A Bunch of Fives - Stories by James Roderick Burns (24)

Devil Take the Hindmost

DEVIL TAKE THE HINDMOST

SMYTHE WAS A man on a mission.  The joke shops, novelty stores and pound-worlds of Great Britain – especially in these unpredictable times – absolutely could not get enough high-quality puddles of plastic vomit and rubber dogshit, and he was the man to wholesale it to them.  But oh, the frustrations!  Sylvester, he said under his breath, do yourself a favour: chop out the deadwood and cut to the chase!  He’d start with Critchley, that little crawler.  Smythe punched the intercom.

‘Oi – get in ere.’

A moment later, his chief clerk made an appearance.  In the dim light of the warehouse – no sense wasting shekels on losers – the man appeared drawn and sickly, hair plastered limply over his forehead, the underarms of his threadbare sports coat damp with sweat.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You on toppa that spreadsheet wi them payment dates?’

‘I, ah – yes, I think so, sir.  No payments before the ninetieth day.’

‘Well ow coom my computer shows Fong’s Fine Imports getting money on the nail?’

‘I – well … ’

He took a printout from his pocket.  ‘They’re, ah, yes that’s right.  Down for payment yesterday – ninety days from delivery, not a moment before, I assure you.’

Smythe felt a prodigious fart accumulating in his nether regions, but decided to sit on it till he’d finished his sport.

‘Thought I told yer only cheques go out on the ninetieth, Critchley, not payments, din’t I?  Sure I did.  Get out – yer on yer last warnin.’

He had, in fact, mentioned this new wheeze when it occurred to him, just now.  Why should Fong’s get a minute’s extra interest?  But it would serve to keep this little worm on his toes, and if it didn’t, there were plenty more in the dole queue.  When the door closed, he lifted a leg and let out a long, satisfying honk.

*

Next up was his whining warehouse manager.  He couldn’t stand her – couldn’t stand any of them, truth be told – and only kept her on because she had a fine set up front, and stayed on top of things like a determined moggy tracking a mouse back to the skirtingboard.  Now she had the temerity to come in wearing one of them mask-things.

‘What’s that?’ he said, gesturing with a fresh cigar.  Somebody’d tattled to Elf-N-Safety, so it wasn’t lit, but you’d better believe he was sparking up once he was finished with her.  ‘Well, spit it out, Sharon.’

‘It’s a facemask, Mr Smythe.  For the virus, you know.’

‘Hah!’  He waved the cigar.  ‘Virus, my arse.  Them people’ll faff about any bloody thing.  Gerrit off.’

She shook her head timidly.

‘Mr Smythe, H&S office says – ’

‘As though I give a shit what them fools say about owt.  Off, now, or you’re fired.’

He prided himself on plain-speaking and down-to-earth common sense.  He knew she’d bend to his will, that some puling hubby and a brood of kids depended on her meagre wage, and he was right.  He caught an eyeful under her brown smock as she leant over to unhook the strings.

‘Better.  Can’t see nowt wi that thing coverin up yer pretty face, now can I!’

She managed a brief, watery smile.

‘Did you want something, then, Mr Smythe?  Only I’ve – ’

‘Course.  Come ere.’

He turned around a piece of paper on the desk so she could read it.

‘Whadda yer see?’

‘Ah, my staff?’  This time the smile was stronger, reached her eyes.

‘Aye.  What else?’

‘Er – names, you know.  All of them.’

‘Right.  Eight, if I’m seein right.  An you manage alright wi em, do yer?’

‘Oh, yes!  I think things are on song, you know, with the new loading processes we worked out, and – ’

‘Well yer goin ter manage wi two less, as there’s no money fer the lot of yer.’

‘Two – less?’

He nodded, running a stubby finger down the list.

‘But Mr Smythe, it’s hard to get everything done as it is, you know.  We’re very busy … ’

He peered over his reading-glasses.  ‘Ow about this one, ere – Chowdhury, an this other one, Gupta?’

‘Those are two of my best people!’

He threw down the specs.  One leg bounced off the phone and pinged the shade of his banker’s lamp.

‘Well, Sharon, see, this ere’s the reality of business.  Two, out.  Or you could volunteer an I’ll raise up – maybe Chowdhury, ere – to oversee the other five.  Ow’d yer like that?’

The mask hanging by one string from her small, shapely ear began to tremble in the wan light.

‘No!  I, er – alright, I’ll figure something out.  Alright.’

‘Grand.  Now gerrout an let me work in peace.’

As she walked to the door, he noticed she was solid enough from this side, too.  After it closed one hand nipped down to rearrange his trousers.

*

A couple of hours later, the intercom buzzed.

‘Man to see you, sir!’

‘Eh – what?’  Smythe had been resting his eyes in the leather-and-mesh executive chair, and banged his knees on the desk.  ‘I don’t ave – old on – look, no!  I ave nowt the resta the day, so worrer yer botherin me for?’

‘He says it’s very important, sir, and while he knows he doesn’t have an appointment, he’s sure it will be worth your while.’

Smythe sat up, smoothed his tie over his gut.

‘Don’t say nowt out loud, lass, but whaddoes he look like?’  The intercom crackled as she slid the volume down, and her voice came out timid as a baby hamster.

‘He’s sort of – imposing, sir.  Like my old headmaster but younger.  Suit’s real nice, and he has a posh sample case.  I think it’s proper leather.’

Smythe sighed.

‘Alright, five minutes then buzz im through.’  He slipped his feet into his shoes and pottered round the office, straightening things up.

When he looked around, the man was already making himself comfortable in the supplicant’s chair.  It looked similar to his own, but was lower, bumpy and with a shiny edge that forced the occupant forwards, eyes raised to the boss’s.  And here he was, right at home!  Smythe wasn’t having any of that.

‘Ow’d you get in ere?’

‘Your charming young lady showed me through, bade me sit while you finished – arranging things.’

The man smiled, long and vulpine, immaculately-shaved chops barely creasing at all.  A whiff of high, citrusy cologne wafted over, and Smythe found himself – incredulous – beginning to smile.

‘Well now, suppose she did.  Sylvester Smythe.’  He extended a hand.

‘I know.’

‘And you are?’

‘My name, Mr Smythe, is hardly relevant, but call me Jones, if you must.  I called today not because you happened to be on my route, or being in the general vicinity, but because I have heard good things about this firm.  I called on you, specifically.’

Smythe swelled a little under his collar.

‘Oh, aye?  Good things.’

‘Excellent.  I understand in the novelty business you are a supplier second-to-none.  And if the world requires anything at this moment – indeed, for the foreseeable future – it is amusement.  I have something to show you.’

Suddenly the sample case was up and open on the desk.  It was nice, he noticed – real leather, with sewn-fittings and wooden inserts around the products, which shone with a clarity he’d never seen.

‘Can I – ?’

‘By all means.’

Jones smiled again, and some part of Smythe’s lizard-brain approved of the mask-less face, his confidant positioning mere inches from his own.  The tang of citrus rose again, but was soon forgotten.

In the sample case – there were only the two bays, carved from what he thought might be mahogany – lay the greatest puddle of fake puke, the sweetest curling dog turd he’d ever seen.  He reached out with a trembling hand, hefted them.  Solid, the plastic warm, solid to the touch, the rubber ever-so-slightly tacky and glistening as though with an inner light.  The paint, if paint it was, hovered round the products like a gentle, ministering hand, adding soft flourishes and subtle highlights here and there.

‘They’re – beautiful,’ he said, reverently.

The man turned the case around, snapped it shut.  ‘Indeed.’

‘How – how much?  You know I do volume but still, with merchandise this good … ’

The man sat back in the torture-chair as though he had never experienced such comfort, and named the exact numbers the firm ordinarily handled, then a price far below even Fong’s on their best day, and for cheap rubbish, at that.  His customers would go mad; the orders would fill up the warehouse ten times over, fly out of the door before they’d barely made it inside!  But he had to get a grip on himself.  He shut down the daft grin he was sure was plastered across his face and sat up soberly, tenting his fingers.

‘Well, Mr Jones, I certainly ope we’ll be able to do business.’

‘There is just one small condition.’

‘Oh aye, wassat?’

‘I don’t want your people splitting out the cases when they arrive.  The merchandise is so – special, I’ll send a couple of my boys to oversee distribution.’

Jones’ voice left no room for discussion, and Smythe’s lizard-brain sparked up again.  Chowdhury and Gupta were on their way, then, and Sharon wi em, though it would be a shame to forego that backside, now he’d spotted it.

He smiled, and leant over the desk, and offered his hand.  Up close Jones smelt of something sharp beneath the citrus, and there seemed a reddish cast to his eyes, but that was only the poor lighting, surely.  Smythe pumped away.

‘Ow’s about a fine cigar, to close the deal?’

The other man smiled, flourished an onyx lighter spouting a tall column of fire.

*

All told, it had been a helluva day.

He lay back in the leather-and-mesh executive chair with another cigar between his fingers.  He was almost afraid to think about the deal, though he’d sealed it to his own satisfaction by giving them warehouse people the bum’s rush, and Critchley for good measure.  He had an amber glass at his elbow, all the lights out bar his green banker’s shade.  He took another draw, watched the smoke drift through the dark and cross a sickly moon.  He weren’t going to ruin nothing by thinking.

After a minute the first cough came, thick on the back of his drag, then another, and one more.  Bloody thing!  Supposed to be Cuban, the best in the world, hand-rolled on a virgin’s thigh and all that.  He’d see the salesman tomorrow and set him straight, if it was the last thing he did.

First published in Carcosa Magazine (Winter 2021)

Next: The Connoisseur