Shadows

The door swung in on its rusty hinges, crying out as if in pain as it slowly opened up into a room that somehow seemed darker than he remembered it. A flip of the switch failed to illuminate the room, and he began to run his hand along the cieling to the center where he knew a lightbulb should be. With a sharp intake of breath, he drew his hand back and licked the blood from his fingers. Brief flashes of lightning bounced off the jagged edges of the remains of the lightbulb. Swearing softly, he searched his pockets for a box of matches and lit the candle in the corner. The bench along the opposite wall still held the remains of someone's lunch--a stale sandwich and an empty bag of chips--but the rest of the room was bare. The sounds of dripping water coming from the bathroom behind him were the only sounds that could be heard between peals of thunder and blasts of wind. He didn't like that all this had to go down in this filthy little building, but it would have to do. Any mess made here could easily be masked.
He walked to the small window in the door and looked out at the park grounds. The basketball court had become a small pond, the drops of rain relentlessly pelting the surface in waves. Unfortunately, there was no chance of the shindig being called off because of a small storm. They would still come.
He set his coat and hat on the counter and stretched out on the bench to wait. He removed a brown paper bag from his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Normally he didn't drink when he was on a job. But this was not his job. He downed about a third of the bottle and idly watched the glowing end of his cigarrette slowly make its way up the shaft. His hand floated a few inches in front of his face as he traced a name in the air with the trailing smoke. The lights around the edge of the basketball court filtered in through the dirty window and cast his shadow on the wall in front of him. He watched the outline of his mouth seep out smoke until the haze made the beams of light seem almost solid.
After what seemed like hours, his shadow disappeared as a set of headlights danced across the wall. Slightly apprehensive, but not especially scared, he wiped the ashes off his vest, sat upright facing the door, and waited.
They entered slowly; first their shadows, then the rest of them. No one spoke at first. They filled the room, lining up against the wall and the door. Their hats blocked what little light was coming through the window. The dying candle failed to reveal their faces, but he knew them. He recognized their stances, their shapes, the sounds of their coughs in the uneasy silence. He knew every one of them.
"Evening, gentlmen. Fine night for visiting old friends, isn't it?"
They stirred uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry we have to do this, but we have our orders."
"Yes, of course. Must follow orders, musn't we? Tell me, Lucius, how much are you getting for me?"
Lucius remained still. "It isn't a question of money. It's a matter of principle."
"Sure. Next you'll tell me it's not personal, it's strictly business. You watch too many movies, Lucius."
"Sit down."
"I'd rather do this standing, actually."
"Suit yourself. Is there anything we can do for you?"
"Yes, there is."
"Name it."
"I want you to tell Abby that the answer to her question is 'all the time.'"
Lucius nodded. "I will. I'm sorry, Aiden."
Aiden looked at him for a long time. "I know, Lucius. So am I."


The storm had moved on by morning. After three straight days of rain the clouds parted and the sun saw earth again. It slowly spilled into the little room, casting a filtered light on newly bleached cement and whitewashed walls. The remains of an interrupted drink sat under the bench next to an empty package of cigarretes. The light filled the room, but it couldn't dispel the shadows.