The Depth Charge

Previously: We concluded Part Three with a touching and probably temporary détente between the sisters. Now we’re back at it with Part Four, aka The Pot-Pourri, aka The Junk Drawer, aka The One Where the Narrator Really Throws His Weight Around. This chapter is longer than usual because it’s actually like four chapters.

— 45 —

Batya awakens from a dream about thick icy tentacles writhing through her eye sockets and down her throat (I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything) and finds herself on the floor. Mina’s under the quilt, snoring lightly. That cad couldn’t even let her have the bed for one whole night.

Is it morning? How are you even supposed to know what time it is when you’re in an underwater hideout?

She lurches to the bathroom, feels for the light switch, espies her newly shorn hair in the mirror and, for one beautiful moment, doesn’t recognize herself. Tufts are sticking up in all directions but for once it looks intentional. Her sister did nice work. Infuriating.

She sits down on the toilet and the intercom bursts to life: “Good morning!” one or more of the archivists cry. “Job incoming!” Bat, for all intents and purposes, has a heart attack and dies.

Mina runs in, looking like she just rolled down a series of bramble-choked hills. She squats by the intercom speaker and says, “What is it?”

Bat’s fury brings her back from the dead. “Do you twats have a camera in here? Do you wait until the worst possible moment?”

Crackly giggles through the speaker. “Sorry, Miss Batya, but a new jaunt just came in from Estra Maxie.”

Mina tries to clean the sleep out of her eye with her knuckle. “Same Estra Maxie who’s giving us the Snakehair job?”

“Yes, Meanie. She’ll brief you when you meet up. Pickup’s at the Embers, if you know where that is.”

(Bat has never ever been allowed to call Mina Meanie, at least not without kicking up a shindy, so she’s shocked to see that it puts a warm little smile on her sister’s face. Coming from those three evil teenagers? What’s the deal?)

“We do, unfortunately,” Mina says.

“Hooray! Go eat something before you light out, there’s not much left.”

The intercom clicks off. Mina grips Bat’s knees and heaves herself back to her feet.

“I was gonna ask you to leave so I could pee,” Bat says, “but I just realized those ninnies scared the pee out already.”

“That’s great, Bat,” Mina says, splashing water in her face. “I can already tell this is going to be a special day.”

They go to the canteen for breakfast but it’s empty except for a few plates piled with shrimp shells, so they try the office bar known as the Depth Charge. The cramped room is poorly lit by paper lanterns, and music is being piped in through the vents, something ancient that sounds like an orchestra tuning up at the bottom of a well. In the corner are two figures huddled together at a table, drinking.

“Those are the other couriers,” Mina says. “Well, half of them.”

“Are they nice?” Bat says.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Mina says, escorting her to the back where an old woman is tending bar. “This is Agnes, the accountant.”

Agnes seems like she’s not especially interested in anyone’s goddamn nonsense. She’s wearing green eyeshades. As she works a cocktail shaker, Bat spies faded knuckle tats which read LAST and CALL. “You Mina’s little sister?” she says. “You don’t really look like her.”

“Thanks!”

“What can I get you?”

“How about a lot of pancakes?”

“You missed the grub, but I can whip you up a nice strong morning cocktail.”

“What’s on sale?”

“My personal favorite is called the Desperate Hours. That’s where I take the dregs of whatever hooch is left over and mix it together in a pint glass and put a pineapple or some shit on it.”

“Yes please.”

Bat checks out the two couriers in the corner sharing a bottle of something called Expert Whiskey. One’s a big burly hunk, the other is a dark wisp of a woman. “I’m gonna go make friends,” she whispers to her sister, taking the bruise-colored cocktail from the barkeep.

“Oh no, honey, that’s not your strong suit.”

Bat drags a stool over to the table, which takes about an hour longer than she thought it would. “Ahoy,” she says. “Name’s Batya. What’s everyone’s favorite smell?”

Dark Wisp looks her up and down. “What first comes to mind is the scent of a eucalyptus tree after being struck by lightning.”

Burly Hunk says, “That was going to be my answer.”

“Oh, stop.”

“Then I guess my second favorite smell is fish and chips. Though I also really like my new cologne, I think it’s called Otter Musk.” He extends his thick-fingered hand to Bat. “I’m called Hogwild.”

“Voletta Black,” says the wisp.

Bat nods slowly. “Those are definitely some names. For a while I tried to get people to call me Bonecrusher but no one ever did.” She waits for a response but there is none. “Cool so what do you guys do around here?”

Hawthorne Grain Job No. 00198

Courier: Hogwild // Client: Klang & Daughters // Item: Steel box

HOGWILD: Six-two, broad-chested, paunch of an ex-athlete, thick hair only half-tamed by a vigorous pomade, brown three-piece suit that’s a little too snug.

The drop point is a tiny park called Backwall Greens. He’s early, as usual, seated at a picnic table, motionless. He can just barely make out the forest there to the north, some of the taller pines breaking through the fog.

The item is locked in a small steel box, cuffed to his wrist. The client—Mister Klang, a regular—called up Hawthorne and asked that someone bring it to Backwall and wait for one of his representatives to come get it.

Hogwild hates these kinds of jobs, the ones where you’re not really doing anything. Could’ve just as easily chained this thing to a fire hydrant. Probably just a wait-around, the archivists told him, but who knows with Klang.

He’s across from a fountain where kids are scrabbling for pennies and falling in. Next to them is a vendor with dozens of tiny music boxes spread out on a yellowed blanket, each chirping a different song.

Hogwild senses the two people coming up from behind before he sees them. They sit down on either side of him, and he’s about to give them a scary glare when he notices something bright on his right sleeve. He glances down and sees an enormous spider, slow and delicate and orange.

The two interlopers press in close. The woman says, “Careful now.” The man says, “Oh god I hate spiders.”

Hogwild controls his breathing, sits up straight. Things are looking up.

The woman grips his arm tight. She says, “Don’t move. Don’t touch it.”

The man says, “You know what that thing is?”

“Us either,” the woman says. “Fresh out the lab.”

The lab. Now Hogwild knows who he’s dealing with, and knows why Klang didn’t use a fire hydrant: he needed someone to fend off the competition. Klang & Daughters is the go-to source of weaponry in Fort Hook, nothing fancy but good quality, decent warranties, used and trusted by everyone from the street urchin who wants to upgrade his homemade shiv to the CEO who wants a flanged mace to wield during board meetings.

Then, a couple years ago, a wraith by the name of Threnody crawled up from the undercity and started a company called Rustic Industries. It offered all sorts of bioengineered armaments, promising a bold new era of intimidation and calamity. This included a line of insects and reptiles which would, according to the marketing literature, “Creep ’n’ Crawl into your Victim’s most private places, injecting them with our Top-Secret blend of deadly Poisons & Venoms—Guaranteed Untraceable!!”

The poor creatures usually died before you even got them home, what with them being unholy abominations spliced together from random parts by the amoral technologists in Rustic’s laboratories. Or they just got stomped on by your Victim. But Hogwild is chuffed to see they’re still at it and rolling out the next generation.

“It doesn’t even have a name yet,” the man says.

“We call it Chester just for something to call it,” the woman says. Her perfume is chemical, severe.

“Here’s what we know about Chester.”

“First off, his bite does not cause instant death.”

“It does, however, make you wish for instant death.”

“There will be convulsions.”

“Tongue swallowing.”

“Tears of blood.”

“I hate to even mention it but the loss of bowel control.”

“And then some kind of internal organ holocaust and I do not use that word lightly.”

“My advice to you is no sudden movement,” the woman says. 

“It doesn’t want to bite you,” the man says.

“I think I can coax it back into its little box,” the woman says.

“Are you sure?” the man asks, concerned.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” the woman says. “No promises.”

“But first,” the man says.

“First we were wondering what you have in your little box,” the woman says.

Hogwild shrugs. “I’m just a courier.”

“Just a courier, he says,” the man says.

“You let people handcuff things to you and you don’t even know what they are,” the woman says.

“All the time,” Hogwild says. “At work and at home.”

“Well, I certainly don’t care what’s in that box,” the man says.

“You know my opinion on the matter,” the woman says.

“Whole thing’s a waste of time,” the man says. “But you know the higher ups.”

“Higher ups are interested.”

“Higher ups say if Klang is transporting a locked box filled with secrets…”

“…then Rustic Industries wants a peek.”

The orange spider makes an abrupt turn and starts crawling down Hogwild’s arm toward the handcuff. “Seems like a bonehead idea to me,” he says. “You’re like a kid who wants a toy just because his brother’s playing with it.”

“Hey, preaching to the choir,” the man says.

“We’re grunts like you,” the woman says. “Just doing what we’re told.”

“I feel like we could all go out for a pint after this,” the man says.

“You know that place over on Cheroot?” the woman says. “Half price on pork legs if we wrap this up quick.”

Hogwild watches the spider skitter toward his knuckle, then brace itself as a light breeze blows through the park. He clenches his fist.

“Careful now,” the man says. “Chester looks agitated.”

“This will end in blood tears,” the woman agrees.

“Yeah,” Hogwild says, turning and punching the man, smashing the spider against his eye. Then he pivots and swings the lockbox against the woman’s head and she falls to the grass with a groan, scrambling for her gun. Hogwild kicks over the picnic table, steps on the woman’s hand with a tiny crunch, picks up the gun—looks like a Klang model, actually—and pockets it.

He notices the lockbox is now bloodied and hanging open. There’s a little camera and a note inside. Note says: Take a picture of any vultures that come sniffing around. Thx, K&D. Guess Klang just wanted to figure out who was out here minding his business.

Hogwild fishes through his coat pocket for the key, unlocks the handcuff and lets the box fall on the man’s crotch. The kids in the fountain erupt into cheers. Then he snaps a few nice photos of the Rustics as they writhe around on the grass.

He’s suddenly incredibly hungry, so he heads toward the place over on Cheroot. Goons know their happy hour food, so he feels he can trust their pork leg recommendation.

Hawthorne Grain Job No. 00249

Courier: Voletta // Client: J. Radcliff, Esq. // Item: Sealed documents

VOLETTA BLACK: Small, lithe, adept at contorting her body and face in such a way that she vanishes from sight. She doesn’t technically turn invisible but becomes so thoroughly anonymous that your attention bends away from her, refracted toward someone or something else more interesting.

Which is how she gets past the pair of rented henchmen posted at the entrance to the Ball Memorial Botanical Garden. No distractions, no disguises, just a vague blur weaving through the queue, unnoticed.

(Did she learn this technique in junior high, when she wanted nothing more than to disappear from the face of Planet Earth, to not be seen, to not exist as a human being? Yes. Did this systematic erasure of herself affect her self-esteem for years? Sure. But did she eventually discover how to give herself permission to take up space in the world, in people’s lives, in her own life, in a way that felt healthy and powerful? No, she veered way off in the other direction, becoming deliberately intrusive and disruptive and cruel to her loved ones, as if the only way she could truly be seen was by inflicting pain and sowing chaos. Um OK but did she move past that phase and make amends for her emotional wreckage and build stronger, closer relationships? I mean, sort of? That’s still a work in progress. Well, did she at least figure out how to turn her skills in attracting and deflecting attention into a financially stable career, one that lets her enjoy the support and admiration of likeminded peers? Yes! Yeah. For sure. Mostly!)

Ball Botanical has been reserved for the wedding of a major figure in Fort Hook, not well known to the general public but a serious string-puller. His name is Roger Bagwell but he makes everyone call him the Harbormaster.

The Harbormaster oversees all traffic and goods coming in and out of the port, which is kind of the entire economy of the Hook. He gets his cut of everything and that’s a lot of cuts. He’s been a client of Hawthorne Grain since it launched last year but today he’s a recipient. The item in question being a thickish envelope stashed in the small of Voletta’s back.

She quickly—but not noticeably quickly—moves through the entryway tunnel and into the gardens: an entire boreal ecosystem sealed within a glass geodesic dome. The weather in here is currently mild and springlike. A gentle breeze carries the scent of peach blossoms and the songs of thrushes and shrikes.

Wedding guests dot the winding paths, each wearing posh outfits that are all, to Voletta’s dismay, dyed an identical shade of hot pink. When the archivists briefed on her on this job, they mentioned that the invitation said to wear pink, and she assumed one was free to express one’s own individuality within the full range of the pink spectrum. Forgetting, unfortunately, who she was dealing with: The Harbormaster, who likes everything exactly as he likes it, no matter how tasteless, and who ruthlessly enforces his rules, no matter how arbitrary.

She looks down at her suit, Mountbatten pink, a vague color that the British Royal Navy used to paint their ships to make them harder to see at dawn and dusk. She likes it because of its refusal to be noticed, but here it might as well be a flashing neon sign that says hey pallie check me out!

She zips over to the shadiest pathway and, without even thinking about it, IDs the guest closest to her in size, a scrawny chump in a pink tux. But then she realizes there’s no time for a costume change—the preacher is broadcasting his blather from the gazebo by the lake, and it sounds like the ceremony is imminent.

So she charts the subtlest course through the orchard, noting the hired hoods scattered throughout, also in pink but easily recognizable by their meaty stance and dead eyes. As she slinks from tree to tree, it gets significantly warmer in the dome. The peaches swell and ripen, the grass turns golden, summer poppies bloom, cicadas and katydids click.

Suddenly boiling in her obvious suit, she pauses to dab the perspiration out of her eyes and misses a guard at her side. “Can I see your invitation, miss?” he says.

Voletta’s not one for playacting. “I don’t have one,” she says, already calculating the geometry of people and foliage around them. “I wasn’t invited.”

“I figured,” the guard says in his smug guard voice. “What say you hoof it before there’s trouble?”

“Maybe there’s already trouble?” she says and jabs him in the throat and uses his backward momentum to escort him into a secluded hedge, gently dipping him down to the ground. He makes a horrible wheezing sound but stops as soon as she constricts his windpipe. It takes him longer to pass out than she planned, but she consoles herself by taking his hot pink coat. About ninety sizes too big but she fashions it into a kind of hideous dress and slips back out onto the pathway.

By the time she gets to the lake, the leaves have changed and started to fall from the trees. The shadows are lengthening. There’s a bite to the breeze. The scent of woodsmoke. A tinge of melancholy.

In the midst of this abrupt autumn is the Harbormaster and his bride-to-be, posed in the gazebo, wearing outfits in bright lime green to complement all the pink. He’s wearing a heavy buckled doublet and skintight britches to call attention to his nasty peen. She’s got on a cotillion gown with a skirt that threatens to consume the gazebo, and then the world.

The preacher is doing some kind of louche intro (“…let’s just say it wasn’t the first time she let a fella dock his longliner in her marina, but anyway let’s get to those vows…”) as Voletta creeps along the rows of guests, precariously seated on cheap folding chairs. She stops near the front, crouches down next to a lady in a hot pink muumuu and gives her a look like ain’t love grand.

Meantime, the dome shifts into the final phase of its manufactured cycle. The trees are now dead and skeletal, the lake turns to ice, a light snow falls.

(As the radio spot says: “At the Ball Memorial Botanical Garden, you can experience four seasons in fourteen minutes—and take back your life!”)

Personally, Voletta wouldn’t have timed the vows to happen right when all your guests are freezing their balls off, but that’s the Harbormaster for you.

“I do,” he says. (He goes first.)

“I do too,” she says.

“Hey how bout that!” the preacher says, and the crowd cheers.

Voletta leaps up the stairs of the gazebo, kneels, hands the envelope to the Harbormaster. “A wedding gift for you!”

“The devil is this?” he says.

“Service of process,” Voletta says, the lake now cracking and thawing. A warbler chirps. “A petition for divorce from the new Mrs. Roger Bagwell.”

The bride smiles wistfully at the Harbormaster. “This just isn’t working out.”

Voletta tries to say “Congratulations!” but is knocked down by a hired gorilla before she can finish.

Bat drains the last of her Desperate Hours and feels it burn a path down her esophagus and through her very soul. “Huh,” she says. “That gorilla was me. I worked that wedding. I tackled you.”

“I know,” Voletta says. “I recognized you when you came in.”

Bat closes one eye. “I don’t recognize you at all.”

Voletta smiles, pleased. “That’s sort of my M.O.” She rolls up her sleeves and shows Hogwild  her skinned elbows. “Look what our new colleague did to me last week.”

“Nice work,” Hogwild says, raising his glass.

“I’m sorry,” Bat says, not really meaning it. They know she was on a job and it doesn’t count. “Hey, I don’t have a…a meaty stance and dead eyes, do I?”

“Of course not,” Voletta says, not meaning it either.

+++

This has been Chapter 45 of Chokeville, a novel by Josh Fireland.

Next up: Esther Something