Chef Bryardee
King of Condiments
| 21 | HEART OR DEATH | 3,900 |
Cario pushed his way into the workshop through the double-hung doorway with a heavy satchel in hand. Working his way around the short wall just behind it, the boy found the shopkeeper knelt in front of large crate seated on a hand truck. Heaving the weighty bag up, Cario set it on a nearby workbench with a loud clang. He opened the satchel up and spread the rifles out inside it.
“Be careful with those,” Apollo said.
The boy scoffed under his breath, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “They’re fine.”
“Are they?”
“Yes,” Cario moaned. “I just checked ‘em.”
Apollo placed one of the many small boxes by his feet inside the crate, fitting it neatly in a row of identical ammunition cases stacked up one side. The boxes fit perfectly into a slot on the near side. The rest of the crate was divided into checkered slots that held all of the commissions he had completed on the same timeline. It was the second of two crates ready for delivery, but only one would be leaving the shop today.
He was too lazy to make that many trips around the city in one day. It was only by chance he’d recently included a delivery service into his business model, which was a tidy fee in addition to the weapon’s cost. Correspondence from Aeneas tipped him off on the idea, but Apollo wasn’t one for selling himself for profit – even if “selling” one’s self simply meant advertising or catering to customer needs. In his mind, the product alone should suffice to bring them back.
Along those same lines, despite the fact that he could likely double his deliveries by letting Cario take a crate, Apollo stubbornly refused to give in to the boy.
Even after a week of the kid hovering dutifully over his shoulder, Cario still operated on a short leash. He hadn’t paid him a single exa for his work nor did Cario ask for a piece. It bugged Apollo to no end. To his credit, however, the boy had yet to prove the man’s suspicions correct. Several times, Apollo purposely gave him a window of opportunity, but not once had Cario slipped so much as a pencil into his small pockets. He didn’t like being wrong, but a watchful eye remained on the boy at all times.
It was a gun that Cario was looking for and, day in and day out, he’d asked and begged for just one to be his own. Apollo dismissed him every time but, as he’d learned from the first day he met the kid, Cario wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer – at least not for more than a day. Still, Cario seemed to either appreciate or need the grumpy shopkeeper’s company, sticking around the shop from open to closing time. Apollo didn’t complain (much) about being able to delegate the menial day-to-day tasks away.
“How much you sellin’ this one for?” Cario asked.
He handed Apollo a marksman rifle with an attached sling and myriad accoutrements. It was his personal model AA 700 that had a lightweight bigatium kit and barrel that made it easy to handle. The stock was made from rare wood supplied by the client that Apollo lacquered and polished to a smooth sheen. The bracket-mounted scope was made of auritium through and through, with finely tuned windage and elevation knobs. The chamber was fitted for a high capacity magazine specially made for the rifle.
Apollo was almost sad to see it go, but it did net him a good profit.
“Fifteen hundred,” Apollo answered. “Wrap that one up in the bag.”
Reaching over his pint-sized assistant, he grabbed the other three rifles in the bag and situated them in the crate. Cario closed the bag around the AA 700 and carefully rolled the satchel over it.
“Can I stay here this time?” the boy whined, wiping new sweat from his brow. “I’m tired.”
“No,” Apollo said, immediately. “Ain’t nobody tell you to wear a long-sleeve shirt the hottest day of the week.”
Cario grumbled, finding a dingy rag to clean himself with. “It’s the only shirt I have!”
Apollo hummed, disbelievingly, and grabbed the satchel. Carefully sliding it into its spot in the crate, he motioned to the heavy hand truck. “Let’s go.”
“Come on, man,” the boy moaned. “I’m not gonna steal nothin’! Don’t you think I woulda done it already if I was gonna?”
“Who says you didn’t?”
“That wasn’t me,” Cario rebuked, following Apollo as he walked around the corner out the workshop. “I didn’t steal nothin’! Whoever busted in here last week did!”
Apollo shrugged, snatching his keys from the countertop. “Who says it wasn’t you?”
“It wasn’t me!”
“I don’t know that, do I?” Apollo barked, spinning around.
The boy stopped in his tracks, still fuming. His little fingers were balled into puny fists again.
“Well, if you don’t know who did it, you can’t just blame me!”
A rapid movement brought Apollo down to eye level with the boy. Cario stood his ground, in spite of the tears swelling along the edge of his eyes.
“I can blame whoever the fuck I want,” Apollo said in a low, chilling tone. “until I find out who did it.” He pointed a gloved finger at the boy that made Cario lean back. “You were the one that was beggin’ for that .45 that went missin’, weren’t you?”
Cario stiffened his petite shoulders in frustration, not able to deny it. It was the same sort of cruelty he’d grown used to, but the boy was easily upset when he didn’t get his way. Stark eyes stared daggers through dark teashades that kept Cario’s mouth closed shut. However, it wasn’t a confession the proprietor was expecting nor in need of. He knew it wasn’t him.
Apollo had significant clues as to who the culprits were, but didn’t bother informing the boy. A particular pair of patrons that visited the shop on multiple occasions without purchasing a single thing had drawn his suspicions. They were sloppy – asking invasive questions and hanging outside the store for extended periods – but Apollo was too distracted with work and the boy to give them his full attention.
One of them dropped a red beanie during the break-in and didn’t bother to collect the evidence. The oversight would be a fatal one, if Apollo ever found them.
Cario finally wiped the tears away on his sleeve. Apollo squinted on his wrist, barely noticing what was there – a faint bruise. It wasn’t the first one he’d seen on him in the past week, but he didn’t care enough to pry. Or rather, it simply wasn’t his business.
“What do you need a gun for?” Apollo asked plainly.
The boy’s amber eyes found his, widened to their extents. He diverted them just as quickly over his shoulder. Silence held for a moment as he contemplated on the lie.
“I just want one,” Cario said, still looking away. “That’s all …”
Apollo respired through his nostrils and stood up. He looked at the clock hanging over the workshop entrance: 3:00 PM. Deliveries were promised by 6 o’clock per his policy. Dragging an easily distracted kid around in this heatwave was more than he was willing to deal with. On top of that, there were other matters he needed to attend to – places were kids didn’t belong.
Cario peeked at Apollo in his peripheral, who was fiddling with his overstuffed keyring. The proprietor tossed one at the boy. Cario barely caught it. It was the shop key.
“Go get the crate,” Apollo ordered him.
Mouth wide, the boy remained where he was for a moment in utter disbelief. Eventually shaking out of his stupor, he could see Apollo’s hesitancy, his patience wearing thin and, even worse, his mind changing on the spot.
“Got it!”
Cario whisked around the corner with obvious jubilance in his stride. Where it might’ve made anyone else proud, it only made Apollo worry. The boy returned from the workshop, carefully maneuvering the hand truck around the corner.
The heavy crate hit the ground with a heavy thud and Apollo winced. Cario gave a bashful smile and, before the proprietor could, he said, “Don’t let anybody in. Not even the cops. I got it.”
With a wide smile, Cario gave him a thumbs-up.
Apollo rolled his eyes, grabbed the cart, and headed out the door.
Cario jammed the key into the lock, struggled with it for a moment, but finally twisted it into place. The proprietor closed the folding gate outside and locked that as well before disappearing from view.
The boy turned around and gave a heavy sigh.
The exhilaration that flooded his features melted away. Now, deadpan eyes wandered about the shop, over the rifles and shotguns mounted on either wall.
They’d be too heavy to carry or conceal.
The pistols in the counter cases would be enough. There were a few he had in mind already.
Cario stood in front of a faded red door that barely held to its hinges. It was cracked and peeling all over, and there was no weather stripping at the bottom. No light emitted there, but he knew they were home. If not, they were out fetching some sort of elixir or powder that would leave them plastered to that dingy couch for the next few days.
Sweat dripped down his temples on both sides. Ragged breaths escaped his dried lips even after coming to a rest several minutes ago. He was in an adrenaline-induced trance.
Though he had left the shop unguarded, the front doors were still locked. He slipped out of the backdoor as soon as Apollo left. The specific firearm he had in mind fit perfectly inside the bag tied to his belt loop and stuffed in his pants. It was concealed inside his jeans enough not to poke out so obviously to passersby.
The stairs quaked as he stomped up them, enough that a nearby tenant poked his head out to confront him. By then, Cario was standing at the doorway with the small revolver gripped tightly in hand. If not for that, the man might’ve said something. But he didn’t.
After the door closed, there was complete silence in the alleyway.
Cario pulled everything out of one pocket. Pushing aside the lint, candy drop, and the only piece of exa in his possession, there were two keys: one that opened GUNSMITH and the other for the doorway before him. He picked up the latter by the twisted ring looped through it and replaced everything else.
It took another sixty seconds before he inserted it into the lock.
There was no reaction from within as he turned it. Less certain they were inside, Cario shoved the door open. The musty odor wafting out onto the walkway passed ignored by his olfactory. Glass bottles, aluminum cans, and scraps of trash were visible on the stained rug. The hard shadows deeper inside peeled away as the door slowly craned open.
A leg hung from the couch no more than six feet directly across from the entry. The door opened fully, revealing the rest of the man’s form. Cario’s heavy breathing stopped.
A thoroughly unkempt beard reached just under the man’s high cheekbones. His mustache was so thick and napped, there were no contours hinting at a pair of lips underneath. Frayed and tangled hair hugged his crown, and a dirty, sleeveless shirt covered his narrow torso.
He didn’t have pants on. Thankfully, striped boxers covered his genitalia. Both eyes were immersed in dark circles – and closed.
The man groaned in his sleep, rolling away from the light. Another empty bottle fell from the couch, but even that did not wake him. Cario stepped inside, glancing at the bedroom door. It was closed. To his right, the small, filthy kitchen was vacant.
She was gone. Hopefully, for good, he thought.
If he could muster the courage, no one would ever have to see him again. And not a single soul would miss him.
Cario looked at the gun in his hand. It was a silver, compact revolver with .22-caliber Python rounds. He was scared of the kickback that even a small system like this packed. He didn’t have an opportunity to test live rounds; it was easy enough to aim and shoot when empty. But, somehow, the meager added weight of the six bullets inside the cylinder made it feel much heavier. He was certain it was just his mind playing tricks on him – or maybe the anxiety of having a loaded gun in his hand for the first time.
It fit his hand perfectly, though – as if it were made for him.
As if he were meant to be here, now – to do this.
With other guns, he needed to hold them at an awkward angle in both hands to pull the hammer back. This one, though, was in range of his thumb. It snapped in place with a soft click. His amber eyes rose to the man, who remained unresponsive.
Cario slipped his index finger into the trigger guard, gingerly lapping it over the trigger. He was frozen there for another minute. Time seem to lapse at a snail’s pace, now.
In the back of his mind, he saw Apollo slowly making his way back to the shop.
No. That didn’t matter anymore.
He was past the point of no return.
This was it. This was all that matt–
“Boy …”
It was a harsh yet whispered tone, but it terrified him, nonetheless. The roots wrapped around his ankles only allowed him to turn his head. Dull light edged his silhouette but reached no further inward. White arcs traced the perimeter of his glasses. Cario could see the man’s sharp glare beneath them in his head but wouldn’t flinch this time.
He swallowed his anxieties and faced forward again.
“What’re you doing here?” Cario muttered.
“Excuse me?”
The boy’s voice rose, fearlessly. “I said, what are you doing here?”
The man on the couch rustled, still unconscious.
“You got nerve,” Apollo growled. “Who’s in my shop right now?”
Cario shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t ca–”
“You really don’t, do you?” Apollo said, then repeated, “You don’t, you?”
The boy hesitated as his blood boiled. He shook his head, struggling to maintain his callous façade.
“So, I was right not to trust you, wasn’t I?”
Cario said nothing. Every finger squeezed tighter on the gun except the one on the trigger.
“You really did steal my shit, didn’t you?”
“I told you it wasn’t me!”
Cario spun around, revolver leveled, and froze. It felt wrong pointing it at him. He never thought it would feel right pointing one at anyone. But he didn’t expect to feel so disgusted with himself.
The drunken man began to wake now.
“I wasn’t talkin’ about the .45 …”
Cario raised an eyebrow, but then glanced at the pistol in his hand.
“I … I didn’t steal it,” he said. “I was just … just borrowing it.”
“So, you can kill somebody,” Apollo said, flatly. “With my gun.” The boy’s bottom lip began to tremble. “And then, what? Bring it back?” Filled with contrite, he began to look away. The gun dipped in his limp hands. “So I can have a murder weapon sittin’ in my shop?”
The tears came, then. He felt like a child.
And Apollo didn’t seem to care that he was talking to one. Both hands balled into fists inside his pockets.
“So you want me to go to jail?” Apollo said. “Is that it?”
“No!”
Cario spun around. The man burst out of his stupor, waking to the faint glint of a bullet meant for him.
“I don’t want anybody to go to jail!” the boy shouted, hands trembling. “I mean, I don’t want you to go to jail!” He motioned wildly at the man, who back further away into the couch. “I want him to go, but they won’t take him! They won’t!” Apollo removed his hands from his pockets. “I tried so many times, but they don’t get it! They don’t get it!”
The man wrinkled his brow, growling, “What the fuck you think you’re doin’, boy?”
He rose from the couch, towering over Cario. Several of his teeth were missing, and those that remained were severely discolored.
“You wanna shoot me, ‘uh?”
The anxiety that glaciated the boy before turned to seething anger. The trembling of his hands worsened, but his finger sat firmly on the trigger now.
“Do it, then!”
Cario began to shake all over, now. He was a pound of pressure away from the gun going off and plunging into the man’s aorta.
“The fuck’re you mad for?! You think you hate me?!”
Bystanders drawn by the commotion emerged from their homes. Apollo stepped into the doorway.
“You don’t know what the fuck hate is!”
He reached down and yanked the boy’s head back by his hair. Cario winced, but didn’t back away.
“You think you and whore mom are better than me?!”
Apollo cringed slightly. That was it.
“Huh?!”
Click!
Silence filled the room.
Cario looked down, befuddled, and gasped.
“The lock,” Apollo told him.
The boy turned around. “The, what?”
Cario blinked. When his eyes opened, he saw the floor spinning. A heavy thud rang through his body as he hit the floor. Pain lanced through his cranium. The gun fell to the floor between them. His stepfather kicked him in the gut, and Cario nearly vomited.
Apollo already had Hebenus in hand.
He waited for him to reach for the gun.
Bang!
The discharge was deafening in limited space. The round went clean through the man’s shoulder. Blood spattered the wall and couch behind him. He fell to a knee beside Cario, who crawled towards Apollo in agony. White smoke billowed from the cylinder and barrel, which the gunsmith kept on target.
“You shot me!” the man cried. “You fuckin’ shot me!”
He collapsed to the floor, whining. Apollo vented through his nostrils and holstered his revolver. Anonymous chatter started outside and began to build. The gunsmith stepped out onto the mezzanine and swept the alleyway below. No police. Yet.
“Let’s go,” Apollo said, aloud.
Cario struggled to his feet, head still pounding and body aching. Apollo stood with his back turned for a moment. Before the boy could thank him, he moved to the staircase. Cario decided against saying anything, knowing there was nothing to thank him for. He knew what the man would say next. Or at least he thought he did. As he entered the hallway, Apollo stopped him.
“The gun …”
Cario pivoted, and retrieved it, leaving his stepfather behind. The boy caught one last glimpse of the man, laying in a pool of his own blood, sniveling like a baby. In the dark corner of his mind, the boy wished Apollo had finished the job – because he knew he didn’t have the heart to do it himself.
The pair descaled the steps in a hurry and cut left down the alley. Cario was confused but said nothing; the shop was in the opposite direction. As they came to the egress, Apollo reached out to the boy, gesturing with an open hand. Cario squinted, but then caught on, passing him the revolver.
Apollo reset the hammer and stowed it in his pants. He found the Specula Sorcere easily, and navigated his way through the district from there. They didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the city, where the caravans were, just before daylight faded.
“Here,” Apollo said.
The boy snapped to him with wide eyes, finding a small bag in his hand. Cario took it, ignoring the jingling of exa inside, and stared up at Apollo. The proprietor hadn’t spoken a single word to him on their long pilgrimage. Initially, he wasn’t sure if Apollo wanted him to keep following but an occasional glance kept Cario by his side.
They stood outside the station where Apollo talked quietly to an enlil behind a caged window. Cario watched a mass of bodies flow in, out, and past the row of caravans either arriving at or leaving the city. He wondered where they could be going. They had – well, he had – shot someone, but it wasn’t fatal, so it couldn’t be so serious that they needed to get out of town.
Did they?
Suddenly, Apollo pulled away from the building and moved to the caravans. Cario scurried behind him, clutching the bag. Towards the end of the row, Apollo stopped, as did he. The proprietor looked around, trying to get the attention of someone, finally attracting an elderly woman. Cario couldn’t hear what they were saying through the dissonance flooding the square, but the two soon shook hands.
The two adults turned to the boy. He looked back and forth at them. Apollo nodded to her, and said, “Go.”
A look of despair came to him. Apollo didn’t respond in kind, only furrowing his brow.
“Go, boy,” he said, again.
Cario stuttered, his bottom quivering, “W-Why?”
“Go,” Apollo repeated, less patient.
“Why?” Cario whined. He should’ve known the answer to this, but asked in desperation, “C-Can I stay here with you?”
“Hell no,” Apollo whispered, looking away.
The boy hoped he’d change his mind, but was almost certain he wouldn’t.
“B-But why?”
“You ain’t my responsibility,” Apollo said, leaning down to him. “And you ain’t got nowhere else to go, do you?” Cario opened his mouth to beg, but was cut off. “Or do you wanna go back to him?”
Cario shook his head, tears pouring down his cheeks. “N-No …”
Apollo sighed, frowning, and knelt down in front of him. “You’re goin' with her to Excelsa.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. Cario’s eyes flashed. “That bag.” Apollo motioned to it. “Is for her. Don’t give her none’a that until y’all get there.”
It was the revolver. He pulled Cario in closer so no one saw it. Apollo clicked a button on the side, dropping the cylinder and reaffirming it was loaded. With a flick of the wrist, it popped back into place. Apollo tapped a small lever on one side.
“Safety,” he said, then thumbed the small keyhole above it. “Lock.”
Apollo fetched the key from his pocket and unlocked it. Cario’s mouth hung open. The dejection of moments ago was replaced with pure awe. He wasn’t sure he even wanted it anymore, but the weight of it fell enormous in his hands, in a different way – a better way. The proprietor stuffed the revolver in his hand and wrapped his fingers around it.
“If she tries somethin’ …”
Apollo nodded at him.
The hardness behind those teashades had softened an almost imperceivable fraction. He'd never seen anything near that before. Looking into his eyes, maybe it had always been there, and he just hadn’t noticed until now, the boy thought. Maybe, he really was a good g–
“'The hell you starin’ at, boy, go!”
Cario shuddered, and Apollo waited as he stowed the firearm into his hidden pants pocket. He hurried to the woman and grabbed her gaunt hand. It was warm, and her smile put him at ease. She reminded him of his grandmother. She made him feel safe, just like he did.
Just then, Cario looked back to find Apollo. He was gone. Pouring over the crowd, even a man as tall as he was had instantly blended within the masses. A few times, he thought he’d found him again, but never did.
It was the last time he ever saw him.