The Token

Rough hands tore the black hood off his head. The sudden light was blinding. A knife cut the rope binding his wrists. Two men forced him into a cold steel chair. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, and he saw he was in a small, windowless room. Figures in dark suits lurked just beyond the glow of the overhead fluorescent light. Seated across from him at a metal table, wearing a three-piece suit, was a bald man with a deep tan. A few days growth on his cheeks. Narrow, bloodshot eyes. Gold watch the size of a brick on his wrist. He looked like an insomniac James Bond villain.

‘Stanley Jennings,’ the man said. ‘I’ve been informed you are a man who knows things.’

Stanley squinted. ‘That depends. Who’s asking?’

‘I am,’ the man said.

‘And who the hell are you?’

‘That’s no concern of yours. Now tell me: do you really know things you shouldn’t?’ He leant forward, laid his palms flat on the table. ‘Things no one else could possibly know?’

‘Mama taught me not to talk to strangers.’

The man nodded at one of the gorillas in suits. They stepped out of the shadows and slugged Stanley across the face. Blood filled his mouth. The room wavered, blurred, refocused.

The man smiled, flashing a gold tooth. ‘Do I need to ask you again?’

Stanley considered a smart-ass remark, thought better of it. He liked his teeth where they were.

‘Yeah, sometimes I know stuff.’

‘Good. Because I require information. I need your gift.’

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘My contact made me aware of your methods.’

The heavy who clocked him opened his suit jacket and produced a small black book. Stanley grinned, shook his head. Blood ran down his chin.

‘What’s so funny, Mr. Jennings?’

‘You’ve got my book. Guessing you spoke to Blinky?’

‘Yes, very good. We spoke to your former cellmate. He informed us of your…requirements. But I’m afraid he will need a new nickname.’

Stanley had shared a cell with Blinky for two years and never learnt his real name. The guy blinked non-stop, eyes fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, and he blinked even faster when he was nervous. Why had he confided in him? Two years is a long time to spend in a box with someone. Secrets have a way of coming out.

‘Why’s that?’

The man grinned. ‘It’s difficult to blink without eyelids.’

The gorilla placed his notebook on the table. It was battered from twenty years of use, loose pages sticking out, but the binding had held strong. It had been a good companion, the one constant in his life since high school.

‘I need a few more things,’ Stanley said.

The man eyed his goon, who nodded and withdrew a lead pencil from his pocket, placed it on the notebook. They did know everything. It had to be lead, never ink. He didn’t know why, it just worked that way. He’d stopped questioning his abilities a long time ago.

‘Do you have a token?’

The man took something from his breast pocket, slid it across the table. A diamond earring.

'Who’s the job?’ Stanley said, but he already knew.

‘My wife.’

‘How long has she been missing?’

‘Three days.’

‘Could she have run away?’

The man smiled, but his eyes were cold. ‘I’m certain that she did. I want her back.’

Stanley glanced around the room at the mob of thick-necked, tattooed, crazy-eyed thugs. Why didn’t he just put his bloodhounds on the scent?

‘You’re wondering why I haven’t used my considerable wealth and power to search for her the old-fashioned way. Well, Mr. Jennings, believe me, I have tried. And I’m just as surprised as you that my vast network has turned up exactly zero. It has been very disappointing.’

Stanley had a flash, fuzzy and out of focus like an old television with bad reception. The man in the suit holding a gun to a kneeling employee’s head. He pulled the trigger and the muzzle flared. Stanley jerked back to the tiny room. Sweat poured down his face. The man in the suit stared at him, intrigued.

‘Are you okay, Mr. Jennings?’

Stanley swallowed and tasted a gun barrel. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Raymond, get this man a drink of water. I think he’s already started work.’

Stanley wiped his face and said, ‘Make it a whiskey. Bring the bottle.’

The gorilla looked at his boss, who smiled and nodded.

‘Two glasses, Raymond.’

He returned with a bottle of top shelf whiskey and two glasses. The man poured them each a drink, raised his glass and said, ‘To my beloved.’

Reluctantly, Stanley clinked glasses and drained his drink in one swallow. The man poured them another. He found the process – his process – always worked better after a few drinks. It gave his mind permission to wander.

‘Before you begin, Mr. Jennings, please don’t think I’m cheap.’

Stanley eyed the whiskey, the watch, the expensive suit. Cheap hadn’t crossed his mind.

‘I understand you’re here against your will, but you are still performing a service, and my father taught me a man must be rewarded for a job well done. I want your best work, Mr. Jennings, and I’m willing to pay top dollar for an hour of your time.’

Another bozo, this one with a rose tattoo that ran the length of his neck, dropped a duffel bag on the table. Rose Tattoo unzipped the bag and bundles of cash spilled out.

‘Twenty thousand dollars,’ the man said. ‘Quite a generous hourly rate, don’t you think?’

Stanley nodded. He did think.

‘Well, twenty thousand and your life. Because if you don’t find her, Mr. Jennings, my friend here is going to escort you down to the basement. It’s not as nice as this room. Not as clean. And unlike this room, once someone goes in, they don’t come out again.’

‘I kind of figured that was the deal from the start,’ Stanley said. ‘The money is a surprise though. Classy move.’

‘You’re not as funny as you think, Stanley. I’m a busy man. Let’s get started.’

Stanley opened his notebook. Each page was crammed with his tiny writing. Thousands of excursions into a place few people could go. Another dimension, maybe. He wasn’t certain and he didn’t care anymore. He had become quite good at it, could jump in and out like merging on to a highway. His grandmother had driven that same highway, and her father before her. It was a dark road with no other visible headlights. But that did not mean there wasn’t something else out there.

In his right hand, Stanley squeezed the diamond earring. He closed his eyes. Grey circles formed in the darkness. Pits. He fell forward, tumbled down them, as he had so many times before. His left hand began to write in the book.

CAR. HEAT. RUN.

She was beautiful, this woman forming in his mind. She was also terrified. He could hear her heartbeat, a pounding drum in her chest. She was driving. It was cold and dark. The heater was broken. Misty breath curled around her face. Windscreen wipers scraped back and forth against a downpour. He felt her panic rushing over him like waves. The earring pressed deeper into his palm.

He scribbled numbers: 3463M3.

Lights in the distance. A flashing neon sign: VACANCY. She turned the wheel, skidded off the road into an empty motel parking lot. Signs in the office window promised a clean bed and hot coffee.

Then Stanley did something that he’d never done – he stopped his hand from writing. It was not the pencil or the earring or the notebook that helped him pull back the curtain of reality. It was something inside him. Something old and familial. He controlled it. With that certainty forming in his brain, he betrayed his vision and wrote something else entirely.

RAIN. LAKE. GLASS.

The woman in his mind turned and looked at him. She saw him. She saw him and she smiled. She was missing an earring. He wrote one more word.

Stanley opened his eyes. He was drenched in sweat. The page was covered in writing, most of it illegible. But the last three words he wrote were clear.

The man in the suit clapped his hands.

‘That was very entertaining. I believed it. Now, tell me – where is my wife?’

‘She’s dead,’ Stanley said.

For the first time since he entered the room, the man looked uncertain.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She fled after dark, drove north. It rained all night, the roads were bad. She lost control and drove into a lake. She couldn’t break the window. I’m sorry, but your wife drowned.’

The man’s face hardened. ‘You’re lying.’

‘Is that her number plate?’ Stanley pointed to the numbers in his book. ‘And is her Mercedes missing from the garage?’

The man eyed the scribblings on the page and his expression confirmed it. Stanley now noticed that the floor sloped downwards at a gradual angle, and at the centre of the room was a small circular drain. The man leaned in close, his breath rank with cigar smoke and whiskey. There were tears in his eyes.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Like you said before – I know things.’

‘Why did she leave?’

Because you’re a violent, cheating, criminal scumbag and she hated you.

‘Do you really want to know?’ Stanley said.

‘Tell me.’

‘She was having an affair.’

The man struck him open palm across the face. For the second time today, the room swam, colours running together like paint, and he almost fell from his chair. He tasted blood again.

‘Liar,’ the man said.

‘She was driving to meet him. He has an apartment up north, but he never spends any time in it, he’s always working.’

‘Who is this fantasy man?’

Stanley jabbed his finger at the notebook, underlined the final word he wrote: ROSE.

‘Him,’ Stanley said, and nodded at the thug with the neck tattoo.

The man turned and sized up his henchman. His eyes moved over the tattoo. He imagined his wife’s fingers caressing it – or, maybe, Stanley imagined it for him.

‘You own an apartment up north, right?’ said the man. ‘A few miles from the lake. Beautiful spot.’

‘Boss, you can’t be ser–’

The man pulled a gun from his waistband and shot Rose Tattoo in the stomach. The shot was deafening in the small room. The other guards stumbled backwards, faces contorting with shock. The man waved his gun at them.

‘Who else knew about this? Were you all laughing behind my back?’

The goons stuttered terrified replies, assured him of their loyalty. As they blubbered, Stanley saw the flash of steel and clamped his hands over his ears.

Two more gunshots rang out, both from Rose Tattoo’s pistol. He sent his boss flipping over the table, where he landed face down and spread-eagled. The remaining men ran for the door. Rose Tattoo raised his gun at Stanley, then his eyes clouded over, and his expression brightened, as if he were staring at the most magnificent sunset. His arm went limp and dropped into his lap.

It was silent except for Stanley’s laboured breaths. Gun smoke hung in the air. He was the only person alive in the room, though that would doubtlessly change in a few seconds. He jumped to his feet, head swimming – he suspected a concussion – and scooped up Rose Tattoo’s pistol. Then he rifled through the bald man’s pockets and found a set of BMW keys and an access card. Stanley zipped up the duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Outside, the steel corridor was empty and eerily quiet. He checked his watch. Something told him he would be okay. Call it a feeling. He had a date with a beautiful woman in a motel room.