Side Business

The weather was lovely. The sky was clear, the noontime sun beating down on the brightly painted signs that lined market street.

Miles strode down the busy street with purpose, doing everything in his power to appear normal. The market was lively today, people bustling past one another. Miles was careful to keep one hand on his pocketbook at all times — such a crowd was a perfect opportunity for pickpockets. 

He passed a vendor he frequented, a stooped old lady selling toasted bread with butter and herbs. She called out to him as he passed. He waved back feebly. Should he have worn something to cover up? A hat maybe, so no one would recognize him? He couldn’t help but think anonymity would be preferred, but it was too late now. 

Minutes later he arrived at his destination. The sign was less gaudy than most of the others, only featuring a simple drawing of a pig and the name “Carwell and Son Butchers” in red paint. Miles shifted from one foot to another. He could still leave. Turn around, pretend he forgot something somewhere else. No one would know the difference. 

No, it was too late for that. He pushed the wooden door open, a bell announcing his arrival. 

“Come in, come in!” a voice called from another room. The storefront was a small space, not much more than a counter, with a window peeking into the back where the butcher worked. Through the opening Miles could see a stout man in a bloody smock, wrist-deep in a chicken carcass. He pulled out something unpleasant-looking and tossed it into a bucket at his feet. 

“Welcome son, just a moment.” He wiped a bloody hand on his apron and rounded the door to stand behind the stained counter. “How c’n I help ya today? You have an order?”

Miles was sweating. Carwell looked nothing like you’d expect. He was portly, and not very tall. He wore a smile on a face that was clean-shaven, at least once every week or so. He was every bit the kindly town butcher, not the most effective poisoner in the city. 

“I, er,” Miles swallowed, “I had an order. A special order. I sent a…” 

The butcher threw his head back and laughed, a full-belly laugh that filled the room. “Ah, you’re the one who sent the letter.” He turned to the back and gestured for Miles to follow. “Come on, we’ll sit and split a bottle.” 

Miles held his breath as they passed the scent of meat and entrails and took a thin set of stairs down to the basement. Carwell motioned for him to sit at a small table and retrieve the promised bottle and two mugs from a shelf. 

The butcher sat and poured. The whiskey was strong, and Miles shuddered as he downed it, making his chair rock on the uneven floor. 

Carwell sipped his drink and sighed, content. “So, kid. Who ya want killed?”