Enter the Mafioso

He finished his salutations, folded the rug, and got up. There was a boy, about his age when he had come here. He was still, his hands seemed rigid, cleaned into fists. They unclenched and he looked at the boy, who had seen him looking. The palm of the hand was white. He had grime in his nails. His clothes were ragged. But he held his head up. He placed his rug in the table and walked over to the window. His partner, if such a term could be used for such a disgusting human, his partner was sizing the boy up. He wouldn’t find anything. This child was clean. Like most of the others. Driven to this place by desperation. He was still looking out the window. A hustle and bustle outside. It was noon time. The markets were open. People were doing grocery shopping, buying clothes and chooriyan. Unaware that a little house that they were walking past, this unobtrusive house that held a storied past, was now the base of one of the largest - he stopped himself. He imagined the people in the waiting room outside. Word spread fast in these narrow streets. Even faster in this crazy city. People thought they could give and cleanse themselves of their sins. They really couldn’t. He took in a loud, deep breath. He felt the gaze of his partner. But not of the boy. He turned around. The child was looking demurely in front of him. A broken spirit. Another one. Just like all the others. And they came here. It was a parasitic system, but someone had to oversee it. He fancied himself their savior. If it weren’t for him, the excesses of his companion would have been brutal. He tempered the man. And besides, they were doing a necessary public service. Did he really believe that? Let’s see. They took people who had nowhere else to go. They rehabilitated them and gave them employment. Of sorts. And they provided a way for those brutes high above in this society to cleanse themselves. It was all in the mind. If they thought they had, they felt better. If they didn’t feel better, well, then there would be a lot more brutality in this place. He was a necessary evil. He tempered the chaotic evil of his partner. The commotion outside was loud. He turned back to the window. He already knew how it would happen. How this one would be helped. His partner was twirling the pencil in his hands. The child’s were tender, dirty as they were, they were tender and sleek. An artist’s hands. Those of one with compassion. He wondered what his story was. Why he had come here. He made a mental note to find out. The sun was sweltering, he could see that even through the window. Mirages forming. The air shimmering as if oil in a pan under fire. He could smell the dual scents - that always pervaded here - of human and animal waste and freshly cooked food. The stone floor beneath him was dusty and cold. His partner spoke two words with a smile. “Your hands.” He sighed.