The Carver - Part 2
From this point on, there is a general trigger warning for death, blood, and weapons. Please be advised that there will be few, if any, graphic descriptions, but if you are bothered by these topics at all then proceed with caution.
This should be read while listening to Burning Pile by Mother Mother and Body by Mother Mother.
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Carver meandered his way through the city streets until he came to a stop before a storefront. The windows had paper taped to the inside and a “Closed” sign hung from a peg on the door. Disregarding the sign, the lanky man got out his keys and unlocked the door, making his way inside. It was barely warmer in the store than out but that would soon be fixed. A counter stood next to the left wall with floating shelves making a wooden backdrop behind it. Small tables were stacked in the back corner next to another door which led to a storeroom and a set of stairs leading to the second floor.
He felt the need to do something with his hands. Carver picked up the broom that had been leaning against the stacked tables. He began sweeping up some of the sawdust and debris left by the contractors during the build. As he swept, he let his mind wander a bit, mentally making a list of the orders he would have to place in the coming days to make the shop functional. A cash register, at least a thousand flowers, some watering cans; the list seemed to grow by the second.
The expense of opening this little flower shop didn’t bother Carver. He had plenty of money saved away from his main job. He was a contractor, of sorts. Carver took on the dirty work that few people were brave enough to do. Helped into the field by some of his contacts from the army, Carver had found some “friends” in the various mobs that ran the underbelly of the city.
During the Great War, Carver had become one of the best shots in his regiment and had been noticed by his superiors. At the ripe old age of 19, he was sent on special missions to take out some of the enemy’s higher-ranking officers. Carver preferred knives to guns when it came to these missions. It was easier to ensure the enemy would never get back up if he watched the light fade from their eyes.
Now, back home in Port Stepper, there was no shortage of work for a hitman with a penchant for stealth. He had been home for only six months when he was offered his first hit. Two rival, small-time gangs, one with men from his former regiment, had crossed paths and had a tense situation in need of resolving. Carver had been asked by his former comrade to take out the leader of the rival group.
Despite the unfamiliar environment, Carver had easily gotten past the thugs and guards into the boss’ office. The hit was swift, nearly silent, and instantly fatal. Lying in wait, Carver had been able to quickly come up behind the man, slit his throat, and stab him in the liver. He didn’t hear any sign of alarm on the other side of the door so he decided to invent a calling card for himself.
Carver, who was not a very creative person at the time, quickly decided to carve a “C” into the back of his victim’s hand and tuck a note between his fingers.
“The Carver sends his regards.”
In the moment, Carver was quite pleased with himself to have come up with a “clever” name to inspire fear. Every time he thought back to that night however, he cursed himself for not coming up with something different. Carver is a fairly unique name and any detective with more than two brain cells to rub together would probably make the connection sometime.
But two years had past and no nosy police officer had ever come knocking at his door. That was a positive, perhaps, of taking jobs from crime rings: no one was eager to call the cops.
Carver had begun to gain more confidence after his third job. His work was being noticed by more important figures and his calling card was feared across Port Stepper’s underbelly. Surprisingly, the men from his regiment who ordered the first hit agreed to “forget” his name and face and only referred to him as “The Carver” after that.
The anonymity he had been afforded made keeping his day-to-day life unobtrusive far easier than he had expected. He had been able to rent a mailbox in a post office across town and had bribed the postmaster into removing his name from the record. Anytime a crime family had a hit they wanted, they’d have to find out which box he owned and send him half their offer upfront with the name of their target.
His private life did not stay private for long, however. About a year and a half after his first hit, Carver was singled out by Elgin Canmore, the father of the Canmore family. The Canmore family controlled five major ports in the harbor and were one of the four major crime families in the city. Canmore had sent Carver an official invitation to the family’s dinner table and had assured his cooperation with fifty thousand dollars.
Since then Carver’s work had mainly been directed by the Canmore Family who fully recognized that they did not own his allegiance in any way. He had been trusted with some knowledge of the family’s operations, under the agreement that Carver really didn’t care to tell anyone about the plans. It wasn’t hard for him to hold true to the promise; he rarely spoke to anyone and indeed rarely spoke at all.
Carver didn’t particularly care about who the targets were specifically. Some of the names he recognized, like a minor leader of the Galley Boys who controlled one of the city’s many commercial ports. Carver was able to fill his savings quickly with his unique skills since each hit cost about four thousand dollars. To keep his small fortune hidden, he had taken to opening accounts in several banks around the city.
Shaking himself back into the present, the fiery-haired young man brushed a drop of sweat off his brow. Carver shucked off his coat, laying it on the countertop. Rolling his sleeves up to reveal lean, muscular arms, he swept the small pile of dust into the corner and made a mental note to buy a trash bin.
At some point soon, he would need to find out what was so important last night that he wasn’t allowed in the backroom of St. James’ Tavern. The Canmores controlled that territory and often held emergency meetings there. Carver was merely curious as to the goings-on, barely more interested than he would be in finding a dollar on the ground.
Carver finished cleaning up the store before setting out the tables, arranging them carefully. He imagined the flowers he would soon have spilling from baskets, bouquets, and pots. He allowed himself to smile. His guilty pleasure had always been gardening, especially flowers. Helping something beautiful grow had helped the confusion he felt growing up.
At some point during his years in middle school, Carver had realized that he always felt fuzzy around the edges as though he was only mostly what people thought he was. Of course, he was a man but why did he feel so detached from it at the same time? During the war, he had found comfort in the fuzzy feeling. His secret missions had garnered notoriety among the ranks and more than once he heard his comrades praise the hitman.
“Didn’t you hear? There’s someone taking out officers on the other side! They’re certainly making our job easier.”
“I wish I could shake their hand. They must be incredibly brave to go on those missions. Or at least they’re too reckless to feel fear.”
Carver had heard himself referred to in a detached way, as an entity rather than a person and it was surprisingly pleasant. He didn’t know what to call it exactly, but just knowing that he could feel comfortable in his own skin at all was nothing short of a miracle in his eyes. After becoming The Carver and being discovered by Elgin Canmore, Carver had decided to have a little chat with the father.
He had approached the man in his office. Elgin’s short muscular frame was stationed behind an ornate desk. Thick, pale fingers covered with heavy rings drummed a steady cadence into his desk. He only looked up from his work when Carver cleared his throat.
“You’re aware that The Carver’s identity is a mystery to nearly everyone besides you, correct Mr. Canmore?” Carver began. “I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Well of course dear boy, I would never think of sharing our little secret with my enemies,” Eglin replied cooly. “Why are you bringing this up though? No one knows your name.”
“You see, sir, if people were to find out that The Carver was a man with special skills that are usually found in the military, they might be able to track me down. I assume that is how you found me after all.” Carver was treading carefully here, speaking without an accusing tone. He didn’t need Elgin thinking he was angry at being found out.
“But suppose someone thought I was a woman. They might think she came from a prominent family, one that had plenty of people to train her. Personally, my sense of honor wouldn’t allow for a girl to be pinned with my sins. It just wouldn’t be right.”
“Get to the point, son. I respect your skills but your rambling is trying my patience.”
“I want you to tell your men that they can only refer to The Carver as “they” from now on. The Carver is an entity, a mysterious being who comes in and kills without a trace. Threaten them if you have to. Say I’ll come after whoever says the wrong thing. Just make it known that The Carver is not a man, not a woman, but a threat to their lives.”
Carver delivered his demand without breaking eye contact with the kingpin. If this were to work, he couldn’t show a flicker of weakness or doubt. His resolve had to be absolute.
Elgin took his time deliberating this. He didn’t like Carver threatening his men, but he respected the anonymity required to be a successful hitman. After several long, silent minutes, he agreed. There was no need to upset his most prized asset after all.
Carver didn’t dare take a breath of relief until he had completed the twenty-minute trek from the Canmore’s home to his apartment. He was shaking slightly; nervousness, excitement, and relief all tangled in a ball of emotions he was too confused to sort out.
He pulled himself out of his reverie and decided that if he was going to be zoning out and daydreaming about the past all day, he’d much rather do it at home. At least there he would be able to lose himself in a warm mug of coffee and listen to his favorite jazz radio station. Carver pulled his sleeves back down, put on his coat, and casually walked two blocks west and one block south. His building was an unassuming brownstone that was two stories tall and nearly as old as the Port Stepper itself. An acceptable place to call home while he waited to move in above his flower shop.
