Joshs Blog

This is a small story, within a short story (still in development), with the working title: Alexander in the White Room.

Stanley Jackson, a few days past his thirty-fifth birthday, awoke in the loft of his woodworking shop between the County Lands and the Main City. His long jet black hair was cropped with a frosting of light snow; his full beard covered most of his facial scars. Often wearing a wool flat cap, a flannel shirt and jeans, Stanley contemplated surgery to enhance his cover; he could modify his nose into a button shape, space his eyes a little wider, thin out his thick lips. There were options.

With millions stockpiled in his workshop, under a false cement block by the rusty water heater, Stanley was never concerned with cost. Still, he deflected the idea of surgery, deferring that if fate entered the front door, then he would take that in stride. After all, he was a simple woodworking repair man, without someone to go home to, or friends to call his own. Essentially, Stanley Jackson was born when a man named Alexander Krueger died the night a State Senator’s son, deeply involved with illegal trade, was murdered.

Every morning, Stanley awoke from his bed, brewed his coffee. Once his cup was full, he powered the television for this morning’s news while unfolding the day’s newspaper at his primary workstation. Always black, the coffee was especially hot. Short sips were annoying enough; slurping could get a man killed. Still, Stanley cautiously sipped his steaming black coffee. Winter storm blankets northeast, the newspaper headline read. Television recorded accounts of the storm, through interviews and hacks on the scene.

After he closed the newspaper, ditching the sports and style sections, and folding the crossword puzzle into his back pocket, Stanley’s next routine was to check the three handguns hidden in the shop; just below the cash register, behind the display case and at his workstation. He checked clips, chambers, breechblocks, frames, followed by an instinctive wipe with his clean white cloth. After a quick dusting of the furniture on display, and a spray of glossy finish on his prized creations, Stanley was ready to open.

In a lucky day, Stanley may welcome one customer every two hours; though selling furniture by the fingers of a single hand during his busiest days was often disheartening. Rocking chairs sold well, as did end-tables and simple dresser drawers. Without the skill his father had, Stanley kept his work simple; his accomplished creation being an oval conference table coated with a dark maple finish. Skillfully superior, his father built something like that in three days, provided, he worked day and night. It took Stanley two months, forcing him to focus on easier projects for a better turnover in the books.

The door bell chimes rang out.
“Good morning, Mr. Jackson,” Bernard greeted handing Stanley his brick-sized stack of mail, tied together with a thick rubber band.
“The whole world is covered in snow and ice, and you’re on time, dropping off my bills,” Stanley said saluting the mailman with his steaming cup of coffee “The mail never sleeps, Mr. Jackson,” Bernard said. “Nor does it stop.”
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” Stanley asked. “I have sausage breads in the back, if you’re up for a snack.”
“No thanks, Mr. Jackson. We have a lot of mail to deliver, being so close to Christmas and all. Plus, it’s not easy getting around in this stuff. The sidewalks are terrible. Not only do I have to negotiate a sheet of ice on the pavement, but I have to step through the snow that was plowed off the streets. Nevertheless, it looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas after all.”
“Indeed,” Stanley responded, cautiously sipping his steaming coffee, shifting through the mail.
“Good day, Mr. Jackson,” Bernard said exiting.

Stanley set his white coffee cup on the display case that housed glues, hammers, and chisels, among other tools for the craft. Bills, bills, bills, disclosures, it was much of the same. A new subscription finally arrived that claimed to revolutionize the woodworking industry for small businesses. While he thumbed through it, he was suddenly preoccupied. Encouraged with basic instinct through years of training, Stanley pocketed one of his handguns. When he opened his store a few years ago, he felt constantly threatened. In time, Stanley’s scenes dulled, often deflecting his instinct as paranoia. Unfolding a small section of the newspaper on the counter, Stanley licked the tip of his pencil and attacked the crossword puzzle while the news blared from his workshop.

Big men in black leather jackets, short hair and malicious scowls walked into the shop; the second of the two men, shorter than the first, cautiously flanked Stanley on the right while the taller man indifferently checked between shelving units, before twisting the knob to close the store’s blinds. Watching their reflection in the display case that bounced along an elevated glass directly towards the front door, Stanley observed their movements. By now, both men were on either side of Stanley, who kept his head down on his crossword puzzle, even answering fourteen across.

The front door chimes rang out again, broadcasting the emergence of a third person. This time, Stanley looked up, hiding surprise watching the Filth of a disgusting mustache approach with a long coat strapped to his neck, with arms inside the sleeves, like wearing a cloak. He pulled his gloves from his hands and removed his black hat revealing his bald head.

“Can I help you,” Stanley greeted calmly.
“Nice store you have here,” the Filth said mindlessly checking out the storefront. With a smile, the Filth pointed, “Stanley is it? Stanley Jackson, owner of the Old Country Shop.”
“Yes,” Stanley said returning to his crossword puzzle, observing the reflection of all three men in the display case.
“That’s a nice table,” the Filth pointed to the oval conference table. “How much would that cost me?”
“Fifteen hundred,” Stanley said, filling in seventeen down.
“Good price,” the Filth mocked.
“It’s crafted using the best plywood I could find. The structure was built with Rocky Mountain Douglas fir, using red oak, birch and maple for the designs,” Stanley looked up, quickly scanning all three men. “I see you brought some help to carry it out. It would be best to wait until moisture moves out of the air, not to upset the finish.”

The Filth smiled when Stanley returned to his crossword puzzle, expressing “Ah” when he figured out twenty across.

“I would like to purchase it,” the Filth said trying to get Stanley’s attention.
“Fifteen hundred,” Stanley repeated, filling in twenty-two down.
“Do you take cash?”
“Of course, money is money.”

The Filth pulled out a baseball-sized clump of rolled up bills, counting each hundred-dollar bill and piling fifteen on the table.

When the big man on the right began pressing his hand inside his leather coat, Stanley dropped the pencil, grabbed the handgun from underneath the cash register while gripping the handgun from his pocket with his right hand. With speed that neither man was prepared for, Stanley crossed his arms, pointing his weapons at the surprised look on both tough guys. Both men revealed their hands in surrender.

“Now, now, Alexander,” the Filth said jolly, setting his golden cane, tipped with a snarling rottweiler, against his leg. “You have to admit,” the Filth said extending both arms on his side, palms facing up, “that this reversal of ambush is rather poetic.”
“Get out,” Stanley ordered. “Or I’ll bury you in the Country Hills, so Wolves and Bears can feast on your dead body.”
“Or,” the Filth countered, “You could drop your weapons so I won’t have to feed you to my farm of hogs.”

Stanley uncoiled his arms, so he could extend both arms at the muscle. Neither shifted, but the Filth leaned his body against the glass display. “You remember me, don’t you,” the Filth asked. “You jammed your gun in my throat, threatened to kill me. Sadly, I was unable to do as you asked; being the areas regional director of the organization you used to work for.”
“What,” Stanley queried.
“See, Nikolai, your former boss, is my boss,” the Filth revealed. “You were his assassin, his number one enforcer. I, on the other hand, am simply a business man, pushing our products deep into the Main City. It’s no surprise that we never knew of each other, outside your unhealthy oppression with Sophia, of course.”

Sophia. Rage infuriated the boiling blood in his body, broadcasting with the click of both guns being cocked. Stanley wanted to point his guns at the Filth, fire off two shots into his disgusting mustache, then roll backwards into his workshop for cover. However, the two big men on his flanks were his biggest threat, and he needed to keep them neutralized.

“You remember her, don’t you? I couldn’t protect her any longer, in truth. Once Nikolai discovered her past with you, he took her from me.”
“And you let it happen, didn’t you,” Stanley spit.
“Of course, Stanley,” the Filth said, mocking his cover name. “You don’t go against the wishes of Nikolai. I got a nice promotion, complete with a six-figure raise.”
“Where is she,” Stanley asked.
“Let’s not worry about that. But I do have to thank you?”
“For what,” Stanley growled.
“Well, your advice of course. I was shooting up in that restaurant, and you told me to, how you put it, flush that shit down. I did. And now I’m the most successful businessman in your old organization. In truth, you answer to me now.”
“Where is she,” Stanley repeated.
“You took a blood oath, Alexander, and you must return, or face the trials.”
“It would seem that you’re at a disadvantage,” Stanley said. The Filth simply smiled.
“When she left me, she told me that she loved me,” the Filth said. “How does that make you feel?”

Alexander saw red again, pouring from the walls like rain penetrating a cracked ceiling, spilling from cups lively boiling like a spitting volcano, white snow becoming a river of dark red. After pulling both triggers, Alexander tried to swing both guns forward. It was too late. The Filth pulled out his own weapon, and shot twice; one grazing his right temple and the other penetrating his right cheek. Alexander saw a bright light made of gold fading to darkness, then nothing.