Tabula Futura

The shuddering of four supercharged engines rattled her teeth as she peered into the globular bombsight, bent over the top of it, fingers stroking the black wrinkle finish, more knobs and dials than her imagination could focus on.

The headphones cupping her ears roared to life.

“Do you see the target?” said the pilot, slightly above her, over her shoulder.

“I can’t see a thing,” she said. “Jack? Is that you?”

“Don’t you see the target? That’s the damned bridge down there.”

She lifted her head. The bombardier’s exposed position in the nose of the Superfortress was an airy realm, like a greenhouse, surrounding her with glass and sunshine, but at that altitude it was hard to make out much beyond the velvet surface of the sea.

A spot of orange came into view, long and high, stretching across the mouth of the bay. A few clouds and thin mist swirled around the city’s concrete hills.

“Oh, that bridge,” she said. “Now I see the target.” The plane continued toward the focal point at thirty thousand feet.

A dog barked.

“Go away,” she said.

“Have you been hit?” asked the pilot.

She couldn’t feel any pain, enveloped by the thick flight suit.

“I’m alive,” she muttered, and returned to stare through the bombsight as the giant airplane banked over the city to make its final run. She measured the distant streets, the crawling cars, bars, alleys, and bedrooms.

When they were over the target, the orange bridge, she synchronized on her aiming point and pressed a button to let the monster go. It would kill every living thing. Every rat. Every man.

“Away,” she said. “It’s gone away.”

The plane shot upward with the loss of its burden, curving in a rapid turn out to sea, bolting from the coming devastation. Seconds ticked away in step with her rapid breathing. The nuclear flash blinded her.

“Who’s the gunsel now?” croaked the pilot over the intercom.

Vivian opened her eyes, her heart pounding, her armpits and hairline damp with perspiration.

“I had a dream,” she said. “You’re right, Jack. I’ll do it.”

But she was alone.

* * *

Vivian stood at the wooden counter inside grimy Polk & Son, a printshop she’d passed many times in her travels through the Mission district. The sign outside had faded, the paint peeling like blistered skin, the windows so dirty they were barely translucent. She wore a smart green belted skirt suit, a white blouse, stockings, and oxford shoes. She’d washed her rich dark hair after a morning bath. Today she would make her new life official. She would become a professional. A businesswoman with an essential service to offer.

The man working the small printing press behind the counter spotted her. He approached with a smile. Vivian knew the smile was because she was so pretty. She smiled back at him. He wore a thick canvas apron, a faded denim work shirt, and over his brow, a transparent green eyeshade. The visor, and a graying mustache, made him look like an accountant. Stained fingers gave away the fact that he worked in fresh ink. Heavy equipment geared to print, cut, and fold paper stood quiet in the large room. It had to cost him money not to be putting those machines to work. Just him and one small press. The smell of ink and solvents began to give Vivian a headache.

“I want to order some calling cards,” she said when he docked at the counter.

“What’s that?” said the printer, cupping his hand behind his ear as he brought his eyebrows together.

“I want to order some calling cards,” said Vivian, raising her voice.

“Hold on.” He turned his back and went to shut off the press.

“Calling cards?” he said when he returned to the counter. “Is that what you said?”

The previous winter, Vivian had been kidnapped by two men as revenge for a sex-baited blackmail job she’d been hired to initiate. She’d been driven into the woods, stripped naked, and left to stand shivering in the snow, waiting for a bullet to end her life. During a pause in the proceedings, she’d grabbed her coat off the ground and run away before the men could plug her. She’d decided she’d rather freeze alone on a hillside. A hunter named Jack had discovered her within the hour. He’d helped her to his cabin and watched, the next morning, as Vivian calmly put a bullet into each thug’s head with Jack’s big old bear pistol when they showed up to finish the job. Jack, amazed by her fortitude, had taken each of her steady hands in his and suggested she turn her passion into profit. There would always be jobs like this for a woman with such resilience and courage. He was the one who had suggested she have the little cards made up in order to advertise her services. He was the one who’d purchased the Colt pistol in the bag at her feet. It was still in the box. A little snub-nosed affair that would fit easily into her purse.

“Yes. Calling cards. I’m starting my own business.”

“Congratulations,” said the printer. “I don’t get many female business owners in here. What do you want these cards to say?”

“Gun-selle for Hire. Gun-zelle.” She couldn’t decide how she wanted to pronounce it yet. She spelled it out as his pencil scribbled on note paper. People could say it how they liked.

“What else you want on the card? A telephone number, maybe?”

Vivian spoke the digits of a discreet answering service. Most of the high-end call girls in town trusted that number. She’d used it herself for two years, and could never be traced to her apartment from this line. She’d arranged many assignations with older men wanting a break from their marriage vows. She’d use it now to provide a different amenity. One for the wives. At ten times the fee. One where she wouldn’t be on her back when the men were finished.

“Fine,” said the printer as he put down his pencil. “We’ll center your ad line and place the phone number in the lower right corner, a few points smaller in size. What typeface are you interested in?”

“Golly. I haven’t given it a thought.” Vivian stroked her dimpled chin. So much thinking went into starting a business.

The printer pulled out a notebook with samples of fonts. He spread it open and she bent over the pages with him to study the options. He suggested something bold. Without serifs. Futura. She nodded. It sounded promising. A good start.

“Works for me,” she said. “And here’s an idea. Could you press the name and number into the card instead of using ink?”

“You mean deboss the words? Why would you want to do that? It ain’t cheap.”

“If it’s pressed in, debossed, it looks more like a hole in the ground.”

“You’re the customer. Hole in the ground it is.”

“How many calling cards do you think I should order?”

“People call them business cards today. Our cards come 250 to a box. That’s using standard weight cover stock. Will 250 be enough to get you started?”

“I should think so.” She could retire to a palatial estate in Cuba if only a dozen of the cards found their way to a willing client. “Better make it two boxes.”

“Very well. Now, if you’re starting a business, you’ll also want company letterhead and envelopes, pads of receipts with your name on them, accounting books, and pencils you can give away as gifts. Calendars. What line of business are you in, if I may ask?”

“Extermination. Pests. Rats. We live in a city full of rats. Some with four legs. Some with two.”

“I know the two-legged kind, that’s for sure.” He smirked. “My wife ran off with one a year ago. He was my partner in this place. They took our best clients with them to a new shop uptown. Left me with all the shit work. Pardon my language. And I do appreciate your business. I’m just a little resentful toward that bitch. She ran me through the wringer in court to get money for the new place. There’s the alimony, too. And her new shop makes five times what I do.” He waved his arm in a sweeping gesture. “This was my father’s business. Polk & Son. I’m the son. Had to take a on a partner during the war, when things got tight. I have a son of my own now, too, and I’d hoped to leave this place to him after I’m gone, but I can’t see him anymore. My wife won’t let me.” He looked as though he might start weeping, but composed himself. “Are you just starting out on your own? It’s hard to picture such a pretty young lady crawling around in dirty basements and rat-infested back alleys.”

“I have experience in extermination. You should see me in coveralls. And I won’t need any of that other stuff you mentioned. The letterhead and whatnot.” Her business would be as invisible as her name on the calling card. Transactions would be handled in cash, no receipt. Half up front. Half after pest removal was completed. No contracts signed. If someone decided to stiff her on the second half, she couldn’t call the cops to report the stiffing. She’d have to deal with the problem herself. Her clients would know that, so she didn’t expect to be stiffed. And there would always be work. Vivian mentally tallied the number of men she’d already had to kill during the regular course of living her life as a woman in the first half of the twentieth century. Seven so far. Two while she was seventeen. Idaho. Two on her eighteenth birthday. Modesto. That greasy pimp in Los Angeles. And those two not long ago in the mountains near Stockton. Seven might be a little above average for a woman near thirty these days, but she didn’t consider herself insane for being able to kill men without remorse. The recent war had ended with a couple of fiery explosions. Thousands had perished at the push of a button. She didn’t get a thrill from killing, like some sex-kook. Murder had always been a part of her life. Of all life. Vivian blinked her eyes at the printer, moving the conversation along.

“So. Two boxes of business cards. With the words “G-u-n-s-e-l-l-e for Hire” and telephone number debossed, but not printed. That’s called a blind deboss, by the way, and it makes your name and number almost invisible.”

“Almost. It’ll be an added layer of privacy for me and my clients,” said Vivian. “I don’t want people reading over a client’s shoulder as they contemplate hiring me. A rat in your home or business can be embarrassing. Pests are a private affair.”

“I’ve had rats in my own business, that’s for sure. Maybe you could exterminate them for me.” He chuckled. “And if your client needs to read your card without turning the thing to catch the light, he or she can wipe a finger on the bottom of a shoe or the hood of a car and then rub the grime off at the edges of the debossing. Presto. A halo. Like invisible ink.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Vivian. “And while you’re talking, maybe you could tell me how long it’s going to take to get these cards made up.” She was eager to get started. A halo, indeed.

“I’ve got a couple of big jobs scheduled in front of yours. The city still sends me work. I’d say two weeks at the earliest.”

Vivian licked her lips.

“Maybe we could go in the back room for a minute. We could talk privately about moving me to the head of the line. I’d like them today, if possible. As long as I’m here.” She raised an eyebrow. Talk like this usually got her what she wanted. She didn’t like to wait.

“I don’t do business that way,” said the man with a frown, “And I’m shocked to hear a young lady making offers like that. Over a box of business cards.”

“Two boxes.” She winked. A square guy. They still existed. Big deal. Vivian waved her arm at all the empty machines. “Why don’t you hire some help?”

“I can’t afford it. All my best workers went along with my best clients. To the wife and that son-of-a-bitch I used to call my friend. I’ve lost everybody. The kid, too, like I said. She tried to say he wasn’t mine, but I don’t care. Even if it’s true.”

“She sounds like a horse’s patoot. Has she poisoned the kid by telling him you’re not his daddy?”

“I don’t think so. He’s only three.”

“Do you love him?”

“I sure do.”

“Sounds like you have a rat problem, all right.” They often came in pairs. “I’ll be back in a week.”

“Please. Two weeks.”

“We’ll see,” said Vivian. She stopped at the door. “Maybe I should visit your ex-partner’s shop. What’s the address?”

“They’re over on Hyde. Nob Hill. Don’t go over there. He doesn’t need your business.”

“I was just kidding. You’re my guy.”

* **

Vivian walked into Polk & Son a week later. Two men worked at noisy printing machines while a young Negro cut paper into small cards. Polk noticed her with a big smile and strode with energy to the front counter.

“Charlie is cutting up the last of your cards. I was gonna call the number and give you a big surprise. How’d you know they’d be ready so soon?”

“I said a week, didn’t I?”

“You sure did. And a lot’s happened in a week.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Well, my former partner set his shop on fire.”

“No kidding.”

“Then he went home, tied up my former wife, and shot her in the head.”

“Good Heavens.”

“Then he blew his own brains out. Doesn’t make any sense. They were doing so well. The cops are calling it a murder, then suicide. He left a typed note saying he felt guilty about what he’d done to me.”

“Golly.”

“Yeah. Case closed. Got my clients and workers back the next day. Been busy as hell all week, but caught up enough yesterday to get those cards done.”

“And your son?”

“He wasn’t home when those two went to Heaven. Some woman found him wandering on the street and took him to Park Station. Handed him over to the cops. He’s with me now.”

“You get your kid. I get my cards. Everybody’s happy.” Well, almost everybody.

“Should be on your way in five minutes,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the counter.

“I can wait that long,” said Vivian.

BIO: Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Tough,Roi Fainéant Press,Mystery Tribune, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Shotgun Honey, Pistol Jim Press, Rock and a Hard Place Press and Literary Garage among others.Bop City Swing, a novel he co-wrote with M.E. Proctor,was published byCowboy Jamboree Pressin 2025.Russell received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana. You can find him lurking on “X” @RussellThayer10.