Investor

Mr. Mortarmor was a round little real estate broker who measured below the Romero brothers’ own chests. His circular glasses accentuated his round face and eyes. His short legs moved in short steps as he walked towards the twins. He offered his bulbous hand first to Clifton, then to Veron.

“Good afternoon, Romero sirs,” the broker said. “Come in! Sit! Away from the sun!”

He closed the door. Veron’s vision quickly adjusted to the welcoming lamplight, easy on the eyes. Mr. Mortarmor was already sitting at the round table which was covered in neatly organized paperwork. Veron joined the man and his brother.

“How are you doing on this fine, sunny day?” Clifton asked.

“Good, good, good. Though, I wish we could have less of this sun! It’s making me shed layers like a summer hare!” The round man adjusted his spectacles.

Veron stifled a genuine laugh while his brother smiled. He was indeed beading with sweat, soaking his rubbery skin, which he wiped with his handkerchief.

“Alright, what’s this business you’ve got for us?” Veron leaned forward, interlocking his fingers as though he were some experienced business man.

“Yes, yes. Listen here, boys.” Mr. Mortarmor placed a large leather book down onto the table, rattling it slightly from the weight of it. He flipped open the pages, turning to one covered with lines and scribbles. “His name is Levi Wells. He’s from New Orleans; a wealthy man, at that! Says he’s gotten much of his money from his family estates and exports, though is looking to move down someplace new. Someplace with untapped potential he could spill out. He and I have been exchanging letters. Mr. Wrenskey visited him not long ago to have him sign a number of deeds and agreements. Quite the interesting character, he is. Wore James out, it seems. The poor man had eye bags ever since his return.”

“Maybe he was living it up at parties and bars down in N’Oleans,” Veron chuckled. He could picture it; the clean-shaven, well-dressed, thin and timid man, with ladies on each arm. A secret life away from home. Maybe that’s why he’d wanted to go into business to begin with.

“What’s he bought?” Clifton asked.

“I asked him if he preferred to buy a plot of land to have a house built, or he’d want to buy a vacant establishment. He asked what we’d already had available; didn’t want to be a hassle. I told him there were very few, with the town being busy and all. Except for—”

Veron waited for him to say it, waiting for the coldness it would wreak across his body.

“—The Manor on Mangle Hill.”

Of course. That manor had haunted the youth of the town for many a generation. Manfred “Mangle” Jones had been a dark shadow, a boogeyman of sorts, to all the naughty children. He killed his family because they disobeyed, the adults would say in their own ways. He hasn’t stopped his blood-spilling, either.

“Did he actually buy it?” Clifton asked. “Surely you had to lie about its…history.”

“He did!” Mr. Mortarmor wrung his hands together like a fly. “I offered it to him at such a low cost that he offered to double it so long as we do renovations! I’ve had men working on it for a month now, on the low. God knows I avoid going there. Happy to finally be rid of it.” He flipped the book to another page. “He’s been sending items to his new house; quite particular things.”

“Peculiar? How so?” Clifton asked.

Both of the brothers were leaning in, captivated by the talk of this murder-mansion-loving-madman.

The broker flipped the book around, tapping at a list.

“A large box of soil? Four sealed caskets?” Clifton read aloud.

Veron squinted, looking at the list. “How much taxidermy? Shit. I’m not reading that right, am I?”

“You are,” Clifton said.

Mr. Mortarmor folded his hands and let out a huff. “You are both correct in what you read. I warned you, he is quite the peculiar character.”

“I thought he’d be a little weird,” Clifton said. He glanced at Veron, who took the glance as though his brother were saying “like you”.

“Were there bodies in the coffins?” Veron asked.  

“It would be immoral for me to pry,” Mr. Mortarmor said. “None of the workers felt anything moving around in them when they were moved.”

Veron just shook his head, scratched his chin. He stared at the word caskets longer, until the handwriting was seared into his pupils. “If I may ask, why are we both to be informed on these two? You think we need to keep an eye on them?”

“I have asked for you two for those reasons, yes, but also for so much more than that. Mr. Wells wishes there to be no prying eyes upon his estate. He also wishes for protection.”

“Special protection?” Clifton asked.

“More or less,” Mr. Mortarmor replied. “You two, alongside Roscoe, are to meet him upon his arrival. He should be arriving next week, earlier than later. You’ll escort him to his manor.”

“Criminals must be bad in New Orleans, too,” Veron said. “Concerned about them here.”

Clifton nodded in agreement. “Well, thank you, Mr. Mortarmor, for trusting us, and telling him he can trust us. We’ll be sure to exceed his expectations of our town. It is always a great pleasure to see you, sir.”

Mr. Mortarmor nodded, smiled, patted Clifton’s hand. “Always an honor to see the Romeros. May God bless the both of you.”

The brothers left, closing the door behind them.

“Don’t you dare pry,” Clifton said, raising an eyebrow towards Veron.

He chuckled. “Relax. I’ll keep my nose in my own business.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder roughly. “I’m gonna return home for a bit. Been a long morning. Got to get to my own business.”

Clifton nodded, eyes trailing his brother as he left.