[Sodium_noir] At the Temple

[Liz Oleksyn]

Jack Emerson
Umbrood
Not the Temple, not the Party
Late evening

"We still go Uptown?" The driver asked in a monotone
voice.

The man's words brought Jack to attention.  Confused,
disappointed, and concerned for Christine's
well-being, it took a few moments for him to collect
his thoughts.

"Yeah, that would be...no, wait a minute.  There's
someplace I need to stop first."  Jack gave him the
address of the Biltmore, hoping the driver wouldn't
mind passing through the hellish neighborhood before
heading to the swank Sinclair residence.

"Sure, I know it!" The cabbie replied with a shrug and
drove on. 

Jack sat back in the seat as the cab pulled away,
still peering into the place where he last saw
Christine.  His heart was pounding.  This felt wrong.

The bright lights of Chinatown quickly gave way to the
dull monotony of Lowrentsville. The domain beyond 
Akril where Jack had taken up residence. Identical
buildings with identical disrepair and squalor. The
Biltmore came into view eventually and the Cabbie
pulled up right out front. Before Jack could say a
word he was already reading his crumpled newspaper in
Chinese.

“I’ll be five minutes, no more.”  Jack got out of the
taxi and moved quickly up the front sidewalk.  The
drunks who gathered here every night - the ones who’d
been here earlier this evening when he’d been in a
much sorrier state - were still at their posts, paper
bag camouflaged bottles  in hand.  One of them opened
his mouth to speak as Jack hurried past, but a
sideways glare silenced him in mid-syllable.

Jack took the stairs two steps at a time, making his
way up a few flights, then down a decaying corridor
that hadn’t known light in its entire existence.  The
hallway ended in a closet.  He shoved a stinking mop
aside and found the false door at the back.

The flat was as he’d left it - airless and dark.  Jack
switched on the light and was nearly jumped out of his
shoes.  A formica table stood to the left of him,
covered in blood...pools of it.... now thick, sticky,
adhering to the surface.  His blood.   His eyes
flickered over the surface, checking for anything he’d
left behind.  A pack of cigarettes.  A silver lighter.
 A rubber-banded wad of cash stolen from Akril, still
uncounted.  Nothing more.

Jack opened a closet door at the back of the room and
was greeted by a few cobwebs and a musty aroma.  A few
articles of clothing hung on the hooks, left behind by
the assorted thugs who’d been in Akril’s employ and
had passed through this hidey-hole.  One caught Jack’s
eye - a black suit jacket whose wide lapels and
tailored cut were straight out of the 1940’s.  It was
clean, at least.  He slipped it on, wincing as he did
so.  Slightly over-sized, but it covered his bandaged
arms nicely, and the sleeves were long enough to hide
most of his hands.  It would do.

He slipped the cigarettes and lighter into a pocket,
unrolled a couple of twenties from the roll of bills
and stuffed the rest into the front pocket of his
black jeans.  One last look around, then a tug of the
chain on the light bulb over the gore-encrusted table
and Jack vacated his haven.  Hopefully, he’d never see
it again.

He raced down the stairs and out the front door.  This
time, the refuse passing for humans gathered near the
steps moved out of his way, heads bowed, gaze averted.
  Jack entered the back seat of the taxi.  “Okay,
let’s go.”

Lighting a cigarette (ignoring the faded “Please - No
Smoking” sign plastered next to the driver’s neatly
displayed hack license), Jack inhaled deeply and sank
further into the seat.  Lowrentsville  flitted past
the window and, smoke creeping from his nostrils, he
watched the scenery shift from squalor to
sophisticated.   As the cab pulled into the driveway
of the Sinclair mansion, Jack wondered how the hell he
was going to walk in the front door of the place.   He
had no invitation and knew no one inside but Aurora
and Mara - and he barely knew either of them.

Jack paid the driver and exited the cab.  After taking
a few more drags, he trudged up the expansive steps,
hoping the doorman wasn’t going to boot his pathetic
arse down the same steps a few minutes later.

His heart was still racing.  He wondered where
Christine was.  He missed her already.

(an anticipatory tag)


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