Butcher Part I

The butcher handed the parcel to his customer. It was fresh from the rinsing, water droplets moving around on the plastic. He smiled his trademark smile. Big, wide, eyes filled with joy, his stubble too, seemed to smile. His eyes were light blue, happy. The customer, a regular, held the bag, hand tightly gripped around it, and walked out the door, the bells over which rang as she left.

The butcher wiped the sweat off his brow and kept on smiling. Wordlessly, he walked to the back, to his freezer. As he dragged open the thick metal door, it screeched. He frowned, ever so slightly. A hiss escaped from within. White mist came rushing out. He looked at the slabs of meat hanging from hooks. It was beautiful. This was his dream.

He wasn’t expecting another regular till, he looked at his watch, wound with love and care by him on the first and fifteenth days of every month, a Rolex Daytona. He had purchased it when the man brought his proposal. Even if it hadn’t been for the money, the butcher would have accepted. He wasn’t expecting another regular till exactly fourteen minutes and thirty five seconds from now. Oops, thirty three now. They made appointments online. Sure, he accepted walk ins, but those who knew, knew. They made appointments and he could give them his personal attention. And he did. That was one of the many things that made this shop, his shop so good. And the meat tasted better than anyone else’s. Anywhere. Rich, poor, if they could afford it, they would get meat from here. And it wasn’t too expensive either. People asked him for his secret all the time. He would flash that trademark smile, and wave the question away. No one had threatened him yet for the recipe. He knew that his guardian angel protected him.

He didn’t hire anyone else. He didn’t need to. He enjoyed this work. This was his passion. He didn’t trust anyone else either. The butcher walked past the gleaming floor, that was now covered with a fog, thicker closer to the door of the freezer, as the moisture had escaped, some of it condensing to form a mist on the marbled floor. Air conditioners hummed peacefully. He walked past the television and leather seats and sofas for customers to wait while he was busy, past the refrigerator that was always stocked with fresh cold water and a red liquid, that was his special formula. That was free. It was immensely popular. He did not just provide a product, he provided an experience. That was part of the appeal and charm of his shop. Of course, it helped that the product tasted better than anything else in the market.

He oiled the squeaking door, and had three minutes to wait. He washed his hands, dried them with a towel he had had custom made. And leaned on the counter. Not a minute too soon. The bells on the door chimed, and his next customer came in. The butcher was always discreet, but he knew their status, their jobs, customers confided in him, others he knew from the files. His angel had files on everyone. The butcher kept track of his customers, the file was shared with the angel. Angel, he smiled weakly. Ironic, given what he asked. Every week, he would get individual files mailed to him, on new customers, and updated ones on the old. He knew everything about them.

This man had driven here in a Mercedes, his hair was slick and pulled back, he was dressed nicely, but not too nicely. This man was trying to be discreet, but the butcher knew that the Mercedes was the least of his three cars. The other two were a Rolls Royce, and a Bentley. He had houses across the globe. He had made a lot of money by betting on the market, and a lot more illegally. The butcher knew everything about him.