“Oh, that’s nasty,” Gabe said, making an excited face. “Open that.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not touching this.”
“What if it’s some kind of strawberry gelatin dessert and whoever wrapped it is an idiot?”
“No, you do it,” I said. “I don’t think I’m going to like this.”
“I’m not touching it.”
“You’re my assistant.”
“I’ve been here longer than you,” Gabe said. “Seniority trumps position.”
“You’re a man. Men can handle messes better than women.”
“Honey, no. I wear a dress each weekend to the gay bar and dance for singles. I’m an underpaid hooker. That’s my gender identity.”
“We open it together,” I said. I grabbed his hand, and he squealed as I put it on the box. “On three, okay… one… two… three—“
We both grabbed an edge and tugged. The bottom of the box fell with a splat.
“Oh My God,” Gabriel screamed.
“It has to be that freak Sal,” I screamed. “There’s no way this is happening!”
“I think it is happening, and it happened here, in your office and mine, and I think that some of it has spilled onto my side of the desk,” Gabriel said. “I am telling you right now I’m not paid enough to clean this up, so you’re going to go get some paper towels and hose down this crime scene.”
We stared at it—a huge, oozing, fresh beef heart in a white gift box, a puddle of fluids all around it. Someone in an inexpert hand had drawn “Back off and forget all about it!” on the back lid in black sharpie.
“I don’t know who you pissed off, but they seem pretty crazy,” Gabriel said.
“That seems like an understatement,” I said. “Oh my God, I don’t want to touch this.”
“There’s rubber gloves under the sink in the staff kitchen,” Gabriel said.
“Ugh,” I said.
The gift box and beef heart were dumped into a plastic trash bag, triple-wrapped, and tied. I used bleach disinfectant spray on the counter and the floor and burnt some incense to drive away the awful odor. A putrid smell seemed to linger about the room. Were beef organs supposed to smell like that? And what was with the handwriting? ‘Forget all about it?’ About what?
Andy came by after lunch, his eyes roaming over my desk.
“Heard through the grapevine, you got your first bit of fan mail,” he said.
“I’m a celebrity already. Eat your heart out.” I was not grinning.
Andy chuckled.
“Hey. Stuff like that. That usually means you’re on the right track. I don’t know what you’re on to, but I just want to say how fucking proud I am of you for being so willing to take a step like that for the team. I don’t want you to actually put yourself in danger, though… so next time you need to go to Night Market, let one of us know. We’ve got a couple of blackbelts on staff.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Did you get my email about the legend of Night Market?”
“I think it’s great so far. Only thing is. We need more. I don’t know. Something, uhhhh. Look, we need a human, modern angle on this, right? Myths are great, but this is an urban legend thing. Emphasis on urban. What will make trendy twenty-somethings sit up and say ‘Woah!’”
“Should I add the fan mail to the story?”
“God, that would be great—I can see it as one of those ‘I got in too deep’ articles. Just gotta think of the climax, right? Just take your time on this one. Plan the next few steps out.”
“Got it,” I said.
