Johannes Raymond Matthews, Ray to those who were still speaking to him, had his hat in his hand and his heart in his throat as he stood before the crazy office building at the end of Main Street. Krieger, Special Services Company. Well, it had been that all right: 'special'. Ray had only met the lugubrious Mr Eric Krieger twice. The first time, briefly, when Arabella had brought him to his now ex-employer, Mr. Jolly's Funeral Parlour to help her take one of her bizarre half-grotesque, half-erotic memento mori photographs featuring the dearly departed lying in their coffin with Arabella modelling as a scantly clad 'Angel' praying next to them. That in itself was a bad sign.
The second time was when Krieger had agreed to a contract to save his sister's life, the cost being everything Raymond owned. As Raymond owned nothing, except his Father's debts: the cost had been himself. Eric Krieger, as near as the law of private contract would allow it, owned Raymond Matthews.
Today was the first day of that... what: job? role? mode of existence?
What it all really meant, or would entail, he had no idea. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But now was the hour: as he stood in the only clothes he owned and a small carpet bag stuffed with a change of shirt and underwear and an old toothbrush: even all of that was technically Krieger's property, not his, he took a gulp and walked in to his new life...
As he went to open the door, someone was coming out, Mrs Adams, come to make her report on the progress of the brothel to Mr. Krieger. He might well have been pleased, for she had obtained the services of a top line 'Lady of the Evening' to get things started. Raymond dutifully removed his hat and held the door open as she swept out like a frigate in full sail.
"Why thank you, sonny!" she smiled graciously, ruffling his hair with a black lace gloved hand.
"You're welcome Ma'am." he replied politely. She seemed like a nice lady, though he had often heard his Father and Sister complain of the woman as a 'resolute whore' and 'a strumpet of the very worst sort'.
But he could no longer count on the viciously expressed views of his family to act as his moral compass: he would have to come up with one of his own. Maybe it was just this: how did others treat him? Mrs Adams had been pleasant. He would categorise her as Good from now on.
And now to see how to categorise Mr Krieger...
"Good afternoon, Sir. I'm here, like I said I would be." he intoned lifelessly to the man sitting behind the desk, a knot of fear and tension balling in his stomach.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Eric Krieger was jotting down some important details about the progress of the brothel he'd invested in. It was a potentially dirty business, letting one person rent another. But as long as everyone involved was a willing participant, he had no problem with it. Thus far, everything seemed to be on the up and up.
But the next person who entered his establishment- just as Mrs. Adams was making her departure- was a much dirtier business. It was 'devil at the crossroads' business, except without the mystique of supernatural forces or participants. This was an outlawed trade in human beings. An ocean of blood had been spilled over this sort of thing.
What possessed the young Matthews to show up and make payment for the thing he'd bought?
Some sense of honor? Where had such a thing been imprinted onto his soul?
Was it Zenobia? Surely not her father.
Or was it something else? Some ineffable imprint upon the inner being, there from birth?
Maybe the Eastern folk across the world had it right about a man's essence being re-cast time and again in new bodies. Perhaps the lessons and foibles of yesterday were burned into us before we were born. And perhaps a young Raymond Matthews had been cursed at birth by some unknown spiritual ancestor to believe that a bargain struck was a bargain kept.
Eric slid a paper across the counter towards the young boy. "Mister Matthews. Good Morning. I have your first task of the day. If you know how to write, then write this:
I, Raymond Matthews, hereby promise to never reveal any details of the business of the Krieger Special Services Company. I make this promise under penalty of law.
Then make your mark at the bottom."
He set the pencil down next to the paper and waited to see what the boy would do or say.
Raymond's soft brown eyes studied Mr Eric Krieger from beneath slightly sleepy looking lids and then, instead of the pencil, reached for an ink pen, standing proud in its well, like the ones you saw at the bank, except this one didn't have a little chain on it to stop people walking away with it.
"With your permission, Sir, Mr Jolly says a contract written in lead pencil is an abomination to a businessman." He looked down at the virgin white page of foolscap. "This should be indelible." he wrote the words in an habitual neat copperplate that had been drilled into him under the iron rule of Mrs Dorothea Orr, late schoolmistress of this burgh.
I, Johannes Raymond Matthews, hereby promise to never reveal any details of the business of the Krieger Special Services Company. I make this promise under penalty of law and in the sight of God.
JRM, 5th Day of October, year of Our Lord 1876.
He blotted it with the big blotter and handed it back to Krieger with that same fatalistically deadpan expression in his eyes and in his voice.
"Sorry, Sir, I improved it some, Sir." he informed his new boss/owner, a little , but mostly curious to see what reaction that would elicit.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
Eric smirked as the boy insisted on a pen, and then 'improved' upon his dictated contract.
He couldn't help but wonder if this young Matthew's sense of honor was going to be a benefit or detriment to the operations of the Special Services Company.
"It seems you've had a Jolly good education already," Eric said, suppressing the smile which threatened to engulf the entirety of his face. He didn't take or file away the paper immediately, leaving it for now where it had been written.
"Are you hungry?" Eric didn't really wait for the youth to answer. He took out a shoulder harness from beneath the counter and put it on as he continued, "Calculate for me the internal volume of a cube which is two and a half feet tall. And accompany me to the Lick Skillet while you work that out."
The harness had a fairly substantial knife sheathed just under the arm, hanging so that it might be pulled with a downward draw. Some device in the sheath seemed to hold it tightly enough to prevent it from dropping free, though presumably not so tightly that it couldn't be intentionally removed.
Now Eric took a suit coat from a hook on the wall behind him, and shrugged it on.
"We'll eat quickly. Wouldn't want to miss any customers."
He paused at the door. "Are you armed?"
Then he prepared to lock up once the boy joined him outside.
"It seems you've had a Jolly good education already," Eric said, suppressing the smile which threatened to engulf the entirety of his face. He didn't take or file away the paper immediately, leaving it for now where it had been written.
Poor Raymond: the past few months he had seen his older brother run away from home, his mother die, his father shot to death in a family altercation, his sister disappear and his own personal liberty lost: but it all paled into insignificance next to the horror of having to listen to that joke.
"Not really Sir" he answered seriously. "I was doing all right until my Dad took me out of school a year or two ago, about the time Mrs Orr got replaced by that Mister Partridge feller. The one they tarred and feathered. They should never have gotten rid of Mrs Orr. She was kinda strict, but we sure learned a lot from her. Mostly mathematics and algebra, that sort of thing. We didn't really do much by way of history or geography or famous writers, all that interesting stuff." he reported.
"Are you hungry?" Eric didn't really wait for the youth to answer. He took out a shoulder harness from beneath the counter and put it on as he continued, "Calculate for me the internal volume of a cube which is two and a half feet tall. And accompany me to the Lick Skillet while you work that out."
"Yes Sir." Ray answered.
"We'll eat quickly. Wouldn't want to miss any customers."
Raymond seriously wondered how many customers there were for Mr Krieger to miss. Apart from Mrs Adams and himself, had anyone else been availing themselves of these special services? Oh, he'd taken a picture of Arabella, he knew that: but that wasn't a particularly 'special' service, no matter what state of disarray his ex-coworker's attire had been in. He had to admit, he had taken a good peek at her 'photographic album' full of her sample pictures in the funeral parlour, on the odd occasion he was alone there. It was kind of awkward to keep one hand covering the dead person on each photograph, so that he could only see the 'Ætherial Angel' posing next to it. And never mind about what the other hand was employed in doing.
He paused at the door. "Are you armed?"
"No, Sir. Oh, Mr Krieger, do you want it in cubic inches or feet? It's just we used to work in inches at Mr Jolly's cause we were dealing in irregular size boxes, of course, but you probably think more in terms of, like, fifteen cubed feet and five eighths." he said nonchalantly. Sums he could do falling off a log, but ask him the capital of France or the date of the battle of Bunker Hill and he wouldn't have a clue.
@[Cuban Writer]
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
"Always give someone an answer to a question in the context within which the question is asked," Eric said as he locked the door.
The boy's skills were excellent. And in fact, he was a quicker calculator than Eric himself. Well... you really only needed fast math to work artillery.
"You'll have to tell me more about this tarred teacher someday. What about poetry? Historical events? Geography? Latin? Did they cover any of that in school before you were taken out?"
"We didn't really do much by way of history or geography or famous writers, all that interesting stuff."
He listened as they walked up the road together, perfecting his plan.
"Incidentally," he added as an afterthought, "you should always be armed if it is possible to be armed. Now that you are a man, you will face a man's dangers and challenges. I think a good knife will do, for now. Most threats are within arm's reach, and a sharp blade doesn't care how strong you are."
He regarded the boy as they reached the diner.
"Be polite to everyone you meet. And have a plan to kill them, if the situation warrants it. Never seek such an end. Not ever, if it can be avoided within the constraints of honor and safety. But be ready for it, if it seeks you out. You don't want to be the one in the pine box, hmm?"
He held the door open for his companion, and then entered the diner proper.
"Always give someone an answer to a question in the context within which the question is asked," Eric said as he locked the door.
Raymond wanted to point out that the context of that question had apparently been that of a pretty simple test, but instead he gave a docile "Yes Sir."
Eric quizzed the boy about the nature of his education at Mrs Orr's hands, or perhaps 'at the end of her switch' might have been a better and more accurate bit of phraseology. The gaps and deficits were easily described. It was quite clear that the good lady believed that the romance of history and literature, even of geography, might corrupt young minds: far better to dwell in the cold, abstract world of trigonometry and long division.
"Incidentally," he added as an afterthought, "you should always be armed if it is possible to be armed. Now that you are a man, you will face a man's dangers and challenges. I think a good knife will do, for now. Most threats are within arm's reach, and a sharp blade doesn't care how strong you are."
"Yes Sir. I don't have a knife, Sir. Anything else, Sir?" asked Raymond.
"Be polite to everyone you meet. And have a plan to kill them, if the situation warrants it. Never seek such an end. Not ever, if it can be avoided within the constraints of honor and safety. But be ready for it, if it seeks you out. You don't want to be the one in the pine box, hmm?"
"Sure" frowned the lad, confused. He wondered how he might kill Eric at that very moment, and was so wrapped up in the thought that he forgot himself enough to enter the diner first.
Urgh, he had hoped Mrs Dietrich might be out front this afternoon, but it was his cousin Jake's snooty young wife, Clara, instead. He just hoped she didn't give him a boring lecture about something. His Dad had always said that the Redmond girl was 'so far up her own backside it's surprising her head don't come out of her mouth!' and his sister once said 'she thinks she knows everything, everything except how to keep her legs crossed, that is!' Raymond didn't really know what she meant by that, but it didn't sound good. In short, he had been severely turned against Clara 'Snooty-pants' Lutz by his folks.
Oh well, maybe they would just order some pie and be left in peace by the clever-dick young woman.
Wayfarer @[Cuban Writer]
Clara was in the middle of another busy day. Now that was not a bad thing, Clara preferred to be kept busy, and running the diner was indeed a responsibility which guaranteed that. It did make the time go by faster as the old saying went. And it made money for the business and the young lady was determined to show Emeline upon her return that she had not made a mistake leaving it in Clara's care.
Once more the front door bell gave it's tinkling notice of another arrival of customers. Clara glanced from cleaning one freshly vacated table to see just who it might be. It was a fairly recent arrival to town, Mr. Krieger, he of the rather mysterious or at least opaque business. He seemed a decent enough sort and acted the gentleman on his previous visits for a meal or purchase of bakery. This time he had an older boy with him. Clara recognized by face as a local but not by name. Well, she did not know everyone in this every growing town.
She paused in her table clearing to address the pair, "Good day, Mr.Krieger. Pick a place and I will be right with you."
Good to her word as soon as she had taken the trayful of dirty dishes into the kitchen, she was back to approach their table.
"Hello, can I get you both something?" she got right down to business in that no nonsense fashion of hers.
What is Good, and what is Legal, are not always the same.
"Mrs. Lutz," Eric reached up to tip his hat at her, only then realizing that he'd left it back at the office. His formidable forehead was thus left undisguised.
Well, Clara Lutz didn't seem the sort to titter over such things, or to take much note of shortcomings in people's appearance. He'd rarely met a steadier type of woman. Or so his limited exposure had informed him thus far.
As suggested, he found an empty table and settled in with Mr. Matthews.
"I will see about getting you armed," Eric said to his table companion, "and then I'll see about teaching you some skill with weapons. But you'll need better teachers than I to fill your mind with the other necessities of your position.
Fortunately, I have heard we can get more than food from the young woman who works this diner."
He smiled amiably as Clara approached their table.
"I will have Bacon, Eggs, Toast, and coffee. And when things quiet down in here, Mrs. Lutz, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time, as well. I have a business proposition for you to consider, if you are willing to contemplate a second route of employment after your shifts here.
But first, Mr. Matthews will surely want to add to our order?"
Eric looked across at his table-mate.
"I will see about getting you armed," Eric said to his table companion, "and then I'll see about teaching you some skill with weapons. But you'll need better teachers than I to fill your mind with the other necessities of your position.
To be fair, the part about getting weapons and learning how to use them properly sounded pretty exciting to the lad: what boy didn't daydream about being a famous gunslinger, or being Jim Bowie at the Alamo, cutting down dirty stinking Mexicans with his famous big knife, or even being D'Artagnan, killing the Cardinal's guard with his flashing sword? The Three Musketeers was one of the few books he'd ever read: it was great, too! Except, of course, for all that lovey-dovey stuff with the Queen and Madame Bonacieux. Girl's stuff, ugh! The only female character he rated in the story was Milady De Winter. She might be unutterably evil, but at least she could fight like a boy!
He stopped thinking about Milady, who he always imagined to look like that snobby Amnesia Orr, and turned to less sissy thoughts, Krieger was talking to him.
Fortunately, I have heard we can get more than food from the young woman who works this diner."
Raymond wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. Maybe Mr Krieger needed directions or something. He nodded his compliance.
He smiled amiably as Clara approached their table.
"I will have Bacon, Eggs, Toast, and coffee. And when things quiet down in here, Mrs. Lutz, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time, as well. I have a business proposition for you to consider, if you are willing to contemplate a second route of employment after your shifts here.
Raymond didn't pay too much attention to this, some new Special Services thing or other. He didn't expect it would be anything to do with him.
But first, Mr. Matthews will surely want to add to our order?"
Ray felt in his pocket at the couple of coppers there.
"A piece of bread and butter please, Ma'am. And a glass of water." It was all he could afford.
Wayfarer @[Cuban Writer]