A Dirty Business
Lately I’ve been submitting to literary magazines as a way to challenge myself to write different types of stories. This one was submitted to The First Line and while it didn’t make the cut (can’t win ‘em all), I enjoyed meeting Mr. Morton and wanted you to too.
Is this a love story? Well, no, but that’s kind of the point. Unless you count the love of fine leather footwear, in which case, this is a tragic one.
Mr. Morton needed a new pair of shoes. His current set had blood all over them. It really was a pity, because they were only a few months old and the leather had just finally started to break in.
He cringed internally thinking of what Mrs. Morton would say about him buying another pair, given her recent insistence on squirreling money away for a Pontiac. He didn’t see anything wrong with their current car, but when Mrs. Morton got hold of an idea, it was almost impossible to extricate her from it.
The thought of vise-like grips brought Mr. Morton back to the present moment and the man currently dripping blood all over his caramel-colored wingtips. The injured party seemed to be under the delusion that it was better to hold on to information rather than openly discuss his business. It was an annoying trait, this integrity. In the twenty years Mr. Morton had been in his line of work, he found that most people had it only to a point. Whether it was the threat of violence or the enacting of it, everyone broke. Everyone. This inconvenient bleeder would be no exception.
Mr. Morton studied the drooping head, precariously hovering over his now-ruined shoes. The man was on his knees with hands bound behind his back. There was a slight sway to him, as if he was resisting complete collapse and kept catching himself mid-fall. The teetering nature was in part responsible for the stains sinking deeper into the delicately perforated design of his right shoe’s gently pointed toe.
Thinking about all that craftsmanship being squandered enraged Mr. Morton, who expressed the emotion by kicking the man in the face with one of the ruined brogues. This sent the culprit reeling back with a spray of saliva and blood that got all over the Italian wool suit of Mr. Morton’s colleague, Mr. Brakewell, who looked down at the new stains with a curled lip and contemptuous silence.
Why men in their line of work insisted on dressing so well was something he would have to discuss with Mr. Brakewell and his other associates later. The task at hand was to deal with the moaning, bleeding mess of a man currently prone on the concrete floor of the tire shop’s back room.
“Now, Mr. Richards,” Mr. Morton began again. He insisted on formality. It made the whole business feel courteous; high-minded, even. “As I have expressed, we will need information regarding your supplier’s expected delivery dates.”
“Go to hell,” the man croaked. Mr. Morton let out a small, but no less exasperated breath. Was it really so much to ask that everyone speak with respect? He was trying to have a civilized conversation. And while, yes, that conversation was taking on a physical overtone, he believed that decorum could still go a long way.
“I really wish you wouldn’t speak that way, Mr. Richards. I’m merely trying to understand when your organization will be in possession of the missile blueprints. I have not asked anything but simple administrative information. Before you redirect me or fabricate some lie that you do not hold such information, I assure you that I have done my research.”
At this, Mr. Morton began to slowly circle the man on the floor. He didn’t look down on the curled form, but rather up at the water-stained ceiling.
“First, I looked in on your secretary. Lovely woman. She offered to make me coffee when I made my house call. I declined — coffee makes me jittery, you see — but it was kind of her to offer nonetheless. Anyway, after quite a long chat, I felt certain she knew nothing of your plans.
Next, I decided to pay visits to all your lackies. Quite a sweet group of lads you have there, Mr. Richards. They’re all so bright and shiny. Of course, they are also very young and eager to keep on living, so they quickly told me everything. About the missiles. About the government contract. About the dream of dictatorial overthrow. It really would have been inspiring were it not so misguided.”
The end of this thought was perfectly synchronized with the end of another orbit. Mr. Morton punctuated it by crouching down next to the trembling heap on the floor.
“And so, Mr. Richards, now that you know the extent to which I am acquainted with your endeavor, I hope you will be so kind as to fill in the small, extraneous details that I am missing.”
Two blackening eyes slowly looked up. It seemed to Mr. Morton that there was a flicker of consideration before they were once again clouded with imprudent resolve.
“I would rather die than tell you anything about the project,” Mr. Richards said through gritted teeth that were stained pink with blood.
It was such a disappointing answer. But Mr. Morton had been in this business long enough to know when to cut his losses. Besides, he’d already ruined his shoes. What harm would a little more blood do?
As he rose, he extracted a switch blade from his double-breasted jacket’s pocket. It was his favorite instrument, complete with an onyx handle and ivory inlay. He unfurled the titanium blade in one smooth motion.
“Well, Mr. Richards. That can be arranged.”