Jim Benoit was new in town, he'd been around only for a few days. While moving through the haze of jetlag he rendezvoused with some friends he had met only recently in his small home town. Inspecting the local speakeasies of the big city they spoke of many things but it was mostly idle chit chat. Amongst it all Benoit mentioned he needed some work to keep himself off the streets. The smoke of the bar drifted away like a stage curtain and in the shadows there sat King Kim, the big man in town.
"I may have some work for you", he said.
"Oh yeah? What kind of work?", asked Benoit.
"Deliveries, I'll let you know more when the time is right."
Back into the seedy pub grime the mysterious figure receded and the evening returned to a state of normalcy. The mystery of this proposition played upon Benoit's mind for the rest of his delirious waking hours.
The next day Benoit woke late to find the bitter cold at his door and a message on the answering machine. What began in some kind of secret code (possibly French) soon gave way to the voice of a woman.
"I'm a friend of King Kim's." she said.
"What's your name?" asked Benoit before realising he was talking to a mechanical box.
"I have some work for you, biological work, call me to discuss your experience and what you are willing and not willing to do." The phone on the other end was hung up and the tone of the dead line rang through Benoit's mind. His prospects of getting some work in this town seemed good but as to the nature of this work ... a mystery still.
The next two days consisted of coded messages on cell phones (again, possibly French) and cold, windy phone booths on dimly lit streets.
Benoit spent the time in between pondering what kind of work was in store for him. Working for the cartel? Delivering smuggled hooch to the underground speakeasies? Working on biological developments in a dark basement? He'd only just been released from the convict island and had no intentions of returning so soon.
Finally Benoit was to hear the voice of the mysterious woman again.
"Catch the metro to the south station and call me from a pay phone, I will give you further information then."
Again the line was dead as were Benoit's hopes of knowing what was in store. He would just have to risk it. Just a moment before walking out the door the phone rang, sending chills down Benoit's spine. It was the woman again and in true criminal fashion she confused Benoit by giving him the directions there and then. The old information flip-flop was to keep Benoit on his toes. The location was the old port, the weather - formidable.
Huddled up against the wind Benoit waited out front of an abandoned riverside warehouse. Inside two men were painting the cieling, after some words exchanged behind the heavy glass, one ventured to the door. Again more coded messages. It was clear to the man that Benoit didn't understand so he reverted to something he would understand.
"You meeting someone?"
"Yeah."
"The biological thing?"
"Yeah."
"Around the back."
Benoit followed the man's directions down a long hall, crept around a corner to see everyone hard at work. The room was massive and shone with chrome, the hissing and banging of machines reverberated around the hollow space.
Benoit was handed a white coat ... and spent the rest of the day merrily packaging organic granola into boxes with flowers on them and singing to himself.
