There was a time, long ago, when he wouldnt have even opened the door. He would have walked past it, ignoring it. The temptation was there, of course. Even back then he wasnt immune to it, but life hadnt worn him down. Hadnt bounced him from tragedy to crisis in a seemingly never ending string of events designed to test every fiber of his being for someone elses enjoyment.
Before all that, the door stayed closed.
Now, though, things were different.
“Got a job for you,” Taylor said. His voice was as crisp as his suit and, considering the weather lately, surprisingly just as dry. As usual, his jacket hung across the back of his chair, his tie was tucked between two buttons of his white shirt and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows showing a similar, yet not exactly the same, tattoo as his own.
Taylor threw the folder, a plain manila folder, old and used over and over as the job numbers crossed out down half the cover attested to. The other man opened it, read the single half page document that was seated inside and without a word looked back at his boss.
Taylor shrugged. “Dont ask me, thats just how it is.”
His name was immaterial. It wasnt that it was unimportant; it bought a lot of influence in certain parts of town. But it wasnt usually him who was trading it. It wasnt relevant because it didnt need to be. He was known by his face, and him and his kind were known by other things, including but not limited to the tattoos that climbed up their arms.
But if pressed, either by someone who didnt know any of that, rare, but not unheard of, or someone who would trade in information, much more likely, he always said his name was Jackson. No other name. No other alias. It was always just Jackson. To prove that it wasnt relevant, it was not his real name.
Jackson was young, and an orphan. Raised in a system that saw him as a bargaining chip, tossed around half interested families until he was 18 and legally allowed to fend for himself, he knew how to be an individual. He knew how to emulate real connections long enough to gain what he needed and then leave. He loathed having to revisit something he had considered finished. That included people.
For him, the next job was the important thing. Not because of the money, although it was always appreciated, and not because he needed something to keep him busy. He needed the job because it called to him. If he didnt have it, whatever was out there, tugging at him to keep moving, would overwhelm him. He had tried to explain this to Taylor and others over the few years he had worked with them, but none of them had ever quite understood what he was saying. There had been one person, a woman, her name lost among the other names of people who had only been in his life for a short time, she had understood what he meant and it had cost her – dearly. Had he been anyone else, this might have generated some form of guilt or responsibility in him, but he wasnt someone else. Her sacrifice, her loss, had only served to make him understand something fundamental about himself. He was grateful, sure, but not to her, specifically. She wasnt the teacher; she was the lesson.
There was a bar. It was the first place Jackson’s colleagues went when a new job was handed over. Regardless of what the job was, and whether or not they already knew how to deal with it, they all went to this bar. Jackson had been there once or twice, exclusively with others. He never went there on his own. The bar meant people. It meant several other things that he was also not fond of. But importantly, it meant the voice in his head got louder. Behind that green door, hidden in a maze of alleys in the middle of the forest of skyscrapers, were the answers that he thought he sought. Answers that the voice, sometimes voices, in his head begged him to find. Behind that door lay other doors – metaphorically as well as literally – but they werent the job. The job was the single sheet of paper in the manila folder that sat somewhere in the mess of filing cabinets in the store room behind Taylor’s office. The half page paragraph that he had read a week ago and immediately committed to memory.
This wasnt like the movies where the protagonist stands outside a door staring at it waiting for whatever plot device is running through its motions beyond his knowledge to meet with his story. There was no meetcute behind this door, no cryptic, yet salient, message from a wizened old man which would lead him to another clue.
In fact, he wasnt standing outside the door. He was in a small coffee shop, dank, musty and buried behind a second hand furniture op-shop and an adult novelty warehouse. It was private, had surprisingly good air-conditioning and no one would ever find him.
“Sir?” the barista called, waving another cup at him. The mans English was not good. He constantly gave the wrong change and his hygiene left a lot to be desired, but he seemed almost psychic in his ability to determine how to make you the perfect coffee and when you needed a refill.
“Thanks,” Jackson said, taking what was his third cup.
“That one from me,” the barista said happily. “For you, no money.”
“Thanks,” Jackson said again, raising the cup slightly towards the man who smiled and nodded happily. It didnt cover the cost of everything that he had paid for coffee, but it was a nice gesture.
Jackson knew that he couldnt sit here forever. The bar was less than 100 meters away and the person he needed to see was there. He should get up, walk over, and get the information he needed. There would be no need to interact with anyone else. No need to inquire with the bartender about certain peoples locations. Who had been where and when. He would go in, sit down at the booth at the back, ask his questions and then leave. The temptation would not be visited today. Despite the gleeful sound of the things in his head crowing that he needed to go where they wanted him to go.
There was no handle on the green door into the bar. Just a simple lock. If you were meant to, or allowed to, enter, you would have a key. There was no need for a password that changed daily. No need for a bouncer.
Jackson had three copies of the key. He had proven himself worthy three times, to different people. It was common enough that people would have multiple keys. To some it was a status symbol – Jackson included. But he didnt brag about it. In fact, he had never mentioned it. He had a key. That was enough for everyone to let him about his business within. Even the people who had given him a copy didnt know he had others.
He let himself in and closed the door behind him. In front of him lay the corridor. It was wide and covered in posters advertising various live music acts that had performed at this location many years ago. No new posters had been placed for almost a decade now.
The floor was tiled, freshly cleaned. His shoes made a clicking noise as he walked deliberately towards the bar.
Each side of the corridor had doors. As with the main door into the building, if you were worthy, you would have keys to them. Jackson had a few keys that would open some of the doors, but most of them were still closed to him. The bar, at the very end of the corridor, was the only room that had no door. No lock. It was a communal space.
There was no music playing, and the room was well lit. No cameras surveilled the patrons and no one even looked up as he entered, with the exception of the bartender who nodded a greeting and went back to serving the three men who stood at the bar together, talking in hushed whispers.
Along the back wall of the bar were three large alcoves, lined with leather sofas. These were the only concessions given to the nature of some work undertaken here. Reserved seating for people who had real influence. These were the people who gave Taylor the jobs to be delegated.
Jackson had immediately known where his job had come from. He had dealt with these people before and while they may not have been on friendly terms, each of them had a respect for the other and would ensure that respect was returned so long as the rules, such as they were, werent broken.
Jackson took a seat, in silence, next to a rather gruff looking man in the center alcove. Like the bartender, he nodded a greeting and turned his attention back to the young woman across from him who had already been speaking when Jackson arrived.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes suspiciously on Jackson. “I know you have a lot to handle and I appreciate you taking the time to entertain my thoughts.”
“Of course,” the gruff man said. His voice like gravel. His tone was not unpleasant, but it brooked no room for discussion. In this alcove, his word was law. He spoke with the voice, and consent, of someone higher than him. “I will not pass this on, but know that I know of the situation,” he stopped talking and waited. It took a moment for the young lady to get the hint before she shuffled out and left the bar.
“The young ones tend to need help,” he shrugged.
“We were all there once upon a time,” Jackson said, watching her leave. “Who is she?”
“Some niece or cousin of someone. She picked the lock.”
“Wonder how long before-”
“No, she is legitimate. She gets a key for this. But that is not your business, Jackson.”
“Sure isnt,” he replied. “Got a job.”
“I figured. How can I help?”
“Came from above you.”
“A lot do.”
“You could have done this job. It didnt need to be farmed out to us.”
“We are busy these days, lots on our plates. What do you want?”
“I need the bottle,” Jackson replied.