THE NICK OF TIME
(and other abrasions)
Acquainted With The Night
by
Al Bruno III
Chapter Five
Shartok's Circle
Once the homes of the elite had clustered around the base of the Spire, basking in the tower's wide shadow, all that came to an end the day an obscure alchemist named Pexley began selling his questionable merchandise on the sidewalk. Every afternoon the Sentries would chase him away and confiscate his wares, and every night he would return bloody but unbowed, his pockets full of dark wonders. After a little less than a year the Sentries gave up, six months after that he bought one of the recently vacated houses and set up shop; Pexley's Emporium of Additives, Implements and Delights.
As the year passed the proud families of Shartok's Circle began to die out, victims of cruel misfortune and apparently their own inbreeding. Within days of each great house's abandonment, Pexley would acquire and demolish it, expanding his Emporium until it had coiled itself, serpent like around the base of the tower.
Dr. Flesh paused at the intersection of Kaladan Avenue and Shartok's circle and stared at the Emporium through his cracked spectacles. A second level had been added since he was here last; he wondered how Pexley had gotten this latest addition past the City officials. Grimacing to himself, he made his way for one of the Emporium's many revolving doors.
In the shimmering gaslight interior, Dr. Flesh surveyed the maze of tables and shelves stretched before him, filled with a wild potpourri of goods. Deciding that a touch of shopping might also be in order, Dr. Flesh pulled a basket from one of the nearby bins and began to browse.
Piped in music drifted through the air. He listened to the throb of the base guitar and the lead singer's leathery whisper but could not place the band.
The Emporium itself was as busy as ever. Dr. Flesh found himself constantly shouldering around or through crowds. The section before him was devoted entirely to crosses and crucifixes in proportions that ranged from a quarter of an inch to actual size. Behind him the shelves overflowed with boxes of ammunition. Dr. Flesh drifted over to the next aisle and found himself surrounded by baskets full of glass beads and baubles. He took a few moments to rummage around until he found an eye-catching prism. He wondered if his son still loved to watch sunlight filter through these? What do eleven-year-olds like these days?
A girl of no more than seventeen approached him, her hair was cut boyishly short. She smiled coquettishly, “Aren't you...?"
“No.” Dr. Flesh turned away, “I'm not.”
He quickly lost himself among the racks and shelves until he found an alcove devoted solely to computers. A pitchman stood here, demonstrating the values of the more expensive systems over the cheaper ones; each console vied for the shoppers' attention, flaunting its sleekest, most colorful graphics. Computers had never held much interest for Dr. Flesh, too many unpleasant memories.
The next aisle was their music section, and as always the selection was terrific when it came to classical and abysmal when it came to rock and roll. Ever the optimist Dr. Flesh paused to browse through the CD's. There was a new KISS album out, he momentarily perused it and then set it back down. They still were his favorite band but it wasn't the same now that Frehley and Criss were gone.
It was near the livestock section that Dr. Flesh found what he was looking for, shelf after shelf after shelf of tiny bottles, each containing a single teardrop. The donors were anonymous, but a smart shopper could deduce a great deal by reading the dates, description and price on the label.
He scanned the bottles but nothing caught his eye. Dr. Flesh turned his attention to the commotion going on near the checkout counter.
“Don't you see? Young boys need discipline!”
“Do you have a purchase to make sir?” the clerk's eyes glittering with loathing.
“You don't sell what I need!” With every shout the customer's fleshy face shivered, “If the leather isn't properly cured there will be stains!”
“Do you have a purchase to make sir?”
“You're supposed to have everything here! How can I return home empty handed?”
“Do you at least have a fucking point sir?”
The customer threw up his arms with disgust and stormed through the aisles. The clerk watched after him, a smirk on his face.
“Some things never change.” Dr. Flesh set his empty basket on the counter.
“Dr. Flesh! Long time no see.”
“How have you been Addlbert?”
“Fine, fine.” Addlbert's smile became a sneer, “So you gonna go suck up to Pexley now or would it be easier if I just opened up the register and let you help yourself?”
“What the Hell? I’m not here for money.”
“Then what are you here for? You never visit unless you need something.”
“How dare you speak like that! Where's Pexley?”
“In his office.”
Dr. Flesh turned to leave.
“Not so fast,” Addlbert waggled a finger, “He's moved his office twice since you were here last. You might not find it on your own.”
“I see.” He turned back.
“I have to screen his visitors, he's very busy.”
“I have to talk to Pexley, and not just about you, it's important business.” A line of customers was forming behind Dr. Flesh, their arms and baskets full.
“Ahhhhh. Business.” Addlbert laced his hands behind his head, “What kind of business?”
Dr. Flesh gripped the edge of the counter, “It's the none of your damn business kind of business.”
The clerk paused, “Nope, nope, nope. I don't hear anyone laughing so I know you weren't trying to make a joke.”
“Tell Pexley I'm here.”
“Why?”
Dr. Flesh could feel the crowd at his back; it was bad enough this apprentice was mocking him but do be doing it in front of a crowd!
“Tell Pexley I'm here or I'll tear off your arm and beat you with it!"
Addlbert rolled his eyes, “Doesn't that sound original.”
One of the customers stepped out of line, his robes were laced with heavy chains, “Pexley's office is twelve aisles to your left, by the mirrors.”
Addlbert threw up his hands in disgust, “Nice goin' Hugien.”
“Excuse me piss head, but maybe some of us want to get home before the cuefew.”
“His office has always been by the mirrors.” Dr. Flesh said.
“I said he moved twice.” Addlbert shrugged, “The second time he moved back.”
“Laugh it up while you can.” Dr. Flesh said as he headed for the mirrors.
“See you around.” The clerk called after him, “Comprachio.”
Dr. Flesh froze in midstep. For a moment he nearly gave in to the murderous urge, but he kept walking; business came first, it always did.
The door to Pexley's office was open, Dr. Flesh stepped inside. Almost instantly his nostrils were filled with the sour scents of lacquer and copulation. The room was a maze of crates and tall half finished sculptures. In one corner of the room Dr. Flesh spied a desk practically lost beneath a pile of abandoned clothing, food wrappers and art supplies. The other corner held a canopy bed, two women slept fitfully above the sheets, nestling close for warmth, innumerable welts marred their pale bodies.
“Not bad, huh?”
A pudgy man stepped out from behind one of the uncompleted statues.
“Pexley.”
“Flesh.”
“How have you been?”
“OK. How about you?”
“Can't complain.”
“How'd you break your glasses?”
Dr. Flesh flashed a smile, “I got in a fight.”
“Some things never change.”
“What's with your apprentice out there?” He nodded back to the Emporium's crowded aisles.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Pexley frowned.
“Addlbert was deliberately trying to antagonize me.”
“What do you expect me to do about it?”
“He's your apprentice.”
“So?”
“He should be punished.”
“Look,” The pudgy man turned and threaded his way through the crates and statues, “that's not my responsibility. He just works here to free me up so I can concentrate on my art.”
Dr. Flesh followed, “Finished anything yet?”
Pexley paused and shot Dr. Flesh an angry glance, “I've been busy.”
He looked back to the bed, “No doubt.”
“Look,” Pexley started walking again, “you don't know how much of a headache getting the second floor built was. There were reams of paperwork and the bribes alone would have bankrupted a small nation.”
In the center of the office a body was laying on a worktable, deep concentric groves had been carved into the lifeless skin. The air stank of embalming fluid.
“Not bad.” Dr. Flesh commented.
“I know.”
“The coroners still supply you with bodies?”
“They do.” Pexley pulled on his rubber gloves, “For a pretty penny. They don't want anyone else spoiling their fun.”
Dr. Flesh leaned over the body, there were signs of frostbite all around the neck. It looked like Father Muñoz had gotten off lucky. “Where'd they find this one?” he asked.
“He washed up on the riverbank, buck naked with no identification except for a religious medal clutched in his hands.”
“Do you still have the medal?”
Pexley began spreading a thin sheen of plaster over the body, “Over on the table.”
“St. Francis of Assisi.” Dr. Flesh said examining the chipped, stained medallion, “Interesting.”
“I'll say. We don't get too many of that type here.”
“What are you going to call this piece?”
“I don't know, something Gothic.” He said as he made sure the plaster didn't ooze into the grooves.
“Pexley,” Dr. Flesh crossed his arms, “I need your help.”
“That figures.”
“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”
Pexley turned to face him, hands on his hips, “You only come here when you want something.”
“What?”
“That's what I am to you- a resource.” Pexley picked up a bottle of orange paint and a brush.
“Have you gone completely out of your mind? You're my friend.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Yeah! Right!”
With a slow, precise hand Pexley began painting the grooves, “You're too wrapped up in yourself to be anyone's friend.”
“I helped you get your start!”
“Please, the only reason you helped me was so that you could have free supplies and money on demand.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then where have you been?” Pexley set down his brush and looked him dead in the eye, “When do I see you? How long has it been? Six years? Eight?”
“Seven.”
“Nearly a decade.”
“No. Not a decade. Seven years.” Dr. Flesh said, wondering precisely when he'd lost control of this conversation.
“Seven years.” He sounded the words out with an air of grim triumph, “That's a long time.”
“I’ve had a lot going on. You know that.”
Pexley threw his brush into its container, the orange paint diluted smokily and stained the water, “If you say so.”
“Pexley...”
“What do you want?”
“Morgan comes here. I want to know when and why. Does he have a delivery address?”
The Emporium's owner rolled his eyes, “I don’t know who is more pathetic, you or the Monarchs.”
“You shouldn't say things on like that.”
“Why? Are you going to tell on me?”
“Could you please answer my question? I need this.”
“He and Addlbert are friends, or lovers, or something, I don't know for sure. I haven't seen him since word got out you were in town."
“Thanks.” Dr. Flesh turned and began weaving his way back through the maze of crates and uncompleted statues.
Pexley called out after him, “Flesh?”
“Yes?”
“Watch your back. Morgan is a popular man, the people love him. If you kill him…”
“Not if.” He growled, “When.”
“You stand to make powerful enemies, and lose a lot of friends.” A tremble touched Pexley's voice, “Just go home.”
“I appreciate your concern.” Dr. Flesh said, his jaw tight, “And here's a word of advice for you. Start looking for a new clerk.”
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