For Blood and Money

"I wonder if this bloke knows there's a corpse in my bag."

I stepped into the sprawling hallway of the three-story, whitewashed-stone mansion, turned to look at my new employee. The black body bag was hoisted over his left shoulder.

"Of course he does," I replied bluntly. "He's paying for the bloody service."

It was Chuck's second day on the job. First day working with me. I wasn't exactly sure what he did yesterday that so royally pissed off Walter, my best sculptor, but today he was my problem. His stupid questions on the drive over weren't doing him any favors, but there were too few sculptors these days to fire someone just because they talked too much. Sometimes being the boss of an in-demand supply business wasn't all sunshine and lollipop farts.

"To your left," shouted the owner of the mansion. He strolled on carelessly, twenty feet ahead of us. Wore a loose silk robe and shimmering gold trunks. No shirt. Bare feet. Long black hair tied casually into a bun of sorts.

"He seems relaxed," Chuck said with a smirk.

I nodded. Didn't respond. Wasn't sure whether gossiping with the newbie was the best idea, especially in a place like this. This house was a fortress. Plenty of money sunk into it. Mob money, maybe. Didn't know, didn't care. Most important thing was making a client with a sizeable wallet happy.

We drifted into the western wing of the ground floor, a spacious living area with grey-leather sofas, half a dozen animal rugs, an oversized fireplace, and a drinks trolley bigger than the single bed in my studio apartment. Whatever he was running from, it must've been serious for him to leave all this behind.

"I was thinking suicide," the client said. I skimmed the paperwork on Chuck's clipboard. Reffler. Mark Reffler. That surname rang a bell. His father was a trader in the city. Big-time broker from way back. This was family money. Old money.

Reffler cleared his throat. Gave me a cool stare. Trying to intimidate me, perhaps, or maybe he was just used to people kissing his arse.

"Maybe I blew my brains out?" he speculated.

I shook my head. "Guns are messy. Expensive clean-up too."

"I think it's clear cash isn't an issue here, fellas." Reffler laughed. He plopped down on one of the sofas, robe spilling open to reveal a paunchy, curly-haired gut.

"Time is the issue, Mister Reffler," I said with a frown. "You paid for the express service. Frankly, I'm surprised you're still here. You needn't be in the house while we work."

"What can I say? I like to see how my money's spent. Want to make sure you fellas do a bang-up job. This is my death we're talking about here, right? Gotta make it b-e-a-you-tiful."

He spoke the last word like a teacher articulating to a child. A flourish of his bling-riddled hand indicated the lesson was complete.

"Sure," I said. "But if it's all the same to you, we're on a time limit here as well. Got other folks to kill, if you know what I mean."

"Go ahead! Let me see you work your magic."

I gestured for Chuck to open the black bag he'd hauled into the living room.

Zip.

"What the hell!" Reffler jumped off the couch, slapped a palm over his nose and mouth, eyes watering.

The stench was foul but I'd endured plenty worse. My patented zip sealed the stink inside. Usually I told clients to wait on the other side of the room when we pulled out the corpse. Reffler seemed like a smart guy. Didn't think he'd need--or heed--the warning. My mistake.

"Apologies, sir," I said, flashed a smirk. "This one's a few days old. Pulled out of the bay, you see. When you applied for the express service, we needed a body quick. It would've taken too long to thaw out a normie, so I had to call in a favor with a coroner pal of mine. Picked this bloke up for a steal. Same body type, same hair length, and color. Call it serendipitous. That smell is your ticket out of here."

Reffler waved a hand at the body. His face was contorted into a mess of skin folds and unshaven facial hair.

"Whatever," he said, trampling over a tiger-skin rug and back towards the hallway. "Just do what you gotta do and try to stick the body at the far end of the room. I feel like I'm gonna yak."

"Perfectly normal, sir."

Chuck and I hauled the pudgy body to the far corner. Two floor-to-ceiling windows flanked us, morning sun streaking through the glass. I wondered what Reffler's neighbors would think of the sight should they feel like a spot of sticky-beaking.

"You need my face, yeah?"

Reffler's tone had quickly switched from cocky to cautious. Maybe it was the smell. The realization that this actually was as serious as my company's standard contract expressed, or maybe he was finally figuring out his life of luxury was about to be put on hold. Inhaling the stink of a three-day-old corpse could do that to a man.

"Did you not send Shelly the specs?"

"I was busy yesterday. She told me you fellas would have the gear to do it in-person."

I sighed audibly. Chuck grinned.

"Get the Analyzer, would you?"

"Right boss." Chuck stood to go. "Should I have a word with Shelly?"

My eyelids shut. I forced myself to breathe. It was too early for this crap. "I'll deal with it later. Just get the damn device, would you?"

Chuck flew out of the room, heavy boots clacking on the hallway's expensive tile floors.

Reffler didn't seem in the mood to make idle chitchat, which suited me just fine. I set to work. Sat the body upright against both walls, wedged into the corner. He--whoever this cadaver used to be--had the annoying habit of refusing to close his eyes. No matter how many times I manually pressed them shut, a few moments later, his head would loll back and they'd snap open again. His dead eyeballs rolling back and forth, catching my glance at awkward moments.

The drink. That's the most logical solution here.

"What drink?" Reffler edged into the room, paused for a second then retreated into the hallway.

I was more tired than I thought. Speaking my thoughts aloud.

"Just thinking," I said evasively. Didn't like explaining the cause of death to some clients. Made them feel weak. Hopeless, or worse, that I was fabricating a story they weren't willing to go along with. Alcoholism wasn't exactly the friendliest of topics, and it didn't endear friends and family to the (falsely) deceased.

"You want me to go out a drunk?"

I shrugged, waved a hand at the big trolley to my left. "Makes sense to me."

"How do you figure?"

"It's nothing personal, sir. Just a big place like this. You live alone. No wife. No kids. No day-to-day job to speak of. Some people can't handle a life of excess. It claws at them. Turns them crazy. Not that I'm saying you're crazy. Just that the story will work. A gun is too big. Too dramatic. Asks too many questions. Drinking a few quarts of liquor and passing away unintentionally? People are sympathetic to that. They won't look into the why."

Reffler nodded, pulled a serious face. Like he was contemplating my words and deciding whether I was full of it or some brilliant genius. I knew I was full of it; he didn't.

"That's why I'm paying you the big bucks," he said loudly, turning as the front door opened.

When Chuck returned to the room he shot me a look of concern.

"Boss," he said. "There's something…"

"Come on, short stuff," Reffler said. "Time's-a-wastin'. I intend to be in my chopper a hundred miles from here in an hour. Let's do this!"

I offered Chuck an apologetic shrug. The customer was always right. Chuck could gab on about whatever he needed to after the job was done.

"All right," Chuck said slowly. "Let's set you up over here. You just need to sit still for a few minutes then we're done."

I kept an eye on my new employee as he assembled the expensive piece of machinery. It was only a few months old, this bad boy. The best scanning equipment in town, if not the state. Cost me an arm and a leg and a few years of my life, but it was worth it. The result was a near-perfect transformation. Unless you knew the telltale signs, there was no way to spot the difference.

"All right, you're good to go."

Chuck removed the device from Reffler's head, retrieved the data stick, and lobbed it at me. Reffler stood, moved his face around like he'd just had a deep-tissue massage focused entirely on his head.

"If you boys need me, I'll be across the hall packing my bags."

I told Chuck to come over.

"Watch me carefully," I said. "I'm only going to show you this once."

"Boss, there was a car..."

I shushed Chuck. He got the message pretty quick. This was the most important step in the process. Any distractions and the whole job would be ruined. There was no time to find another body with similar proportions. No room for error.

The sculpting took less than five minutes, but it always felt like hours. When it was done, I collapsed onto my haunches, mentally spent.

"B-e-a-you-tiful," Chuck whispered from behind. "That's Mark Reffler, all right."

I didn't need a newbie's approval, but I won't lie and say it didn't feel good. Praise was always welcome, especially when executing such a finicky art.

"The right nostril is slightly off," I said, more to myself than Chuck.

Chuck grunted. "I can't see it."

I brushed my index finger over the offending scar: an almost imperceptible tear near the top of the philtrum.

"No one will notice it," I said, turning to Chuck and climbing to my feet. "But it means I still need practice with this--"

A deafening crack tore through the living area like an errant bolt of lightning. It came from the hallway, near the entrance. I scrambled behind one of the sofas, wrenched Chuck with me. That noise was unmistakable. I'd been shot at enough times to know the sound a handgun made.

We waited five, ten, thirty seconds. Nothing. No more gunshots. No footsteps clacking over tiles. No shouts or muffled cries.

Outside, an engine turned over. Chuck peeked above the couch, stared out the window. I listened as the sounds of squealing tires and humming motor receded in the distance.

"That came from this house, yeah?" Chuck asked.

His eyes were darting this way and that. I slammed a meaty hand on his shoulder, tried to calm the kid.

"Stay here," I said. "Need to see where Reffler's at."

I didn't have to travel far to find out. As soon as I turned out of the living area a grim streak of crimson ran from the far end of the hallway to almost where I stood. At its base, Reffler's body was idle.

I kicked at his shoulder. Nothing. Crouched, lifted his head as gently as I could manage with shaking hands. Wasn't scared. Just anxious. The adrenalin surge would take a while to flush out of my system.

It was obvious.

"He's dead," I shouted to Chuck. "Don't think they were looking for anyone else."

I cursed under my breath. This made things more complicated.

"Second time this year already," I said, re-entering the living area. "Always the rich ones who get caught up with the mob. Why can't they settle their bills before we do the work?"

"Boss," Chuck started. His eyes were wide. Pale skin. Looked like he was going to show me what he ate for breakfast right then and there.

"Go over there," I said, pointing to the drinks trolley. "Make yourself useful."

Chuck's face turned from sick to puzzled, then realization dawned.

"You…" He swallowed hard. "You want me to steal his gear?"

I shook my head. Sick of making the same speech every time this happened.

"You want to go hungry for the next couple of weeks? You want to miss your rental payments? There's the door, Chuck. I've got an unpaid invoice in my back pocket and a client named Reffler with a bloody big hole in his back. I don't think he's going to mind us taking a few things to make up for costs, right?"

Chuck shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wasn't convinced. He'd probably still be that way lying in bed tonight. Wondering if he was a thief or a crook or an accessory to murder maybe, but when that nice little bonus hit his bank account, I was sure he'd come around to my way of thinking. This was a business, after all.

"Skip the crystal," I said, moving back into the hallway. "It's not selling too well these days. Pewter is good though! Use the body bag if you run out of hands."

I moved along the hallway, careful to avoid Reffler's bloody streak. It was at least ten feet long. He'd made a valiant attempt, but no doubt the gunshot was close range. Blew a sizeable chunk out the back of him. No chance, not even if he managed to reach us before he carked it.

As I opened the door to the billionaire's twin garage, tossing up whether to take the yellow Porsche or the Maserati convertible, I wondered whether I'd need to have another word with Shelly about making sure clients sent us their facial scans before production day.

It was that sort of unprofessional nonsense that kept me up at night.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Jones is a twenty-something editor from Australia who loves all things speculative. His short fiction has been published in International Speculative Fiction, Antipodean SF, The Flashing Type, and Bewildering Stories.

E-mail: Simon Jones

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