* * *
Next morning I was once again awoken from a doze by my favourite sound in the world; the demanding ring of a telephone.
Who in their right mind phoned at 8am on a Sunday? No one obviously, and that fact should have been my first clue as to a day that would rank in my top ten least enjoyable.
“Hello?”
“Jet Clarence?” The voice was low and grating, something that came as a result of smoking twenty filter-less cigarettes a day.
“Yes.”
“I need you to come down to Valhalla Hotel.”
I recognised the name from the first training session; the “seedy hotel”. Joy, I would be visiting again. “Why? Who is this?”
“Now. If you are not here in twenty minutes I will break every finger on the left hand of Brent Kingston. Is this understood?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty minutes. Come alone.”
The line went dead.
Ah yes, a conversation everyone wants to have on their day off.
It took only seconds for me to join the dots; I had just spoken to one of Brent’s “investors.”
I had skipped the course about dealing with angry loan sharks in my journalism studies, so what the correct course of action should be was a mystery. My instinct was to call Benny and reached for the phone, then realised I only had his work number. This went to an answering service and I left a message.
With no other options I headed out to Valhalla Hotel, alone.
Being a Sunday, traffic was mild and I arrived in less than twenty minutes, happy to see that even drug dealers and prostitutes respected the Sabbath and had left the hotel looking like a ghost town.
A single person stood outside the hotel awaiting my arrival. A man, mid-thirties, head as bald as a cue ball, and managing to radiate “menace” in a way that must have taken some serious levels of practice. Even with eyes hidden behind sunglasses an aura of “piercing eyes” radiated from him like a broadcast signal. I took note that both his hands, currently loosely linked in front of his stomach, were covered with black gloves. You didn’t watch a few crime movies without knowing that gloves, when worn in conjunction with an expensive business suit, were a sure sign of illegal activities.
I climbed from my car and approached him, only now starting to feel the buzzing in my head. I guess I could be grateful that the built-in warning system seemed to work only in the presence of immediate magical danger, or it would likely have been a permanent addition to my life.
“Jet Clarence?” he asked, his voice void of expression.
“Yes. And you are?”
He did not respond and we fell into silence. And since I never did learn his name he will be dubbed “Sunglasses”.
There was a pause. The mirrored lenses where his eyes should have been glared at me, catching the sun and shooting out little flares of light.
All at once I was taken by a sharp sensation, something best described as vertigo minus the threat of height. Disorientated for a moment, I soon gathered that my Spirit was once again trying to communicate. Sunglasses was attempting to gain access to my mind, in much in the same way I had done to Paul and Claudia.
Instinctively I fell back on my place of calm and put all else from my mind. The defence tactic worked, verified by Sunglasses flinching. His lips tightened into a disgruntled line. Facial expression was not one of his strong points.
“You’re as good as Brent says,” he muttered.
“Thank you.”
“Raise your arms.”
I did and he patted me down, then gestured towards Valhalla Hotel’s front door. “If I catch even one hint of magic from you,” he added, “I will shoot you in the knee.”
“Okay.”
I entered through the doors and he fell in behind me.
“Second floor.”
We mounted the steps. Around me the building was deathly silent. So much so that you would be forgiven for thinking it had been abandoned for years. In my head, the buzzing continued.
“Turn left, 219.”
We arrived outside the corresponding door and Sunglasses leaned past me to knock.
“We’re here,” he declared, then nodded towards the door. “Go in.”
I obliged, opening the door and stepping through.
Inside the room was identical to my previous visit, except that someone had taken the liberty of turning on the heart shaped florescent tube above the bed. It bathed the room in a lovely shade of pink, being offset by the stinging white bulb that hung above the table. What a pleasant touch.
Before me sat a middle-aged man; grim, weary and frowning. You might have thought the streaks of grey in his hair would serve to make him look distinguished, but alas, they succeeded only in making him look weathered.
He blinked at me, his lips in a permanent pout that resulted from the tyre of fat under his chin, and pointed to the chair across from him.
(I never did learn his name either. He will be “Pout”.)
I crossed the room, noticing two more persons standing in the shadows behind Pout. Both were massive giants of men, wearing formal business suits and both quite literally capable of breaking me over their knee.
I sat. Sunglasses took a position at my rear, standing close enough to make his presence obvious. The buzzing intensified and became a frantic hum.
Pout scowled at me.
“I’m a business man,” he said, revealing his voice to be that of the earlier phone call, “So by all means, this is a business meeting.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Good. Let’s be civil.”
“This isn’t going so badly after all,” I thought.
“I have your friend, Brent Kingston,” Pout continued, “and he owes me ten thousand. What shall we do about this?”
“I thought he was going to give you the money back,” I ventured hopefully.
“Yes. He did. But that is not good business. You see, I am not in the habit of extending my finances for no return. I loaned ten, I expect ten interest. A deal was struck and I expect it to be honoured.”
“But the plan fell through, we were compromised. We gave you your money back.”
Pout chuckled, his rubbery lips drawing into a humourless smile as he waggled a sausage finger at me. “You misunderstand, Jet Clarence, what happens to my money once it is in your possession is not my concern. The funds were accepted, as was promised, and now I await my return. Business is business.”
I took a second. His attitude appeared casual enough, but something told me this was “sleeping bear syndrome”.
“Where’s Brent?” I asked, daring to change the subject. It was a risky stunt, but since I had no idea where I would find that kind of money I figured I should at least know if Brent was alive.
Pout stared at me in response, deciding if I was worth humouring. With a quick jerk of his head he shifted his gaze over my shoulder at Sunglasses.
“Fetch Kingston,” he said.
Behind me I heard Sunglasses shift his position and my nerves sang in anticipation, wondering if “Fetch Kingston” was perhaps code for “shoot him in the back of the head”, but then came the sound of retreating footsteps and the door opening. Moments later the footsteps returned, now accompanied by a second person. I looked over my shoulder and Brent was led staggering into the room, his hands bound behind him. Or at least I assumed it to be Brent. Somebody had replaced his face with a bloody bruised mask, one eye so badly swollen it took on the appearance of a bright red apple. The front of his shirt, which had previously been white, was now streaked with snail-trails of gore. My stomach did a loop.
“This is not going so well after all”, my mind told me.
“Oh shit, Brent,” I muttered.
“Jet.” The reply from Brent was a hissed slur forced through cracked lips and broken teeth.
There was a gesture from Pout and Brent was pulled from the room.
“So you see I am serious now?” Pout said.
I turned bac
k to him, my mouth suddenly very dry.
For the briefest moment I considered letting loose; releasing my Spirit in crackling bolts and dealing out some justice. What were my chances of success? Considering I was unpracticed with raw Spirit, and considering that I had no idea of what Sunglasses was capable, not something one should place a bet on.
“Yes I see that you’re serious.”
“Good. Then tell me, how long till I have money in my hand?”
My mind chugged. Ten thousand? Three months of Whisperer salary with no job?
“Let me answer for you,” Pout continued, “One week. On Sunday morning I will have the money, or your friend Brent Kingston will be tortured and killed.”
My mouth moved but no words were produced. If words had been produced they may have been something along the lines of; “I consider that time frame unreasonable, good sir.”
Behind me Sunglasses returned and my warning system flared up again.
“I will take that as a yes, thank you,” Pout said to me. He then looked up at Sunglasses and nodded. “Jet Clarence is leaving.”
A hand descended on my shoulder, “This way.”
I gave Pout one final look, glanced at the two henchmen behind him, then stood and allowed myself to be led from the room.