As Jack Morgan shuffled through the decrepit streets clutching his parka around him with one arm and holding his package in the other, he hoped the late hour and the bone-chilling wind would deter any unwanted interest from neighborhood locals. His hopes were realized, and he arrived at the address that had been given to him over the phone along with the cryptic message he'd been instructed to recite upon arrival. He'd been here before; the address was a formality. The phrase was crucial.
"Even when the monkey died, they never invited me around."
Jack whispered the words softly to the bloodshot eyes peering at him suspiciously through the slot in the mammoth metal door. The eyes narrowed for a moment, and then the slot slammed shut with a clank, plunging the corridor into darkness once again. Silence. Jack eagerly put a Marlboro between his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. Keeping the lighter lit, he ran it along the metal door. It was made of steel, riveted, and almost entirely coated in rust. The knuckles of his gloves were spotted with orange powder from where he'd rapped on the door.
The walls around the door were covered in faded graffiti. Generations of hooligans had found this hidden corridor to be perfect for tagging their turf without the fear of being caught in the act. Not that police presence seemed to be much of a deterrent in this part of the city. In these freezing temperatures, though, the patrolmen that worked this beat appreciated the effective ally that was the biting cold, when blood was chilled and evil men were sluggish--vipers retarded by the thickening of frigid muscles, lethargic and unable to hunt. Still, Jack had seen one of the neighborhood denizens size him up with a predatory leer. The homeless jackal had let him pass by, too busy stuffing wadded newspaper down his pants for insulation against the cold.
He could hear faint movement behind the door. Jack dropped the half-smoked cigarette and snubbed it out under the toe of his boot. He prepped his package, as the clanging of locks being disengaged signaled that his time had come. He went through a checklist in his head, as he always did, and awaited entry into the bowels of the old condemned building.
A blast of heat hit the cold skin of his face, instantly flushing his cheeks and making his nose run as the door groaned open on its massive hinges. A fragile figure beckoned him in with an arthritically gnarled hand whose purple veins threatened to breach papery skin. Jack stepped through the door and hesitated long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the soft candlelight that illuminated the entry hall. He could feel his pores opening, itching, and burning as he began to sweat beneath his heavy coat. The smell of mildew and decay tickled his gag reflex, and the smell was even more pronounced after the door had been heaved shut behind him. He started the countdown in his head and silently reminded himself of the consequences of overstaying his welcome.
Various pieces of furniture--turn of the century as far as he could tell--lined the walls of what once might have been the posh lobby of a hotel. Dust-covered mirrors hung precariously above old moldy sofas on nails that looked as if they were ready to succumb to age and gravity.
He followed the gaunt man through the hall and a large archway into one of the adjoining rooms. The old man wore a tattered pin-striped suit and a fedora that may have once fitted his head when he was younger, but now looked two sizes too large.
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The room he led Jack to was wide and immense--an old ballroom. The crown molding had once been white, but was now a sickly smoke-stained yellow. It was ornately hand carved, depicting lions' heads and scowling eagles where the corners met. Intricate beveled patterns spoke of a craftsmanship where pride in the finished product was payment enough for the crafter. It was an art now lost to straight lines and convenience. Along the floors were rows of old blackjack tables, the chips from their last patrons still neatly stacked waiting for the dealer's final card to be laid down. There were also craps tables years beyond the hope of any more lucky-sevens, and roulette tables that looked like broken merry-go-rounds, tired, lop-sided, and content never to have to spin again.
They made their way between the tables to a group of ancient men with tired eyes and hats too large for their heads. Jack could smell acrid cigar smoke; it hung heavily in the air around them, but he couldn't see anyone smoking. The men sat around a blackjack table on tall stools, mumbling to one another. A few held empty dust-coated martini glasses, while others flipped old poker chips between their bony fingers. One man was helping a friend, whose legs quivered beneath him as he attempted to walk, settle into a sofa below a tarnished brass sconce laced with wisps of spider webs. As the man plopped down, a cloud of dust erupted into the air around him, and both men submitted to fits of hacking coughs. No one looked up when the gaunt man and Jack approached. One man reached into his pocket and handed Jack an envelope with a shaky hand.
"Put it on the table and leave," he grumbled in a voice laden with gravel.
Jack laid down his package carefully and turned his back to the group. He pulled off his glove with his teeth, letting it hang from his mouth by the middle finger as he flipped through the contents of the envelope. When he was satisfied that the agreed-upon amount was all there, he nodded over his shoulder to the man he'd come in with, turned on his heel and started out of the room, stuffing the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat.
As he padded softly out of the room he could hear grumbling mixed with giggles of delight from the group of men. He smiled to himself as he shoved his hand back into his glove; partly because he'd made them so happy…again. Mostly, though, because he had a thousand dollars cash in his pocket.
Jack let himself out, as he always did, and started back to his car, which he'd parked a few blocks away. He barely noticed the chill until he got back to his car and switched off a sign that was magnetically attached to the top of his 85 Ford Fiesta. To his amazement, the engine turned over on the first try--always a sign of good things to come. He straightened his blue and red hat in the rearview mirror and eased away from the curb. He looked at the clock and realized his shift was over. No more deliveries tonight.
He pulled his car into the alley behind the Domino's Pizza on South Michigan Avenue twenty minutes later, detached the sign from the top of his car with a forceful jerk, and went inside. He placed it on the shelf next to five others and swiped his time card, officially ending his workday. He bid farewell to the graveyard shift manager, who mumbled in response but didn't look up from his paper. Then Jack left to go home to get a few hours of sleep before dawn.
