Saturday's Storyteller: "Interestingly enough, that wasn't the largest body he's ever had to move."

by Belinda Roddie

"Interestingly enough, that wasn't the largest body he's ever had to move."

Bonnie chewed on the end of her pencil like her eraser was spearmint gum. "No kidding. How much bigger?"

Mister Taffy shrugged. "Rough estimate, fifty pounds heavier, at least. Guy liked potato junk food as much as he liked ripping people off at his casino. Maybe even more than that. He died with his face in a bowl of sour cream and onion crisps."

" 'Crisps.' How very English of you."

"Love the Brit, hate the Britain," he replied. "Or something similar."

He never took his eyes off Bonnie as she finished the document. It was all very succinct and clarified - the name, age, weight, occupation, date of birth, and date of death were bristling graphite on the paper. It was the offense section, of course, that she knew Mister Taffy was nitpickiest about. She made sure to provide extra detail with a few more scratches of her writing utensil, then placed her pencil back into its appropriate metal basket and brushed off her hands.

"Seven o'clock, sir. You know what that means."

Mister Taffy sighed through his right nostril. "I recommend the tomato bisque tonight at the shop nearest you. Tell your husband I say hello. Don't forget - six o'clock AM sharp tomorrow. Harvey will want you there for the meeting, to take notes."

"Stifling investigations again, are we?"

"This fat steer in particular was a meaty one. Big influence in a small town. The mayor will be looking for him, blubber and all, no matter how much of that stuff spewed out of his stomach when we - " He waved a hand. "But that's a story for when you come have a pint with me tomorrow night."

"I look forward to the goriest details."

"Of course you do. Good night, Miss Marville."

***

"Tom, I get a science and nature wedge!"

"No way. You weren't specific enough!"

"The answer was mitosis. I said mitosis. I don't have to add 'cellular' at the beginning, that's a given!"

"Fine. Take your stupid wedge and choke on it."

"Evening, boys!" Bonnie said between smiling teeth as she sidled past her two nephews, who sat with their uncle and older sister around the table where a newer version of Trivial Pursuit lay strewn with tokens and cards. At least this version in particular didn't classify Berlin by east and west. Bonnie's husband, Grover, was stirring marinara sauce in a pot.

"Spaghetti again tonight?"

"I take it you're not eating with us," Grover calmly replied, wiping his dark brow with an even darker hand. "How was work?"

"Harvey was busy again. Needed me and Mister Taffy to record."

"Again? You're far too talented to be a simple secretary or archivist. Tell me, what happened to the agent work?"

"Oh, it's still going. Don't think I don't have a say in the inspection and 'sanitation' part of the deal."

"Right. That would explain the bloody cufflinks you had to shove down the sink disposal."

Bonnie cast Grover a "Don't you dare" look, as Tom pumped his fist in the air after accurately answering, "Garfield" in one out of many history questions regarding presidents of the United States. While Grover had some 'inkling' of the going-ons of Harvey Estrada and his penchant for stabbing and burying those who rubbed his scales the wrong way, he was not supposed to spill any of the beans to anyone. He knew that if the nephews, chatty as they were, talked about it in town, Grover would be next on the hit list. And Bonnie tolerated her husband far too much to let that happen.

"Well, you'll be happy to know I skipped out on dinner at the restaurant tonight," she commented. "I'll partake in your Italian cuisine."

"You're lucky. We have enough for five."

"Make sure Uncle Rodney doesn't have two servings. I've seen his gut."

"I heard that, Bonn'," her brother scoffed from where he was kneeling at the table, the die skipping across his black satin palm.

Bonnie wrinkled her nose. At this rate, Rodney would be as rotund as the casino owner who had just gotten his jugular vein cut in half while his blood drained out like a stunned, piked pig.

***

"I want her promoted."

Mister Taffy stood with feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind his back, as he faced Harvey Estrada. Harvey's full lips - from his Austrian mother - were pressed together in one pink smear on his face, while the bristling silver-spotted mustache - from his Guatemalan father - noticeably twitched. He was playing with a staple remover from his desk, pushing its viper jaws together over and over, an obnoxious sign of his urgency.

"Bonnie Marville is an excellent addition to our 'agency,' Mister Estrada," Mister Taffy coolly remarked, feeling his own silver beard tickling his raw chin as the humidity in the room pestered him. "But I'm unsure if she - "

"She did very well in the disposal of the evidence concerning the CEO of Huntington's. I want to see her removed from petty drudge work and put in a top slot."

"She is a notetaker and an accomplice, but she is not a murderer."

"No. Not yet. And don't say murderer, George, that word is so barbaric. 'Eliminator' is more tolerable, though still not ideal. I couldn't think of anything less flagrant."

"I mean she is not fit to take on the tasks you ask of her," Mister Taffy countered, the air whistling through his right nostril again, hot as Hell. "It is not within her composure."

"Why? Because she's a woman? You, of all people, I didn't expect to be sexist."

"Mister Estrada, I mean she has a husband, and children in her apartment."

"Then they'll have a mansion soon enough, and not a dingy two-bedroom, two-bath." Harvey put the staple remover down and selected a pushpin to play with instead, carefully pivoting the pointed end away from his fingers. "I've seen that place. It's grotesque. She deserves better, George. You know that."

"She deserves a better job than being a hitman."

"Ugh. Be politically correct, George - hitperson. Anyway, I didn't even say she would do the direct killing - I enjoy that job far too much. No, she'd just be the set-up. The lure, as you were."

"Lure...?"

Harvey laughed, a strange, sour sound, like if one could hear milk curdling as it sat too long in the refrigerator. "Sorry. Bad word choice. She'd be the smooth talker. The socializer. The 'I'll make an offer you can't refuse' role. She may not be a Don Corleone, but she can provide a false sense of security. Do what Harvey Estrada says, and you'll get what you want. Piss him off..."

He suddenly drove the pushpin down, hard, sharp end first, into his desk. Effortlessly, the metal point disappeared into the wood, a mere glint of its existence gone as soon as Mister Taffy noticed the movement. Harvey smiled. His teeth, combined with his lips, made him look more like a caricature than a gentleman.

"...well, I don't need to finish that sentence. In short, George, Bonnie Marville will be your apprentice. There. Doesn't seem so shabby now, does it?"

Mister Taffy let his tongue slither around in his closed mouth, a low, sucking noise audible in the room as he did so. He imagined Bonnie Marville - glossy brown skin, pulled back ponytail, gnawing on that pencil - shaking the hands of a businessman equally as fat or middle-aged as the last one. And the one before that. And the one before that. It wasn't as if Harvey was anti-rich man. He was just anti-asshole. And he managed to get a pretty penny choked out of said assholes before committing the deed, too. All it took was a fake business deal from Mister Taffy, and the noose was already being hung. Or in Harvey's case, the knife was being sharpened.

"I'll think about it."

***

Her belly heavy from spaghetti and tomato sauce, Bonnie sat cross-legged on her bed, examining her notebook. Outside, it was particularly cold, though the breeze from the window only just chilled the previously stuffy room. In the other corner, Grover snored. They had not shared a bed for two years now.

She placed her notes aside and pushed the back of her head against the wall, her hair making a crinkling noise against the plaster. From the other room, she could hear her nephews whispering by the TV set, the voice of Jay Leno invading the late night ambiance, the stale smell of half-eaten pizza rolls plaguing Bonnie's nose with the odors of salty pepperoni and processed colby jack cheese. It was enough to make her intestines curl into the fetal position and give her bad aches for the rest of the night.

On the floor below her, her neighbor, Sandy Griffin, slept without a husband. He had been dead for four years now, forcing her to resort to this sloppy apartment complex. No money in his will for her. Harvey had sucked the accounts dry. Then he had stuck a serrated bread knife into the old man's throat.

And Bonnie could never tell her.

This week's prompt was provided by Justin Tack.