late again.

  Pierre smiled at the thought, took another bite of bread, and wondered if Marcel might lose a hand.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 7: The Final Interview and Correction

  When Mr. Johnson arrived at the second-floor entrance, he found the three men in need of correction outside of the door.

  He nodded to them and said, “Are you ready?”

  The men on either end looked to the man in the center.

  He was taller than the other two, and with a shock of red hair that would have done the sun proud. His face was pitted and scarred by some childhood disease, and there was an animal-like intelligence in his green eyes.