Esther Something

Previously: The sisters try to get some breakfast before tackling the day’s jobs, but instead have to learn about a pair of their fellow couriers. My mother said it was sort of confusing, which it was.

— 46 —

The Embers was originally a dentist’s office (specializing in toothpulling and golden prostheses) until an ether explosion burned it down. Then the dentist abandoned dentistry and built a bar on top of the ashes and drank himself to death, becoming a local hero in the process.

The establishment has three discrete spaces: outer room for general drinking and carousing, back room for special parties and events, and an even further back room called the mizzen, only accessible by patrons who know where the release latch is hidden.

Batya and Mina duck inside and the day vanishes behind them, swallowed whole by the Embers’ smoke-stained shadows. A row of filthy lamps hang from the low ceiling, mostly getting in people’s way. Wallpaper heavy with textured fleur-de-lis. Framed paintings of evil dancing fauns. A bookcase filled with fake-looking books. Dark wooden chairs, unshaking tables, bottom-heavy glassware. Music so delicate you don’t hear it until you go outside to vomit and realize it’s no longer there.

A woman standing by the bathrooms—in the corner, back to the wall, just the way Bat does it—summons them over. Turtleneck, long heavy coat with buckled pockets along the waist, all browns and blacks. Her auburn hair is pulled tight—too tight—into a bun. The twin scars that run down her neck are so gnarly they make Bat a little queasy.

“You call a courier?” Mina says.

“Looks like I got a two-for-one-deal,” the woman says. She points at a nearby booth. “You sit there and you sit there.”

They don’t want to obey her but after two seconds they do it anyway.

“Let me guess,” she says, easing into her seat. “You’re Wilhelmina Hull. And you’re Batya Hull.”

Bat suppresses a little flinch, never likes being at a disadvantage. “And you’re Esther Something.”

“Right,” Estra Maxie says. “You need a couple drinks? I need a couple drinks.”

Nestled in the booth is a heavy black phone. Estra picks up the receiver and clicks the hook a couple times. “Blue Eye,” she says. “You mind bringing us some Snakehairs? I don’t know, your choice.”

BLUE EYE: Barkeep of the Embers, been there forever. She does, indeed, have one blue eye—it got stabbed out decades ago and has since been replaced with a star sapphire. She’s got papers under the till that grant her legal permission to fire a gun at a human being as long as it hits below the waist. Above her hangs the Big Board: a wooden plank engraved with the names of drinks, a tiny light bulb next to each one indicating its availability. She finishes making a cocktail, scans the switchboard, flicks a switch. The bulb next to Black Tequila goes out and a strangled cry of dismay comes from somewhere in the darkness. (She came up with the board and the phone system to keep chatter to a minimum. She is not of the bartender as therapist school.)

A moment later, Blue Eye passes by their booth, tray full of drinks hoisted in one hand, a trio of brown bottles in another. She somehow manages to open all three with her thumb as she sets them down, caps skittering to the floor.

The sisters clink their bottles together and then Mina says, “So, you’re pals with Margaret?”

“That’s one way to put it. We did misbegotten things in ancient times. These days I mostly help out with jobs she doesn’t want on the Hawthorne books.”

“That a full-time gig?” Bat says.

“No, I don’t like being locked down,” Estra says. “I’m freelance. Retrieval, mostly.”

“Be your own boss,” Mina smiles. “That’s the way to do it.”

Bat looks at her sister and can’t tell if she’s genuinely smitten or faking it for business purposes.

“Sure. And I recently retrieved—at great personal hardship—two items that need delivering. One now, one in the AM.”

“Which one pays more?” Bat says.

“That’s the Dandy Gorgon job. I believe Margaret provided you with some background.”

“She told us the ship is cursed and sucks.”

“Good, then you’re up to speed. It spends most of its time out in international waters, but docks once a week to unlade product and bodies, then restock. That happens tomorrow at dawn. A skeevy gent named Frank Dezzetti hired me to locate something for him. Cowpoke about yay high. Hair in braids, last I saw. He’ll be onboard playing some high-stakes game with the captain and a couple other bigwigs. You need to get on the boat, find him, and deliver this.” She opens her hand to reveal a tiny—and I mean tiny—envelope. It’s about the size of a domino, sealed with an itsy red wax stamp.

“That’s the cutest fuckin thing I ever seen,” Bat says.

“I’m hoping its petite size will make it easier to hand off. From what I understand, this game is quite the event so there will be a crowd, with lots of eyes on the client. But no one can see you give him the item. That’s crucial.”

“Can’t we just meet him on the docks or thereabouts?” Mina says.

“Once the game starts, no one’s allowed to leave the table or they forfeit. So you’ll have to make your way to him. Somehow.”

“When does the game start?”

“Yesterday.”

“Can they even leave to take a hot piss?” Bat says.

“I don’t know, kid. You’ll have to find that out for me.”

Bat stashes the tiny envelope. “This sure does sound like the biggest pain in the ass I can possibly think of.”

“You should also keep in mind that Margaret’s looking to gain a foothold into Snakehair. Maybe you two charmers can make friends while you’re on board.” 

Mina leans forward. “You think Margaret will axe us if this job goes south?”

“If it goes south,” Estra says, “you’ll be dead anyway.”

Mina glances at Bat. “We can always turn tail. Skip town. Get new names. I’ll call you Bonecrusher.”

“Just a reminder that Bonecrusher is a little behind on the bills,” Bat says. “Bonecrusher’s gonna get her own bones crushed if she doesn’t get some thick paper real soon.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine, or not,” Estra says. “Listen, I’d love to chew fat here but I need you to deliver this other item at your earliest convenience, which I hope is right now.” She takes out a circular steel canister about the size of a clay pigeon and slides it across the table.

Bat picks it up, looks it over. “Where to?”

“White Clinic. Main office, not the cathouses. Just walk right in and drop it off.”

“Hear that, Bat?” Mina says. “Walk right in. Easy money.”

“Well we are experts at walking right in and dropping things off.”

“Once you’re there, it’s easy,” Estra says. “Getting there might be hard.”

“Main office is, what, near the terminal?” Mina asks, pretending not to know the location of the corporate headquarters of the preeminent brothel franchise in Fort Hook. “Not far.”

“No, but I foresee some interference en route. That filmstrip you have there is a hot commodity.”

“What kind of interference?” Bat asks, putting the canister in her back pocket. “Small, medium, large?”

“Small in number but large in crazy,” Estra says. “There’s some local interest from a competing bordello, but there’s also a party who’s been tailing me since I acquired the item. He is insolent. And he is dogged.”

“Type of dog who holds a grudge?” Mina says. “Say, we walk in and drop off and he’s waiting outside to exact revenge?”

Estra thinks this over, runs a finger along her pair of scars. “I doubt it. Maybe fifteen percent chance. He runs hot, but he’s not after the item for himself, he’s a hired goon like you.”

“Rude,” Bat says.

“Hey, I’m one too, there’s no shame in it. It’s honest work if you look at it right.”

And then a hissing, cylindrical object ricochets off the corner of the booth and bounces along their table, spraying a thick greenish gas. Estra Maxie grabs the thing mid-bounce, flings it back from whence it came. There’s a startled yelp in the distance. “He’s here,” she says.

+++

This has been Chapter 46 of Chokeville, a novel by Josh Fireland.

Next up: An Ugly Rumpus