Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Denise is the host.
Six is the number of sentences in our stories (for this here bloghop here).
Previously, from the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf…
Ian Devereaux was one of those people who put more effort into avoiding being unhappy than most did to achieve actual happiness. Intelligence, and a genuine grasp of creativity, equipped him to avoid the things in life that seemed to need avoidance. Not without a sense of social impropriety, he enjoyed the notion that he’d created ‘ghosting’ years before the term gained general popularity. Ian took his abrupt absences as seriously as he felt them and paid the price of reentry. Despite his ambivalence, he knew walking away from people was far easier than walking back to them.
Prompt word:
EXPLORE
“You got a pair, Devereaux, I’ll give you that,” Lou Ceasare’s voice had a lot in common with those QUIET signs, held aloft by PGA tournament marshals, except the gallery on this Tuesday afternoon consisted mostly of day-drinkers, a Black stripper by the name of ‘Flawless Carbon’ and a table full of truant conventioneers; at the word ‘You’, the joint got as quiet as an eight-year-old in their first confessional, hearing the wooden hiss of little door in the wall slide open.
His place, the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, was half a block from my office on Empire Street; I was across the street from the Providence public library and Lou’s place was directly opposite the Convention Center, who says the universe doesn’t occasionally try to make sense; it’s been my default lunchtime-hangout since I’ve been in the detective racket.
I sat opposite Lou in the last of the red-leather booths that lined the plate-glass and stainless steel wall looking out onto Fountain Street; the table tops were a dark wood, varnished into stain-proof mirrors and the menus, too big to hold in one hand, had red tasseled cords.
“Hey, Lou, come on,” as verbal counter-punches go, my retort was as effective as a child’s, ‘Cause I don’t want to!’ to a still-in-a-good-mood parent; but this was part of the process: I disappear and then pay the price of readmission to my own life.
“OK, I get the blowin’ off the client, what’s that professor chick’s name again, but,” Lou’s voice dropped a hundred decibels, “Not for nuthin, Ian, in my view you’ve failed to sufficiently explore the ramifications of your precipitous actions, in particular, a certain woman aiding your client’s search,” his ability to mimic was world class, and as did all the greats, he changed more than the tone of his voice; at the moment, if I closed my eyes, I might believe I was sitting in my last therapist’s book-lined office.
“I like you, kid, I really do, but if you make my city a place of interest to that psycho-corporate bitch in Chicago, I’ll put you in the fuckin ground myself, you know what I’m saying?” Lou smiled like a bachelor uncle at his favorite nephew’s birthday party.