Harvey Metz

Okay, so I'm accepting Chris's challenge to post our delightful little assignments on here, but I don't know that I'm so fond of my back-alley abortionist tale. This is the assignment we had the week previous, the prompt being the first line I use in the story, i.e. "I always wanted to know Harvey Metz." This one came a lot easier than the abortionists tale, and as a result seems a lot more organic to me. Of course, this could all just be me blowing hot air out of any number of orifices (take your pick), but I do like this one. Let me know what you think.

I always wanted to know Harvey Metz.

I guess I did know Harvey, at least a little; but it was in that superficial way that we know any prominent figure or celebrity. I read about his latest exploits in the morning paper over orange juice and eggs over easy, knowing as well as anyone that Harvey was responsible for at least ninety percent of the organized crime in our city, if not the whole enchilada; and yet being equally sure that Harvey would never go down for it. It wasn't as though Harvey tried to hide his shadier dealings all that well. Thanks to Harvey Metz's deep pockets, there was no such thing as an honest cop left in the city limits anymore. We all knew this, everyone in the city, and we all lived with it, because there really wasn't much choice.

Harvey Metz seemed to be a mythical figure, almost. Seen as rarely as Bigfoot, and each time he was spotted it was with an entourage in tow worthy of King Arthur himself. I saw him once, walking down the street, smoking a cigar that probably cost more than I make in a week, his ridiculous waxed mustache sitting proud on his face. He didn't acknowledge me, and I didn't acknowledge him. Even though anyone would laugh if you said it outright, even though whenever Harvey did make his rare appearances in town, he would be decked out in an expensive ensemble that allowed him to blend in about as readily as a peacock in mating season, Harvey Metz valued his privacy. If he didn't want to talk to you, you would know right away, and if for some reason you were dense enough that you didn't get it immediately, Harvey would make sure you got the message right around the time you sunk to the bottom of the bay.

One time a local reporter decided to test the limits of Harvey's desire for privacy, telling anyone that would listen that he was going to dig up enough dirt on Harvey that the police would be forced to press charges. The next day, that reporter didn't show up for work. A week later, each of the newspapers in town received a finger in the mail. The Post, the newspaper that the unfortunate soul had worked for, received two ring fingers. The left wore the reporter's wedding band, while the right finger was adorned with the reporters class ring. Any talk of bringing down Harvey Metz died a quick death on the spot, and no one has been fool enough to bring it up again.

You may be wondering why I would want to associate with such a lowlife, rotten piece of work like Harvey Metz, and I would be hard pressed to come up with an answer for that. He's a liar, and a cheat, and a murderer, and he'd sell his mother's soul for a dime, but...

But.

I got my chance to know him the day Harvey Metz died.

He needed a mechanic, he said, and he'd heard from a friend of a friend that I did good work, and that I could be trusted. I told him that I guessed that was a fair enough assessment, and asked what he needed done.

Harvey had something big in the works, it seemed, because he wanted me to convert one of his cars into a drug mule, making whatever adjustments I could to panels, seats, any square inch of the car that could be hollowed out and filled with whatever Harvey's hard little heart desired. Granted, he didn't spell it out in quite those terms, but you don't have to be a rocket scientist to read behind the lines with Harvey.

He asked me what I charged for such work, and when I told him, he handed me four times that amount. In cash. No paper trails, I assume. That was fine with me. I'd rather not let it get around that I was working for the most notorious gangster in our illustrious little city.

It didn't take long to do what I had to do, and I felt bad, strangely, as though I was cheating the biggest cheat I'd ever heard of by doing it quickly. Harvey didn't seem to mind, and was pleased when I came out an hour later, grease-stained and covered in sweat. He'd told me up front that he preferred to wait, and had sat out on the grass, just outside my shop, smoking two or three more of those cigars; and every now and then, when he thought no one was looking, Harvey would reach up and stroke his mustache lovingly, as though reassuring himself it was still there.

He thanked me for my speed, and gave a pat on the back and a hearty handshake that made another wad of cash appear in my hand like magic.

The next morning I opened my paper to find Harvey's death on page one, in headlines so big I felt tempted to make another set of eggs over easy for them.

NOTORIOUS MOBSTER KILLED IN GANGLAND HIT, they screamed. Seems Harvey had been at home, relaxing with another cigar when his house exploded with enough force that they found one of Harvey's hats, still smoking, at a playground six miles away.

Funny. Can't imagine how that could've happened.

I always said I wanted to know Harvey Metz, but the Harvey I met was much different from the legendary figure I'd read so much about. The reality was a slow, stupid, pompous old prick who was growing complacent in his old age.

The Harvey Metz I wanted to meet would have done some checking around before he took just any old Joe's recommendation for a mechanic.

The Harvey Metz I wanted to meet would have at least done enough checking to find a mechanic who hadn't lost a wife and child to him.

The Harvey Metz I wanted to meet was dead. The Harvey Metz I wanted to meet had been dead long before I killed him.