It was just about 3:45 when Max heard the rhythmic staccato tapping approaching from the far end of the corridor. From the increasing tempo of the footsteps, Max could tell that he must be bringing bad news. What else would make that old geezer hurry just before quitting time, especially down here? And on Sunday, no less. The old quack hadn't even set foot in the lab for more than three months.
The double swinging doors blew open as the County Coroner stepped inside. The doors swung inward and slapped him on the butt. He wasn't about to move into the room any farther than was absolutely necessary. As usual, a mono-grammed handkerchief was clamped tightly over his nose and mouth. The gutless wimp claimed to be allergic to formaldehyde.
Max was just finishing up with his last customer. He pushed back a slowly moving puddle of coagulating blood that was oozing across the slab toward a half-eaten reuben on rye. When he picked up the sandwich and bit-off a mouthful, the Boss quivered and blanched to the color of day old oatmeal. Max wiped a bloody hand on his apron, and just for effect, licked his crimson index finger with a satisfying smack. Mr. Oxford hacked something up into his hankie, and quickly jammed it into his blazer pocket. Tiny beads of sweat were starting to run down his zit-encrusted nose and splotch onto antique pince-nez spectacles.
Max just about choked on the pastrami and sauerkraut trying to stifle a belly-laugh. He spun around to the counter, turning his back on Oxford, and slammed down a hearty slug of Jim Beam that was kept in a specimen jar just for such emergencies. The hooch washed down the reuben and restored Max's facade of innocence.
"Hey there Boss. What's the poop? Got some live ones for me or what?"
"Overtime," he grunted through a second handkerchief. "We have some more customers that I want answers on tonight. I expect written reports, at least preliminaries, on my desk before start of business tomorrow morning. No--not written--E-mail. I don't care how long it takes, and I'm not waiting around for you. E-mail. To me, and me only. Tonight."
"More! Tonight? You Gotta be shittin' me, you old fart! What do you think I am, a goddamn food processor?"
Oxford puked up some more cosmic goo into his hankie, and blew just a trickle out of his nose. His specs sproinged off and clattered onto the spotless linoleum floor. He scooped up his glasses and scrambled along the floor, through the doors, and out into the corridor. Max was heaving with mirth at the whimpering and sniveling sounds being produced by his Boss.
The specimen jar was nearly empty before the first of the night's next six customers were wheeled in on squeaking gurneys. "Gawd!" Max grunted, as he managed to wrestle the last of the six stiffs up onto a slab.
The 'slabs', as they were called in Max's line of work, were actually steel tables designed just for the purpose at hand. They were equipped with wheels and folding legs, just like those used in ambulances. These models, however, had a few design features not found in the ambulance-type. For instance, no mattress was needed for the comfort of the patient. The slabs were equipped with a solid stainless steel working surface. There was also a drain and stainless steel tank to collect the bodily fluids that were spilled during the somewhat grisly examinations.
"Well, at least three of these guys are still fresh enough. No sign of rigor. Not much lividity. That's the only thing about this job that makes it worth my sweat."
Muttering to himself, Max pulled the shrouds from over each of the three warm corpses. One of the other three sure seemed to be a lot colder than usual. It didn't seem to have that smell of rot either, like he had been in cold storage or something. Probably a good candidate for harvest after all.
It was the first trio of cadavers that needed immediate attention if there was anything to be salvaged. All three had no visible wounds to the head. Who knows why these poor chumps bought the farm. All the better. Less chance of damaged goods. He stuck a thermometer into the flaccid rectum of each carcass as he cut off the clothing. Starting with the coolest one, he sliced through the scalp, bearing down on the scalpel to score the cranium near the base of the skull. After stripping away a patch of flesh about the size of a dollar bill, a high-speed pneumatically powered bone saw went to work on the hard stuff.
The saw whirred as fast as a dentists drill, it had a circular blade about an inch in diameter, covered with microscopic teeth. Making contact with the exposed bone, the blade instantly radiated a gut-wrenching screech like fingernails across a blackboard. The deeper it cut, and the more pressure that Max applied made the little saw howl louder and louder. White bone dust blew out into a tiny cloud, coating the shiny steel table top with a fine dusting of powdered humanity. Along the edge of the cut, the skull was changing from creamy white to scorched brown as the blade heated from intense friction. The smoke was invisible, but its acrid stench was quickly overpowering the morgue's ever-present aroma of formaldehyde.
In about 20 minutes, each of the three skulls were laid open, exposing the glistening meninges and the brain tissues beneath. In particular, it was the Pineal and Pituitary glands that interested Max. He worked deftly with his sharpest knives to cut out the small reddish bodies from the center of the adrenal medulla at the base of each brain. They were all perfect specimens. Nice and plump, like juicy, ripe fruits ready to be plucked.
The three choice cuts of high-grade tissue were carefully placed into the tiny steel pot of a laboratory macerator, and covered with a small amount of saline solution. The macerator was a high-priced version of a kitchen-top blender. It rendered chunks of the deceased into a pulverized gruel by means of five serrated circular blades spinning at 20,000 RPM.
After twenty seconds, the brains in the pot had been transformed into a grayish red liquid that could have easily passed for borscht. The soup was carefully transferred into four glass tubes, and then into the centrifuge. Max watched as the machine spun, thinking of the first time that he had been told about the properties of the human pineal and pituitary glands. When properly processed, blended, and stabilized, the small cherry-like pineal and the multi-lobed pituitary glands from a freshly killed human would yield a few precious drops of a pure, natural catalyst that supercharged the production of epinephrine, otherwise known as adrenaline. A fraction of a drop of this substance, administered sub-lingualy (placed under the tongue), would turn a ninety year-old grandmother into the incredible hulk. The blood vessels constrict, the heartbeat accelerates to the breaking point, and a rush of superhuman energy is released instantaneously. This substance made crack-cocaine or crystal methedrine amphetamines seem like baby pabulum. And more valuable than anything on the face of the Earth, if one knew where to peddle it.
Max knew where to peddle it. Manny had quickly developed an impressive client list. Each and every name on the list was always ready, willing, and very able to pay very well for a rare item like this.
The centrifuge automatically stopped after 12 minutes. Each of the glass tubes now contained two inches of brown sludge upon which floated about a quarter inch of clear rose colored fluid. A little under an ounce all together. A little over 5,000 bucks would cross from the palms of Manny's clients and into Max's pocket if all went well tonight. But first, there were the other three stiffs to get ready for the cooler.
The first cadaver, the cold one, looked absolutely horrible. It looked like he had been run over by a tank. Broken arm, broken ribs, crushed fingers, multiple contusions beyond counting. There had been severe head trauma with massive blood loss. The coagulated blood thoroughly coated a face matted with longish dark hair. Wiping away with a solvent coated pad slowly revealed a face that was swollen beyond recognition. Well almost beyond recognition.
"Jesus!" Max gasped. "Manny, is that you?"
He roughly jerked the body over and swabbed at a grimy shoulder. Beneath a layer of sludge from the alley and blood from the head was a sight that Max had seen only once before. A crude homemade tattoo proclaiming the bearer as 'GUS'. "Oh dear God, Manny, you poor bastard."
The last remaining slug of whiskey and a few deep breaths brought Max composure back to a working level. This was not one of the stiffs that the Coroner wanted answers on. It was very obvious that the cops that brought him in had mistaken Manny for a hit and run, subsequently robbed and stripped by night-crawling vermin infesting the south side. Notice had not been taken of the two bullet wounds to the head. Wounds that appeared to have been inflicted by a small caliber pistol.
The words 'JOHN DOE' had been scrawled on the next customer's toe tag. There was no doubt that foul play was involved with this fellow. As far as identity was concerned, Max experienced no difficulty whatsoever. His own handiwork was very evident. Even without teeth, old man Franklin really did look to be at peace. Max listed the probable cause of death as: "Lead Poisoning, 0.311 inches diameter, 123 grain steel, copper jacketed, eight grooves, right-hand twist. Perforated aorta, and severed pulmonary artery both being quickly fatal in severity."
"Well, my friends," Max rationalized, "I'm sure that you would have wanted it this way. No use letting what's left of you to go to waste."
The smallest of tears trickled down his cheek to be instantly absorbed into his mask, when the pneumatic saw wailed back into action.
There was not even a hint of damage to the target zone from the 9mm jacketed round-nose slugs that had been rattling around in there with Manny. Franklin's brains were virtually pickled from 50-odd years of cheap booze.
"Overtime. Just precisely what is it that makes the idea so distasteful? After all, what so stimulating is waiting for me at home? The news? Or perhaps a microwaved bean burrito eaten over the sink. If I don't get off work at the regular time, I might not have enough time to get completely shit-faced down at the saloon. I might even have some extra dollars in my pocket at the end of the month; less spent at the bars and more in the pay envelope. Just what the hell is wrong with putting in a few extra hours anyway? The extra privacy for my special customers certainly is a tangible benefit. Much easier to tag and bag the chumps than it is to dream up a story about those extra holes in their noggins!"
Max put himself through this inquisition each and every time the subject of overtime was broached. About the only thing that he could put his finger on was the prospect of walking home after dark.
"So, what's so goddamned evil about that? The worst thing that could happen is getting mugged. Not much danger there either, right little buddy?"
Max patted the outside of his J.C. Penny tweed jacket and felt the comforting hard bulge of a 2-inch stainless steel .38 special revolver riding snugly in the small of his back. He had taken to carrying a gun shortly after accepting an assignment with the Coroner's office. As with most jobs of this type, the assigned work location was not always in one of the more hospitable parts of town. Overtime was getting to be the routine, rather than the exception. A routine that brought Max out into the night and the ever-present shadows between the nameless decaying buildings of the city. His route from home to work and back again wound and twisted through alleys and narrow setbacks, the haunts of junkies and winos, of johns and prostitutes. A no-man's land littered with shards of brick and mortar rained down from crumbling buildings. Dumpsters and cardboard boxes overflowing with garbage heaped up and around the grimy metal back doors of nondescript bars and restaurants. Wisps of rancid vapor wafted up from sewers carrying the city's effluvia beneath brick paving patched with asphalt scabs.
Thinking back to the first day of overtime, and the first time he took this route through the back alleys in darkness, brought an involuntary smile to his lips. He had been so shaken by the experience that he took a taxi to and from work for about two weeks, even in the light of day. The taxi ride not only exacted a monetary cost, but it also burned a lot of valuable time. Max was forced to wake up earlier than usual. To catch a taxi was quite often a hit or miss operation. Sometimes they were there, often they were not.
"Never a taxi around when you need one, just like the cops."
At quitting time, the story was the same. Rush out to hail a cab that was non-existent, or arrive just in time to find one speeding off with a co-worker that had beaten Max in the five o'clock dash to freedom. But, at least it was safer than walking back and forth through no-man's land.
Safe, yeah, right.
One run-of-the-mill Thursday evening, Max thought himself quite fortunate to emerge from the front lobby just as a cab was scrubbing it's tires against the curb. Max sniggered smugly to himself slamming the Checker's back door just micro-inches beyond the grasp of the second place finisher in today's 5 o'clock dash.
"1922 Burley Avenue," Max announced triumphantly to the cabbie.
No response from the driver.
Max glanced at the hack license next to the meter on the dashboard. Houlufquallah Meheran. His name was as confusing to pronounce as his reflection in the rear-view mirror was to decipher. Thick black eyebrows growing together over the bridge of his nose and scrunched downward by his heavily knitted brow. The pores of his skin were enlarged and black, nearly indistinguishable from a myriad of tiny dark moles and freckles. Droplets of sweat continuously emerging from the hairline slowly inched their way through blotchy three-day stubble. The droplets gathered and merged in a cleft chin where bigger droplets dripped to a continuously bobbing Adam's apple. Pupils completely consumed each coal black iris. Long black nose hairs quivered with each whistling breath.
"Burley Avenue. Burley!" Max repeated.
"Girlies? You want see girls? Good we see girls.
Max could see only the threadbare headliner of the cab as his head snapped back and the naugahyde upholstery pressed into his back. The passenger door armrest stabbed into his ribs, the sound of howling rubber drilling into his head. Houlufquallah Meheran cruelly mashed the accelerator and wrenched the wheel, launching the Checker into a U-turn across three lanes of rush hour traffic, accelerating across the raised yellow median. Max grappled with the driver's seat back and pulled himself upright just as Houlufquallah Meheran stomped the brakes and jerked the cab to the right, careening onto a side street. Horns and shouts and screams and squealing brakes from the oncoming traffic curdled blood in Max's overpressurized veins. The expression on the cabbie's face never wavered.
Back and forth, speed and braking, Max rattled around the inside of the cab as Houlufquallah caromed from curb to curb like a pinball. For about 10 minutes, at speeds topping 60 miles per hour, the charge through increasingly seedier surroundings ended suddenly when the cab jerked to a smoking overheated stop, one wheel on the curb, one fender nudging a rusty lamp post.
Throwing a ten spot at the driver, Max wrenched open his door and scrambled out and onto the cracked concrete sidewalk, dotted with broken bottles and cigarette butts. Houlufquallah Meheran switched on the FOR HIRE light on his cab and sedately motored away. Max got to his feet with the assistance of a hawker beneath the flashing marquee of 'Mickee's Moonlight Lounge'. The marquee, encircled with pulsing neon tubes, boasted: Bodacious TA-TAs! Totally NUDE Girls! Girls! Girls! The hawker was well into his second wind, imploring Max to come inside.
"Cuz, man, you just ain't gonna believe what we got inside! Walk in and in 20 seconds, I guarantee you ain't gonna be able to sit down! They be Bodacious, they be beautiful, they be un-be-liev-a-ble! Man you just gotta come on in! The cover is only 5 bucks, and there's only a two drink minimum. Pal, just lemmee tell ya....."
Max pried the hawker's grimy hands away from his shoulder and did an about face, escaping across the street. Once on the other side, he was faced with several choices. Directly ahead was 'Lee Brothers Tae-Kwon-Do', to the left was 'Zorba's Greek Delicatessen', and to the left was 'BAR'. The establishment right next to 'BAR' was 'EAT'. Navigating to starboard Max pulled open the door to Zorba's and made a beeline to the back, looking for the chilled beverage section. No luck. There was a cooler, but it was filled with lumpy orbs of cheese, glass jars of unrecognizable pickled vegetables or animal parts, and sundry other delicacies of dubious origin. No cold beer, and the only other potentially potent potable appeared to be some purple wine in dusty wicker wrapped bottles and a few fifths of Ouzo.
"Ouzo it will be," Max mumbled, grabbing a bottle and handing a 20 to the hovering shopkeeper. The fist slug of Ouzo steadied his shakes enough so he could manage to stuff a quarter into the pay phone. By the time his ride appeared, there were several inches of air space in the bottle.
After that enlightening experience, Max had come to the very clear conclusion that the night streets and alleys could not in anyway be more dangerous than another taxi cab ride with Houlufquallah Meheran or any of his brethren. The weekend immediately following the brief visit to Mickey's, Max went shopping for some second amendment commuter's insurance. For the price of about two month's taxi service, Max bought a Taurus model 85 stainless steel 5-shot snub-nosed revolver.
A gurgling phlegm-filled cough snapped Max back from his reverie into the reality of the alley. A wino was sprawled out next to a grate, sucking the last drop from a bottle of MD 20/20. Max again patted the comforting .38 bulge in his belt, and a smaller bulge from several little vials of pineal extract in his breast pocket. The same little vials that many times in the past had served to bring not a little smile, but a very pleasing grin to hiss lips, now jerked his somewhat pleasant state of mind into something akin to fear and loathing.
He hailed a cab and gave the driver Mike's address. No way was he going back home tonight.
"Good, God! How did I ever get myself into this kind of shit?" he asked himself. "Manny was the brains of this whole scam, and now what's left of his brains have been rendered down into a few drops of dope. He used to tease about having me in his hip pocket, and now I have him in mine.
"Literally."