It was sticky in the heat of the summer when I was called out to the scene. Cops had been all over it, tape hanging tight across the door as I stepped in.
There aren’t many sights that make me sick, but this one was trying to take the cake. Never saw so many bulls wanting to hurl. I’d seen plenty of work checkin in the various meathouses. Blood never shook a bee out of my bonnet. But this was something more.
No official body count, but the rough guess was something around twenty people. It was hard to be sure how many were properly chilled, as there wasn’t a single broad intact. Some we had heads and bodies, but the parts that were strewn around added to more than what could be put into a single bag.
While the law had been thinking it was some crook that had been burning here for awhile, I knew better. While the place was stained with blood, none of the parts had any congealed. There wasn’t the smell of rot that old discarded bodies made, especially in a slaughterhouse.
No, this one here was a fight. One big scrap, involving over two dozen people. Ain’t sure what they were fightin over, but it wasn’t hard findin the discarded chopper that had been chucked into the waste bins. Or the knife that barely had a chill in the fridged carnage.
Seeing how they bungled the call made sense. Any time something like this came up, they called in Kane to sweeten the deal.
And I was on the case.
Stepping out of the locker, I looked over the halls of meat past the sights of bulls losing their lunches. I knew if that scrap had ended so deadly, there’d be a trail. One that cops might not think to look for in a home of carnage. The handprint in blood with three fingers by the rear door gave me the lead, and I booked it out the side door.
From there, hidden in the low light was a trail of crimson just left for me to follow. I could see the staggering footsteps, the dripping of blood from the balooka’s clothes and wounds from his hand and elsewhere.
And here, despite everything he had fought for, the truth was laid bare. No matter how far he got, no matter how vicious and cruel he had been before, the clock had already begun. To watch all of those come before dropping like flies, only to bleed out here and leave a trail right to him.
By the time I showed up, curtains had come for him. He lay there in a pool of his own blood, one hand missing the last two fingers. In the other was a golden envelope, clutched tight. An ear was missing, and I could see the stab wounds. Despite everything, he was just another lamb to the slaughter that had gone on inside.
All for a shot at gold.