Ill-Gotten Memories

9. The Doc

Saturday morning. 10:30.
Continued.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw rose petals scattered on the passenger's seat. Their soft scent tugged at me as I drove. The lingering aromas of mint and myrrh would sit patiently in the interior of my Mazda until I disposed of them... but they reminded me of Barbara.

Every detail of her, no matter how small, was worth hanging onto. I swore that she was the only thing keeping me sane.

The petals must have fallen off on my way to the hospital this morning.  I had stopped by the nearest floral shop and purchased a bouquet to sit by her bedside. I hoped they made her morning better. Waking up without any memory of the last twenty-four hours was going to be very unsettling for her, and once she found out her father had been murdered, it was only going to get worse.

On the Lower East Side of Manhattan, I drove down to Madison Street and parked on the curb, knuckles white. I had a pounding headache. In spite of today's responsibilities, I was still distracted by our encounter last night, and the stress was killing me.

We were so close—so close to something real. From head to toe, my body was going berserk for her, and I desperately needed a release... but she was hurting, and unimaginably troubled. It was then, at that moment, I realized how far I had overstepped my bounds. I couldn't be with her in such a state.

Not then, not ever.

Carlos Battistelli would soon become the object of my frustrations.

Swiftly crossing the street, I entered the butcher shop. Battistelli was manning the counter, serving a customer his choice cuts. The gentleman paid for the steaks and walked out, allowing me to approach. I wanted his full undivided attention.

But before any work could begin, I had to let something else take over first, the part of me I wasn't fond of: "The Doc." It helped me perform more accurately, and made my subjects less human. Less apt to fail. My boss wanted results, and I was going to get them at any means necessary.

The... Objective, in question, found my oppressive glare, and the pigment evaporated from his skin. That was a common reaction most of our business associates shared when I paid them unannounced visits. He adjusted his glasses and sank behind the register. There was no weapon in my hand, but he was shaking as if I were holding him at gunpoint.

"Doc... what brings you by today?"

Objective was already nervous. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, hunching down slightly. Couldn't give him the slip, yet, else he'd run off. I had to be a little less imposing. Just a little.

"Business, Batti. Can we talk somewhere more private?"

The Objective reeled in a round of air, perhaps wondering would this be the last time he breathed naturally? It was no argument my imagination could be cruel at times, but for his sake, I hoped he was expecting the worst.

He motioned for me to join him behind the counter, then led me through a pair of double doors to the kitchen. Raw meat and fresh animal blood greeted us with a kick in the face, as any strong odor did. Thank God I wasn't easily repulsed. On the steel butcher's block, the guys were cutting everything from pork to lamb. The business was in good shape.

We went into the warehouse area off from the kitchen, and decided to talk around a small office space in the back. This would do nicely.

"Have a seat," I commanded the Objective. Watching him closely, I scratched my beard as I contemplated ways to reprimand him. But it was also time for me to exercise my interrogation muscles. While I already knew the truth, I just wanted to give him a chance to be honest. The severity of his punishment was hinging on it.