The butcher shop was settled between Ye Old Smoke Stack, a tobacco shop and The Original Crown, a barber shop. The three stood erect in the center of the block down Piquant Street. It was in a district reminiscent of days gone by, the streets were cobblestone with very little room for parking. Uneven and hard to keep your footing walking across. Street lamps lined the walk, brass and glass looped onto scrolls of dark black wrought iron. At some point they had been wired for electricity leaving behind the necessity of lighting the torch inside. The storefronts were aged, faded brick remarkably slender and overshadowed the crowd that would form below. Hand-me-downs to the owners through a couple of generations of family. The Butcher’s Blade was owned by a man respected or maybe just feared in the community, his lineage ruled the neighborhood; another hand-me-down.
Garrick should have closed up over an hour ago, the lamps had just flickered on outside the shop. He was tired of waiting, his authority being tested. He heard the clamor of the bells above the door behind him and turned around slowly. It was not who he was expecting and he was wary of the pretentious over-dressed stranger. He sounded ridiculous with his high pitched lyrical reciting of the code: “I’ll have the surprise duck.” Garrick couldn’t tell if he was nervous or just the village idiot. A miscalculation on his part leads to one of two places; jail or death. Garrick drew in his breath long and heavy, stalling so he could determine his next move. If he threw the kid out the deal would be broken. Someone wanted to sink him and that would be all the ammunition they needed. Alternatively, this kid could be the harbinger of his death or the badge of confinement. However, the broken deal would mean his death just the same.
Garrick cocked his head slightly to the right evaluating the figure in front of him. He was young, much too young for a detective or someone from the police force in a sting operation. Tall and slender with defined features he had to be one of the family’s kids. Probably trying to prove himself capable. It pissed Garrick off that such impertinence would be shown in this transaction with him. The more he thought about it the more enraged he became. This could be his opportunity to reclaim what was slipping away. To send a callowness, inept underling for this job was in itself a stamp of dishonor. He would not tolerate this! Once the deal was done he could begin the preparations to oust his competition for the deplorable and disgraceful insubordination. The Syndicate could not stand for this anymore than he could! His mind was made up, he would turn this malevolence against them.
Garrick feeling big and righteous turned as he jerked his head to the side with a grunt and flicked his wrist motioning the kid to follow him. He looked back at the kid standing there wide-eyed and blurted “Come on.” He shook his head and somewhat under his breath he muttered, “Nitwit.” Garrick led him past the counter to a dirty steel swinging door with a small round window. He reached out his hand and twisted the nob on the radio before punching the door open. “Put me in coach, I’m ready to play, today,” howled from the small reverberating speakers. Garrick turned his head to the side and explained, “Blocks those parabola, paraboleek, whatever you call them listener things.” He heard the kid behind him in a low voice, “parabolic.”
“Humph,” Garrick moaned as he unlocked the husky, heavy metal door to the freezer. As he stepped inside the hairs on his arms rose as the frigid air dominated his surroundings. He shuffled to the back of the room, “So you want to be an Arms dealer, huh?” “I am here to complete a contract,” the kid stood just inside the door frame looking around. Garrick began to enlighten the kid about the product he had and the expectations of payment. It was cold and with each sentence muttered the words floated through the air followed by a trail of mist. Garrick turned around and opened the rough wooden ammo trunk behind him. Reaching in to grab a weapon for inspection the hairs on the back of his neck rippled with a hot breath. He spun around stunned that the kid had closed the distance between them with silent agility. The kid leaned in close, bending Garrick backward over the crate. Hovering above Garrick, in a much deeper and assertive voice the kid hissed, “The Syndicate is done with you.”
Garrick felt the fierce deep blow between his ribs at his side. He let out a grumble with his acute exhale of breath. As the stinging sharp instrument slid out of his flesh he gasped. His lung was punctured and he gasped trying to steal just an ounce of the icy air around him. He lifted his head and saw in the dark shadowed eyes before him the wrathful nature of a kid without emotion, without remorse. The knife struck him deep in the gut. Amidst the agony he could feel the kid’s knuckles pushing into his stomach as his wrist twisted. The kid quickly withdrew the knife slicing Garrick’s fingers where he had tried to grab hold during the assault. The kid stepped back and tilted his head, a smile grew. Garrick struggled to maintain his balance as he looked from the kid to his hands and stomach. He recognized the clang of the freezer door and heard the click of the lock as he looked up. He dropped to his knees stretching out his hands. They were wet with blood burning numb from the cold and stuck to the metal beneath him. He desperately tried to ignore the pain and crawl forward. Each movement only bringing him closer to the frozen floor. He could not propel himself forward. He twisted his body and settled onto his back, looking straight up at the white crystalized ice covering the gray muted metal. Out of the corner of his eye he could make out the scarlet red flooding around him. The echo of wheezing faded slowly and his eyes became fixed and vacant.