Peruvian Business

The snowstorm blitzed past the outsider, wind whistling and deafening everything else. His feet buried into the crunching snow, one at a time, one foot over the other, as he tried to find the building. But he could not see an inch further in the hailing blizzard, let alone a bustling saloon. It was like an endless abyss of storming white and grey.

He was about ready to drop dead before spending another hour in the hellish snowstorm, among countless others spent getting here.

Gradually, the clouds of snow and winter parted. Warm, but faint, yellow lights emerged ahead, resembling an oasis in the cold desert, desolate of everything. As he walked, the outsider locked on the glow, drawn like a moth to a flame.

The saloon doors swung open with a loud shake and a tall, imposing figure stormed in. Dressed in a dark linen coat over layers, he was topped with a similarly black hat that rested lazily on his chestnut hair.

What struck the outsider first wasn't the blaring sound of piano keys being smashed or the bright hanging lights nearly blinding him the moment he stepped in...no, it was instead the several drunkards crashing into him. It was akin to having walked into a stampede of horses.

One couple bashed into the outsider right in front of the entrance, dancing and shoving him aside as if he weren't ever there. Then another; a large man stumbled back into him, and like avoiding a crushing wall, it prompted the outsider to step to the side, avoiding the crossfire of these rabid folk.

He peered at the rest of the saloon and realised how packed it was for being small, with an elaborate second floor and mezzanines. People danced and danced and danced, like ants in a crazed death spiral, most of them on tables and the centre, wooden floor. Some climbed atop furniture, bar counters, and stair railings. Others even fornicated on the couches, bare for all to see. They all seemed to be in a euphoric trance, flailing wildly to what could barely be described as music, a cacophony of shaky violin strings and the distorted smacking of piano keys.

But the outsider smelt something else; a toxic and spicy scent that invaded his nostrils. He coughed slightly, realising the air was thick with grey murkiness, thick tendrils of smoke rising from all corners of the incessantly loud saloon.

He followed the coils of smoke to a group of people slumped in and around a sofa, their bodies limp and unmoving like cooked pasta. Their eyes were shrank and vacant, gazing at nothing in particular. Weakly grasped in their hands were long ceramic pipes of opium.

The outsider scoffed. He had found the place; a saloon that was no more genuine than a rich man's wife. 

Now aware he was in hostile company, the outsider scanned the hall more intently. 

He noticed several men standing stoically around the corners, not interacting with the crowd. At least a dozen were scattered about on the ground floor alone. 

One man, in particular, stood atop the stairs leading to the left-hand side of the saloon's mezzanine. Burly like Frankenstein, he was white and his gaze pierced into the outsider's heart as if from the moment he stepped foot in the saloon.

At least, it looked as if it was, or perhaps the man was merely looking at something else nearby. Nevertheless, the outsider wasn't going to take the chance of appearing more suspicious. He didn't even talk with the scoundrels surrounding him, nor would he want to, anyway. No time for degenerates, so he pressed ahead.

As the outsider ascended the wooden stairs to the second floor, he observed more sober guards stationed at this level. Suddenly, a man stepped in front of him: the same suited white man who had been staring at him earlier. His blue eyes concentrated on the outsider's amber gaze; his pupils weren't dilated or bloodshot, an oddity compared to everyone else in the saloon.

"What's your business here?" The guard asked lowly.

Sensing a bit of hostility, the outsider dug his hands deep inside his coat, gripping both pockets.

"Picking up 'Columbian'." the outsider replied plainly. 

The guard stared at him for a moment, but only for a moment, as he nodded. "Alright, drop your weapons."

"Excuse me?"

"House policy, friend. No weapons before picking up our product."

"Aren't there around twenty of you in this saloon alone?" The outsider retorted, "A single shot would be suicide for me."

"Yet you still counted." The guard then shifted his hand towards his right hip, and the slight buckle of steel could be heard. "House policy, and also a body search."

The outsider sighed. Giving up, he raised his hands to the air, and the coat dragged along. 

The guard proceeded to pat down the man's hips, firm fingers searching for anything. On the outsider's side, a pair of odd-looking revolvers and blades were found. Several clicks clattered as the guard disarmed him.

"So I take it you mercs don't smoke?" the outsider dryly asks in an attempt at small talk, tilting his head. "Lungs okay?"

"The boss says we don't consume our product," the guard replied matter-of-factly as he dropped the weapons in a box on a table behind him. He then turned back to the outsider.

"Up, take your hands out of your pockets," the guard demanded.

"...Fine," the outsider complied, raising his hands.

The guard thoroughly checked the pockets of his dark coat, not finding anything. His pockets were clear for now.

Reaching for his hips, the guard padded further, not expecting much else. But hidden on the side of the outsider's belt, the guard felt a metallic, rectangular object with sharp ridges on its side. Curious, he opened the coat further to get a better look at it; to his surprise, a silver instrument was nestled inside.

"A harmonica? Wait…" The guard looked up at the outsider's face as if taking a second look. His eyes widened, and he straightened up, taking a step back.

His face grew pale, like he had just seen a ghost. "You're Killjoy!" 

The guard then reached to take Killjoy's harmonica, pulling it out of the strap. Killjoy was quick to react, however, darting his hand forward and grabbing the guard's wrist under an iron grip.

"I'm keeping my harmonica," snarled Killjoy.

The guard spat back with gritting teeth. "For all I know, you could use it to murder the boss…I should gun you down right now, you federal shit!"

"I'm not here on bounty, pal. I just want some opium." Killjoy said.

He then stared the guard down, his face morphing into a deep frown. "Now let me go, or we can scramble. And I don't need my guns."

"...Fine," the guard finally heeded the threat.

Killjoy scoffed before reaching forward, nimbly taking his harmonica out of the guard's palm. He kept a severe stare on the guard as if daring him to try something while digging the instrument back into his coat pockets. As he intimidated him, Killjoy held the back of the guard for a moment longer, sneaking back the two firearms the guard had taken.

He moved out of the way slowly, still facing Killjoy. 

The guard nodded to the left, "Walk down the mezzanine, take a right, and down the middle hall at the end is his office."

Killjoy nodded at the response, satisfied. He tipped his hat at the guard before slowly turning, at a mockingly slow pace while eyeing the man, before walking off.

The cigar hissed as its smoke curled and burned against the glass ashtray. The old man had offered it to the newcomer in his saloon, expecting him to partake, but it appeared he was not one to smoke—a fact that surprised the old man.

"Not fond of tobacco?" The stout, suited businessman asked from the comfort of his chair behind the desk. 

His voice carried a slight Italian accent, though it was hard to notice amidst the roughness and cragginess of his tone—a voice that seemed to sap the moisture from one's throat. And he gave a wide, gleaming smile, yet his gaze remained dead-straight, fixed on Killjoy's.

"It relaxes me, dulls me out," Killjoy replied, but really to nothing as he was not looking at the suited man across from him, but what was behind the suited man.

"Is that not why people smoke?" The man begged the question, twirling his cigar with his fingers, the smoke dancing off the tip in spirals. "I smoke because it keeps me off the edge; boring, direct, I know, but it is a simple remedy when certain stresses get to me."

"Say," the man gestured his cigar to Killjoy, his smile widening even further so the gold in his teeth glistened in the light. "What keeps you off your edge?"

Killjoy never took his eyes off the space behind the old man as he rambled. 

"What keeps me on edge is your thugs pointing their guns at me," he finally replied, his face scowled.

The man leaned back in his comfy padded chair with widened eyes, as if surprised. Then he glanced at his side and dramatically turned his whole body in his chair to look behind himself. 

He looked up. And there were two men, so tall they nearly stood to the ceiling, and they were holding Winchester rifles, the wooden stocks hugging their shoulders, aimed squarely at Killjoy. 

Their fingers were slimy with sweat against the trigger as if the slightest disturbance would make them drop Killjoy right then and there. And they locked their sight onto the outsider, while their bodies tensed up as if a bomb were about to go off.

Killjoy gripped the hidden items in his coat pockets tightly, just in case he needed to bring them out.

The old man scoffed and quickly turned to look back at Killjoy. He began to laugh, cackling and puffing. Drool dropped from his wet mouth, drooping to his velvet suit which seemed to be barely held together against the folds of his blubbery fat and excess stature. 

"Well, what do you know?" The man remarked with a grin, "If you hadn't pointed that out, I wouldn't have noticed."

"I'm not someone you should threaten," Killjoy stoically reminded him.

"And I'm not a fucking idiota," the plump owner replied, dropping his smile. The man took on a stone demeanour, his brows low and his stare sharp. 

"One of the most overpaid lapdogs of the federale has come walking into my fine establishment. I know you, Killjoy, so you should know I think having you lynched would be the most appropriate measure and not just some two guns, hm?"

Killjoy did not react but for a little grumble under his breath. 

He then dug for something deeper inside the pockets of his coat. Killjoy pulled out a small leather sack with his left hand and plopped it on the table, the sound of metallic clinking ringing out. He dug his hand back into his pocket.

"Cos'è questo?" The old man glanced at the bag suspiciously and then back at Killjoy, his lips still parted but teeth clenched. 

"...125 double eagle coins, about $2,500," Killjoy calmly explained.

The man still looked at him with a severe stare, his bodyguards behind him becoming more fidgety in their stance. 

"I am not here on any 'official' business or anything like that, I assure you mister," Killjoy attempted to defuse, "If I was, I wouldn't have come here without my guns and shown you my money. You can just kill me and take it, easy as that. But I did anyway; I just want some opium."

"...But you said you didn't like smoking," the man almost whispered in his accusation, leaning forward on the desk with his fingers crossed under his chin. "Relaxes you, dulls you out, remember?" 

His eyebrows rose, his slow pronunciation dancing on each syllable.

"...What about cocaine?" Killjoy then cracked the faintest of a smirk; of course, he may not have meant it, but the way he smiled when everything else in his face stayed still was almost ridiculous.

The man froze as if processing what Killjoy had just said. He looked at the outsider closely, his brown eyes squinting before widening. His crossed fingers across his chin also concealed his mouth, so Killjoy had no clue about how the old man felt. A frown, clenched teeth? Could have been anything.

A cough. That cough was all that broke from the old man's mouth after his momentary silence. It got rougher and dryer the more he coughed as if thirsting for water. But then, the cackled coughing morphed into more airy bursts of breaths, and Killjoy soon realised the old man was not asphyxiating…he was laughing.

"I…like you!" The old man spat out in the middle of his laugh. "Okay, we can do business. A hundred and a quarter of those gold birds? That can get you a lot of Peruvian, my little Killjoy. Colombian, whatever, it's all cocoa at the end of the day!" He said as he flew his hands into the air, a wide smile stitched across his round face.

"Whatever," Killjoy said.

The old man glanced to his side and nodded, which prompted the bodyguards behind him to walk to the back end of the room. 

One knelt next to a wardrobe dresser, the other standing to the side. They pushed it over, and underneath the furniture was an opening on the floor, and they began searching for something inside it meticulously.

Killjoy paid attention to the way the hired guns were positioned. They were prone, sprawling on the floor, busy trying to pry free the floorboard. Their rifles that were oh so aimed at Killjoy rested against the wall, and the bodyguards' pistols hung loosely in their holsters. Bingo.

"While they fetch the good shit," the old man looked back at Killjoy, "Why don't you answer my question, Amico?"

"What do you mean?" Killjoy replied as he leaned back.

"What keeps you off your edge? Y'know, what relaxes you? Everyone has that one thing that they do, or take, to…unwind. A working man needs his opium, a tycoon, his whores, a psycho…toys to play with," The man cracked a devious smirk on that comment, "And that's what I provide, it is my speciality."

"And you want to know mine?"

"Exactly, my little Killjoy! You are my client, I must know. And I see it in your eyes; they're rather strange. I can't make out what kind of desire you have."

The old man took a swig of his cigar, inhaling momentarily before letting the smoke out in long ropes.

"You don't really want drugs," He explained as he inspected his cigar. " No, you don't need it. Or rather, it's not what you're looking for. Women, men, younger? Condemned prisoners to toy with, perhaps? That harmonica? I wouldn't have guessed a man of your…repertoire…to have such a sweet hobby."

Killjoy looked down at his harmonica strapped in his belt. "It's a gift from my wife. I don't play much."

"Well, whatever keeps your edge off, I will provide. And I assure you, when I do, you won't want anything else."

The outsider remained silent for a bit. He then opened his mouth. "...I used to have something that relaxed me," Killjoy said, "For years, and it was the one thing I did best, or worst, depending on how you look at it.."

"Go on…" the old man said with a wide grin, intently listening.

"...Being close to death," Killjoy confessed, almost exasperated,

"Ah, you're that type of man, aren't you, my little Killjoy?" The old man teased.

"Why else would I continue doing this line of work for so long, other than the money?"

"We have…rooms to accommodate that taste. Certain employees of ours take joy in wringing pain from others…"

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong," Killjoy corrected him.

"Hm?" The old man raised a brow. "And what's that?"

"I used to enjoy it. But, when you've killed so many, put hundreds in duffel bags for pay, and survived the most gruesome injuries that would leave any other man crippled for life…you're bound to learn and get more effective at your job."

Killjoy shook his head. "It's not that death doesn't just do it for me anymore… it's that now, I never get close to seeing it."

A whistle. Then another. Something fell to the floor, followed by another thud behind the old man. 

His eyes screamed in shock at the sudden noise, and at the revolver which Killjoy drew out without even as much as a second to do so. The man glanced elsewhere to his side, almost hesitant to see the scene that was probably unfolding behind him. 

But he still turned, and where the end of the room was, where the wardrobe sat, the bodies of his hired guns laid on the floor next to it. Puddles of thick, regurgitating crimson spilled from their heads, or more exactly the perfectly centred bullet holes created from the gunfire.

The old man darted back at Killjoy, as tears of sweat began to ride across the folds of his chin. 

Like prey cornered by its predator, he then tried to unholster his gun to defend himself. But the outsider was quick to lock his aim on the scared old man.

"Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn't do that if I were you, mister," Killjoy reminded, almost playfully, but he had no crease in his mouth nor a smile to imply he was.

The old man burrowed his brows, but let up and let go of his hip. 

He slowly raised his hands in the air to appease the outsider. "...I would say I'm a fool for trusting you so easily, but there's something else I can't quite comprehend right now, Amico."

"And what's that?"

"Your revolver…it didn't make a lick of a noise. The guards would be scrambling here and have your head with a hundred holes in it otherwise."

Killjoy glanced at his revolver and turned it with his left hand, the barrel still aimed at the old man square in the face. His right hand was still dug in the right pocket. "Russian. New Nagant model; there's no gap between the cylinder and the barrel. So I fixed a metal tube around it, and it blocks the sound and smoke."

"I thought the great Killjoy did not even use revolvers; I heard he preferred the German variety."

Killjoy nods. "Mauser."

"Ja," the old man replied in accented German with his jaw widening dramatically. But through all of his charade, his breath was short and exasperated.

"I'll cut to the chase: you have a warrant out for your arrest," the gunslinger explained. "You are already out on bond and ready to be tried; one of your 'associates' signed to it. I'm here to collect it."

A cackling erupted from the old man's mouth. "Ha, bullshit. Do you've any idea how many warrants I had, and how often I got tried, only for me to walk away?" 

He then slumped back on his chair, as if suddenly relaxed. The old man swiped his cigar from the ashtray and smoked it. 

"The lady justice is blind to money, but not the men who run her courts," the Italian said, "If it's just any small bond, I'll just pay it. I'll just move back to Little Italy too; I always knew expanding business in the south was cattiva."

"That's where you're wrong again."

"...What do you mean?"

"The crime doesn't have anything to do with lining your pockets or anything fiscal like that; it's attempted murder. The name 'Joaquin Killian' rings a bell for ya'?"

The old man paused. He looked at a wall, for no reason in particular, took the cigar out between his lips and placed it back inside the ashtray. The subtle but forceful press of the old man's fingers crushed into the plate of the cigar's head, spreading the dust.

"So you do know him," Killjoy noticed the man's growing frustration, "Well, according to the Sheriffs, he survived a lynching of yours. I got the other perps who did it, and they all pointed to you. No parole, no early release, and no judge will risk money when it's a violent felony."

"...Name your price."

"Excuse me?"

"Your price," The old man turned at Killjoy, so fast it might have almost broken his neck. "You're being paid for this, right? I'll double it. Triple it, if you want."

"Not interested," Killjoy denied as he straightened his gun hand. "You're coming with me, quietly. We're going to exit the window behind you, and you'll stay still until we head back to Ikanomi City."

"You can fuck off back there yourself, bastardo!" The old man lashed out from his chair as he stood up. "I've been doing this for years, and I know enough that no man isn't buyable. If it's not the money you want, I can give you something better. Better exotic guns! Perhaps a business of your own; you can reap the rewards for years," He tried to wager.

"...You want to be close to death, yes?" He remembered. "We have people of those peculiarities who can gladly indulge in your fetishes. Any and whoever you want, for however long!"

"It's not like that, I assure you," Killjoy said, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the suggestion.

"...I'll kill you like the dog you are," the old man threatened. "I have many friends across the states. You know the name 'Black Hand'? The 'Five Points'? They'll hunt you down."

"Send my thanks, if you can. I've gotten bored for the last couple of months."

The old man looked at Killjoy with a sneering glare, but that was all he could do. His stare waned and eventually dropped to the desk.

"If you try screaming for your men outside, you could get me injured. But that's it."

The Italian ignored his threat. "...How long have you been at this for?" He asked.

"Close to two decades now," Killjoy nonchalantly replied.

"A man of your calibre, you must've been paid handsomely during those years for your services…What more can you gain from completing one more job, if not just for a couple hundred more dollars?"

Killjoy's eyes widened slightly at the peculiar question. He barely lowered his gun, only a bit, as if to ponder. But all he could come up with was a simple shake of his head.

"Huh…" The old man then held his holster, which caused Killjoy to lock his aim again. But he instead slowly withdrew his revolver from the handle with his fingers and placed the gun on his desk. 

"Si capisco…" the old man said as he sat back down, no longer armed, leading Killjoy to then lower his revolver and holster it. "Your eyes, I couldn't figure out what you wanted, not because I didn't know what your desire was, but because you didn't have any in the first place…at least not anymore," He rambled.

"...It's time to go, mister," Killjoy reminded.

The old man stared at him severely. He did it for so long, without speaking a word, which in itself was unsettling because Killjoy thought he knew how to do anything but be quiet. 

The old man then suddenly scrambled to his desk and picked up his revolver. He yelled as he tried to shoot at Killjoy while his guard was down.

A muffled bang rang through the room. Then something heavy plopped on a surface.

Killjoy looked at the old man as he collapsed on his desk. The unique spirals of the polished, exotic wood began to be painted not with a coat, but instead with blood. It crept from the old man's skull, eventually tensing at the edge before popping and climbing down the table legs.

Thin strands of smoke rose from the right pocket of the gunslinger's coat, where his right hand was still dug in snuggly. His left hand was still empty, his revolver holstered and not drawn. Killjoy then pulled his pocketed right hand out, and as he did, he inspected the second Russian revolver gripped in his palm. 

"Maybe I shouldn't shoot from inside the pocket," Killjoy murmured to himself. "This coat was expensive."