Soul Standard

By Richard Thomas, Caleb Ross, Axel Taiari and Nik Korpon

The economy has fallen, and flesh is worth more than dollars. Across four different districts of the City, a desperate banker must keep his employer happy at any cost, a boxer must choose between honor and the woman he loves, a criminal must atone for his past, and a man with a terrifying condition searches desperately for his missing daughter.

Richard Thomas is the editor in chief of Dark House press.

Caleb Ross is the author of five books of fiction.

Axel Taiari is a French writer.

Nik Korpon is the author of several books of fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dzanc Books
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781938604942

Richard Thomas

Richard Thomas is the award-winning author of seven books—Disintegration and Breaker (Penguin Random House Alibi), Transubstantiate, Staring into the Abyss, Herniated Roots, Tribulations, and The Soul Standard (Dzanc Books). His over 150 stories in print include The Best Horror of the Year (Volume Eleven), Cemetery Dance (twice), Behold!: Oddities, Curiosities and Undefinable Wonders (Bram Stoker winner), PANK, storySouth, Gargoyle, Weird Fiction Review, Midwestern Gothic, Shallow Creek, The Seven Deadliest, Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories, Qualia Nous, Chiral Mad (numbers 2-4), PRISMS, Pantheon, and Shivers VI. He was also the editor of four anthologies: The New Black and Exigencies (Dark House Press), The Lineup: 20 Provocative Women Writers (Black Lawrence Press) and Burnt Tongues (Medallion Press) with Chuck Palahniuk. He has been nominated for the Bram Stoker, Shirley Jackson, and Thriller awards. In his spare time he is a columnist at Lit Reactor. He was the Editor-in-Chief at Dark House Press and Gamut Magazine, and lives in Mundelein, Illinois. For more information visit www.whatdoesnotkillme.com or contact Paula Munier at Talcott Notch.

Book preview

I.

FINANCIAL DISTRICT

FALL

Four Corners

The flame flickers green and toxic with each bill I throw into the fire. The wind through the busted north window rouses the flames into spires of black smoke that leave the crumbling corner fire pit masonry dark and powdered. Each wadded bill bounces into the ash of hundreds before it; like people, their governing currency returns to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that shit. It’s been one of those hot-summers-cum-stale-falls, where everything smells like motor oil and shirts come only in shades of sweat. These breezes, even ones tainted by the City itself, are a welcome respite.

Mr. Reiss had the fire pit installed four summers ago, a purchase I encouraged wholeheartedly. I supported the black leather couch, the on-spec original Garrity hanging just above the pit, the imported liquor, the commissioned crystal bidet, and the York organ cooler. Especially the organ cooler. This was back when a few paper bills flashed to the right table dancer could get a man laid. And Reiss has his addictions to swinging skin—hence the cooler, his version of a shirt pocket full of singles. The metal monstrosity stands as tall as Reiss himself, three times as wide, and deeper than I’d care to find out. He has cash safes too, but this one is made specifically to weather the in-progress economy shift from dollars to Favors, and all of the gifts, both inanimate and organic, said economy implies.

I’ve never seen him open the cooler. I’m okay with that, with never seeing what’s inside. I tell myself that sometimes a cooler is just a cooler.

Liquid assets. The term doesn’t mean what it meant even just a few years ago. Cash used to be the go-to method for passing high dollar purchases and illegal services undetected through the books. People cared about a dollar bill. People fought and died for a dollar bill. This was years ago, when being the economist underling to a man like Mr. Reiss carried with it a sense of security, of authority. The rich got richer. The poor got poorer. And it was important to stake land on one side of the scale, then fight to keep it. To the death, if necessary. This is the natural evolution of any civilized society. Of course, the natural destruction came when the poor no longer had faith in promises from the aristocracy. To lose faith in the rich is the same as losing faith in the dollar itself. When politicians fail, when banks fuck over the entire economy, the dollar crumbles too. It’s the currency in the coal mine.

We wouldn’t term it a mutiny, though the parallels are hard to ignore. Lacking the cash, the lower class began sectioning off into their own micro communities, placing faith not in pieces of paper but in the deeds of a neighbor. You could get your transmission fixed for a few months of lawn work. A gallon of gas for a gallon of coffee. Eventually, I couldn’t cover up Reiss’s quarter after quarter of lost cash revenue with the same old market fluctuation and tax bracket crap that people like us have been using since the very beginning of faith-based commerce. Everything Reiss had built—his manufacturing businesses, his play in the Red Light fights, his Ponzi brackets, this very Belvedere Building—would, by my estimate, be worthless within the decade unless Reiss adapted to the shifting model even beyond that single cooler full of lap-dance gall bladders and drug-of-the-month stockpiles. But I’m never telling Reiss this. Paper money still has some meaning around here, and Mr. Reiss pays me plenty of it.

The hole in the windowpane comes courtesy of my cubicle neighbor, Arnold McCarthy. Before Arnold jumped, he had phoned his wife. He told her to stand at the sidewalk in front of the Belvedere Building at 3:30 and look up. She was to come with siphons and mason jars for his blood and biohazard bags for whatever organs survived. He called his family surgeon, too. This is how life insurance works now.

Arnold McCarthy had eaten a single, pre-packaged pumpkin muffin every breakfast for the past seven years. Photos of his family—a wife, two girls—bookend his computer monitor. All three are cuter than a man of Arnold’s genetic disposition should merit. Arnold’s ancestry weaves deep roots through three local wars, stints as illegal serfs in the Outskirts, aunts and grandmothers living and dying in the Red Light, failed family business after failed family business, missing chromosomes leading to padded-room hospitalization, too many chromosomes leading to the same, and every once in a while a family tree node pocks with just the right amount of good blood to give a new generation an actual chance. Arnold, given such circumstances, is a fucking miracle. But to Arnold, breaking through for another lifetime doesn’t mean success. In Arnold’s own words, Even the concept of evolution is still evolving. It’s not crazy to think that my family was meant to die out generations ago and we just snuck by. He told me this as I helped him cocoon his torso in duct tape, less than an hour ago, just before jumping.

Doesn’t sound crazy to me, I said. You sure I’m getting this tight enough?

I’ve got two daughters. I’ve passed along everything I possibly could, right?

I pulled the tape tighter. Don’t go second-guessing yourself, Arnold.

I can barely breathe, he muttered.

You need only enough air to carry you to the window, anyway.

He chuckled.

No laughing. If you pass out, I’m not throwing you out myself. You’ll just have to stay here on the floor here until one of Reiss’s girls finds you.

You’re a friend, Max.

No, I’m not, I told him, finishing off tape roll number three. I’m just an economist.

I wished him a quick death before swinging a chair against the office window, cracking the glass but only slightly. Arnold wanted to feel the glass break away, a final sense of accomplishment. He ran. He jumped. He hit the ground like a lawn dart, head first to protect his organs. The duct tape was my idea. Back when the Outskirts were worth fighting over, gangs used to wrap themselves tight to prevent organs from spilling should they be shot, keeping them fighting for just a few more breaths. With Arnold, the tape served a less righteous purpose; his family can’t trade splattered organs.

I crumple another dollar bill and flick it to the flames. Each plume of smoke isn’t without a pang of…something. Growing up, the amount of money I’ve burned in the past few hours would change lives. Maybe it’s nostalgia I’m feeling.

The flame’s crackle could be footsteps against the marble hallway floor, it’s so sharp and quick. Menacing.

I crush and toss another bill. The crackle intensifies, eventually overtaken completely by the echo of actual footsteps from the hallway. I maintain composure and brace myself to be reprimanded by one of Mr. Reiss’s assistants determined to make a name for herself.

Mr. Reiss is never one to welcome uninvited company in his office, but the past few days warrant my extra presence. Last week, someone found out about my donation. See, Mr. Reiss has a history of renal disease. I have a history of receiving a paycheck from him. He needed a kidney; I gave him one. So why the secret? Public knowledge that he’s bought into the power of organ commerce, even if entirely health-related, indicates weakness, and Mr. Reiss has spent billions to ensure that nobody thinks him weak.

Mr. Phlebalm, the woman from the hallway says.

I’d respond in kind, but I’ve learned not to take the time remembering the names of these women. They rotate weekly, each more driven than the last. But Reiss hasn’t happened upon an assistant he can stomach long enough to shape a career, so these women cripple quickly. Most leave crying. I don’t bother turning from the fire.

Mr. Reiss doesn’t appreciate guests in his chamber.

He’s got you calling this a chamber?

She laughs. Seriously, Max. Has it been that long?

Mallory. It’s been only months but it feels like years since we last spoke. A lackey, already? I stay seated but let a grin slip. Just six months ago Mallory contacted me about helping her find a job downtown. She, like all of us born and forgotten in the Red Light, wanted out. You were supposed to be a clerk or something. Street level.

Apparently Mr. Reiss thought better of me.

I didn’t mean it that way. I fumble for the right mix of older brother protector and coy admirer. Mallory and I share a childhood. She made bread in the Red Light, I refined sugar, two kids never knowing that childhood wasn’t supposed to be factory line work. Commiseration during deliveries teased out an awkward smile or two between us over the years. The first time those exchanges expanded beyond awkward into something different, something natural, was at that time the best day of my life. It had been years since we last spoke before she called me for a job.

It’s just, in this building, the more floors you put under you the less grounded you become.

Still so poetic. She grins.

It gets dangerous up here. Ethics can’t survive the thin air.

Maybe I’m acclimated. She tilts her head, like a dog staring at its reflection, as she examines the window. I’m supposed to inquire about your business here.

I assure you, this is work. I nod to the broken glass. That was work, too.

She walks to the window, glass grinding under those shoes, and braces herself against the frame before looking down. That explains the commotion on the street. She leans back into the room, looks down to the mangled chair I used earlier to prime the window break. And the broken furniture.

I’ve got to admit, I was hoping it was Mr. Reiss himself making all that hallway noise with those pumps. I need to talk to him. Threatening to out him as a cross-dresser would have put my nerves into perspective.

Good to see you, too. Mallory rights the chair as best its uneven legs will allow. She dusts glass from the seat with her hand then smears a glittery handprint on her white skirt. Buried within the sparkle I see blood. She acts like she can’t feel it, but I know that pain; I’ve had glass under my skin. Maybe she really is acclimated.

Of course it’s good to see you, Mallory. I thought we were at the point of conversation where we transferred from friendly banter into business.

That was friendly banter to you? Remind me never to ask you to coffee.

So…how about this weather?

As you are certainly aware, Max, Mr. Reiss is quite busy in light of the news regarding your donor gift. The legacy financial world hasn’t treated him with much kindness this past week.

It used to be an organ donation was a good thing. Ten years ago, I would have been a hero.

Ten years ago, your organs would have been so flour-coated they’d make more sense in a deep fryer than a human. Just stay quiet about the donation for a while.

Only for a while? Those don’t sound much like the words of a Reiss lifer.

Organs have survived through much more than paper currency, Max. Between you and me, I believe they will continue beyond.

Why tell me this?

You know this is a temporary gig for me. I know how long lackeys last under Mr. Reiss. I’ll leave, assimilate back into the common culture, and paper will continue to mean less and less. I think you feel the same. I’ve been watching you burn bills for a few days now. You can’t say the act isn’t cathartic beyond the needs of Mr. Reiss.

I crumble another bill. Supply and demand. The fewer the bills, the more each one is worth.

Artificially injecting worth into the system. Mr. Reiss would surely approve.

Enough to squeeze in a quick sit-down with his number-one economist?

Mallory turns toward the door. I’ll speak with him immediately. Sunlight decorates her hand.

I take two Vicodin from my breast pocket and swallow to tame the remaining surgery pains, phantom though they may be. Doctor says I shouldn’t need the pills anymore. But the doctor doesn’t have to think the things I have to.

I know better than to frontload with backstory, but the way I see it, everything since I left the Red Light has been backstory. For what, I don’t know. The end of my life there should have been the beginning of a better life here. But Mallory. She’s tethering me to a time I’ve maybe convinced myself counts as nostalgia.

Back when we worked bread and confections, Mallory joked about my writing. Words were too lofty for a Red Light kid. I was good, though. I thought of words like math equations, word x will elicit emotion y given that context b reflects, to a degree of 95%, the implied sentiment behind word x. Emotions as math. She didn’t like my move to the Financial District, which made her phone call about a job especially strange. I guess I was swayed by the prospect of passing her in the lobby every day.

I’m standing now, smart enough not to be sitting in Reiss’s chair when he arrives. I’ve got another bill balled and ready for the flames when Reiss appears beside me. His sweat glistens in the fire. He glances to the broken window then back at me. Mallory told me you needed to see me. She said it was urgent.

Mallory lied. I toss the dollar. Important, yes. Not urgent.

What do you want? He moves to his desk, gestures for me to follow.

I settle for the tilted horizon offered by Arnold’s broken chair. I’m concerned, Mr. Reiss.

As am I, Max. Reiss hides a grin. We could use the couch, but Reiss is having too much fun with my struggle in Arnold’s crooked chair.

No, I’m concerned that your concern is just adding fuel to the fire. I look to the pit in the corner. So to speak.

You know, anyone else who questioned my decisions would be rotting in an Outskirt dumpster by now.

My point exactly. What I did for you is beyond money. It’s saving a life. Why not embrace that? Why let the media tear you down for being human?

I’ve made my living as a devotee of the dollar, Max. I’ve celebrated its victories, and I’ve cursed its losses. What I’ve built—this building, a half-dozen others like it, a few new ventures I can’t yet speak of—all of it is thanks to my loyalty to the home team.

Yes, sir. I let a few moments swab the tension free before speaking again. People are upset. Beyond upset. People are realigning themselves to a new god. Trading Favors and organs, after so many years of weakness, is a market correction.

I can pay you in fingers if you’d like.

Understood, Mr. Reiss.

Or drugs. Juice, perhaps.

Cash is fine, Mr. Reiss.

Good. Now, on to what you’re going to do for me next.

I fan a stack of greasy cash and motion toward the fire. I’m pretty busy, as you can see.

Make me not second-guess taking your kidney, Mr. Phlebalm. I concede and grant him the floor. I want you to find the guy who notified the press of our donation and bring him to me.

I chuckle openly, expecting a reciprocal reaction. Reiss remains stern. I can’t be your heavy, Mr. Reiss. You know I respect you, but I’m just a failed novelist who happens to be great with numbers. Hell, that’s probably why my writing isn’t worth a shit. I’ve got equations on the brain.

You’re the only one as invested in this whole thing as I am.

I’m just an economist. You have much further to fall.

You’ll have help. Mallory will be going with you.

Why?

I’m not stupid, Max. She knows the streets, and right now the streets are our enemy. If she turns out to be worthless out there, kill her.

Seriously?

He smiles. Your writing isn’t terrible, Max. He knows that will pull a grin from me any day.

Arnold’s been picked hollow. I hope his family got away with the bulk of him before the dayshift imports from the Outskirts and Ghost Town got a chance to scavenge. He’s a shell now, even his eyes are gone. The duct-tape vest has been split down the sternum, leaving the carcass flayed and spoiling in the summer heat. I can almost hear him sizzle. A few weeks from now the autumn cool would have kept him fresh for at least a few hours more. Timing was never Arnold’s strongest quality. Mallory kicks his thigh like she would tires on a used car. Look at all that skin. We’re dealing with amateurs, at least.

Things sure have changed. In the past, Mr. Reiss had me chase away unlicensed street vendors peddling knock-off leather pocket-books on the sidewalk right here where Arnold has landed. Now, we’re all becoming little more than walking wallets, human leather with organs stacked like bills. Should I run back upstairs for my knife?

Mallory bends down for a closer look. The skin’s already started to separate. It’s too late.

I was joking.

I wasn’t. She turns from the body. You still writing?

Trying.

Really? People are bartering with fingernails just for the protein, and you’re putting words on paper?

Then why’d you ask?

She shrugs. Just seeing how much of the old Max is left, I guess?

I still know a good donut, too.

Mallory lets a smile slip. Arthur gave me the name of someone he wants us to check out. Try to keep up, Max.

She’s destroying this sidewalk with her sway. If Reiss knows who we’re after, why doesn’t he send the police? He pays them enough.

The police have forgotten how to pull a gun.

They’re just adapting to the market? More interested in truth than violence?

Truth is important, I get that. I just don’t think it’s the job of a police officer. But I suppose that’s why I’m not commissioner. She dodges pedestrians and food carts, like we’re a low-speed chase on a high-stakes sidewalk.

You’ve thought this through, I shout to her.

Besides, I have my own leads. We’re hitting the bakery on Fifteenth.

Bakery?

She turns and yells to me, People need food more than they need money, and hails a cab. The roads degrade to cracked rubble and the building façades lose the reflective marble shine of the Financial District, give way to the brick utility of the Red Light fringes. For the first time in a while, I imagine coming back here, returning forever.

I don’t buy this bullshit about me being here because I’m invested. By that logic, he could have pushed any of the teat sucklers infesting that building, and every one of them would have cried for the chance to be where I am. It’s his specific words that get me: You’re the only one as invested in this whole thing as I am.

Did you know Arnold well? Mallory massages her feet in the back of the cab.

Arnold who?

Funny. She pulls a cigarette, offers me one. I accept but pass on her offer to light. I’ll save this one for later. I don’t smoke, but I may soon. He couldn’t have done that duct tape work himself. She cracks a backseat window. Her smoke dissipates into the Red Light air. Was it your idea?

Depends. Was it a good idea?

Seems strange for a man of the cloth to protect organs like that.

The cloth?

Linen and cotton bills. The cab stops. Mallory steps to the broken asphalt. Why watch out for Arnold’s family? Shouldn’t people like you promote that kind of suffering, like an example or something?

I’m ten paces back again and having to shout. Where are we going?

I told you already. She turns toward a row of window stages, each illuminated in red, curved silhouettes breaking the sharp light. The women writhe like snakes. Even when I lived here, I never took the time to call on a storefront woman. Like Las Vegas, I guess. If you live there, you don’t care about Tropicana Boulevard.

Geography and social status keep the Red Light and Financial District separate, but people are people wherever you go. Every bar here is more, with bouncers regulating basement-brawl gambling, bartenders pushing street Juice under the table, and armchair doctors at the ready to tie dishrag tourniquets. Just like every office back Downtown is more, bureaucracy and strict schedules regulating boardroom acquisitions. But I’ve thought about domestic life—bedroom sets, family portraits, kids—and no matter how you look at it, nurseries look better gilded than they do illuminated by flashing red and blue.

I wouldn’t buy bread down here, anymore, I say.

Why not? People are here. A good businessperson does business where the business is. Mr. Reiss taught me that, actually. Mallory nods to a man slumped on a stool outside a bar called The Gurney.

I try following the nod. The man grimaces. You an apprentice? I ask Mallory.

Just an observer.

As the streets spiral tighter, light dies away. We’re guided by the unreliable flicker of crooked streetlights networked by heavy bundles of shoddy wiring. Hungry bags of desperate skin have replaced the windowed call girls. What kind of bakery is this?

Best conchas in the city.

Warner’s? The district certainly has deteriorated since I moved to the city center.

I follow her around a corner just in time to see her heel disappear behind a rusted alleyway exit door. I follow. The smell of bread hits hard, even before my eyes adjust to the new light. I recognize the scent.

New location?

Death and taxes and rising rent. The only three sure things in life.

Years ago, before the internship that ultimately led to me tossing money into Mr. Reiss’s fire pit, I lived as a lonely post-adolescent/pre-social acclimatee without the confidence or vocabulary to properly court someone like Mallory Warner.