Mr. K had come to pick up a custom piece, something that he needed for his line of work. He made a living committing very bad deeds for very bad people for very good money. Often, those very bad things involved detail work.
Try cutting off someone’s eyelids with an over-the-counter pocket knife, for example. Or slicing off their fingernails with a serrated folder. Fulfilling special orders like that required a precision device, and Morrell was the man to see about such cutlery.
Already at the table stood a familiar, pudgy gentleman with distasteful armpit stains.
The pudgy man was arguing with Morrell.
“I’m telling you, it was a custom piece. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Guy said it came from you. Most beautiful knife I’d ever seen. Handle made of ivory. Long, heavy blade, also had some serration. Could shave the skin off a newborn child, if you know what I’m saying.”
“You’re welcome to look through my custom book, Mr. Donaldson.” Morrell indicated a cheap, bound photo album, full of his designs. “But ivory is illegal, and I don’t mess around with that.”
“I already looked through the book,” Donaldson said. “Wasn’t in there.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Mr. K offered a pleasant, “Excuse me,” and then butted in front of the sweating fat man. “Mr. Morrell, you did a special order for me. Walnut handle, blade like an ice pick.”
“Indeed I did. I had one helluva time tempering the steel to make it strong enough to hold that edge, Mr…”
“I didn’t give you my name,” Mr. K said, offering a tight smile. “But I did pay you in advance, and I’d like my merchandise.”
Morrell nodded.
The fat man folded his arms. Scowling like a pouting child. He glanced over at Mr. K.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
“You as well,” replied Mr. K. “Staying out of trouble?”
“Hell, no. You?”
Mr. K shrugged. He remembered Donaldson from a short car ride they’d shared years ago. He had found the man to be unpleasant back then, and was in no mood to play where has all the time gone.
“Are these knives?” Mr. K and Donaldson turned to see a young girl, short and thin, with a stunningly-beautiful face. He would’ve placed her in her twenties, but her blond pigtails made her seem younger. So did her shoes, which were pink and appeared to be made out of foam.
“Yes, dear, this is a knife maker’s booth,” Mr. K said. “That’s an interesting choice in footwear.”
“They’re called Crocs. They’re new. I got one of the first pairs.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Do you have a car? Because I’m looking to get over to Chicago, and I need a ride.”
“Sorry,” Mr. K said. Something about the girl struck him as odd, and he made it a habit never to give people rides. Not since picking up Donaldson, all those years ago.
“I’ve got a car,” Donaldson offered.
The girl dismissed him with a quick grimace. “I bet,” she said, and then walked away, lugging a guitar case with her.
Mr. K managed to hide his smile, and then Morrell reappeared with a chamois cloth. He set it on the table and carefully unwrapped it.
At first glance, the object appeared to be just a knife handle, sans blade. But a closer inspection revealed something that resembled an ice pick.
This was no ordinary ice pick, however. It was an ice pick that had been sharpened down to the width of a single sheet of paper.
“May I?” Mr. K asked.
“Please.”
He lifted it, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On an angle, the blade glinted under the artificial tent lights. Straight on, the blade practically disappeared.
“It’s the sharpest thing I’ve ever made,” Morrell said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “You could cut the wings off a mosquito as it flew at you.”
“You do beautiful work,” breathed Mr. K.
“Be careful sharpening it. Only use a razor strop with the finest grit. If you take care of it, you should have years of use.”
“I intend to.”
“Can I see it?” Donaldson asked.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I have to be going.” Mr. K carefully wrapped up the treasure, and slipped it into his inner blazer pocket. “Good to see you again, Donaldson.”
He walked away without getting a parting goodbye. Instead, the fat man began to cajole Morrell, demanding to get a knife like Mr. K had just picked up.
Mr. K hadn’t been lying. He did have someplace to be.
Porter’s Guns and Ammo.
One of the very bad people Mr. K worked for had asked him to pay Mr. Porter a visit to convince him to pay a marker. That wasn’t until tomorrow, though. But Mr. K wanted to be the first on the scene, because apparently his employer had also sent another man to talk to Porter.
Whoever got there first and put in the scare got the commission.
Normally, Mr. K avoided taking open contracts, because he disliked competition. But he’d been planning on coming to this show anyway to pick up the blade from Morrell, so this was a chance to get the knife for free.
He slipped through the crowd, humming tunelessly to himself, musing on what Mr. Dovolanni had said could be done to the mark.
“No permanent damage. We want him to pay up.”
Mr. K smiled, his lips tight, and wondered if filleting Porter’s penis counted as permanent.
Javier
The man browsing next to him at Table #137 handed six hundred-dollar bills to the gun dealer, who took the money, shook his hand, and said, “Kiernan it was great to meet you. You’re gonna love the Nineteen. Best all-around weapon Glock makes.”
“I can’t wait to shoot it.”
Jav studied Kiernan out of the corner of his eye, found it oddly amusing that with his black hair and strong, chiseled features, the man resembled a gringo version of himself.
The dealer slid the plastic gun case into a bag and handed it across the table.
“Hope to see you again.”
“You have a nice selection of Glocks,” Javier said to the dealer when Kiernan had left, running his finger over the surfaces of the pistols, each resting on a plastic case, a thin, metal cord running through all the trigger guards to prevent theft.
“It’s all I carry.”
Jav smiled. “It’s all I shoot.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Yeah, but I’m not seeing it here. It’s the Glock 36. Slimline is the trademark I believe.”