Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Six Sentence Story bloghop
Hosted by Denise
Previously, in the Case of the Missing Fig Leaf…
Ian Devereaux, never one to identify himself as a ‘people person’, or, by extension a ‘joiner’, finds himself in Germany with five people, four of whom he’d met less than a week prior. The private eye is searching for the killer of the ex-husband of a former client, Dr. Leanne Thunberg. The path described by the two Interpol agents and the ex-companion of the murder victim, (along with her current accessorio fidanzato, Neil), to bring them to a cafe on the street level of the Hotel Am Schloßpark in Wiesbaden made the word ‘tortuous’ sound like: ‘Tab A into Slot B’. The high order of complexity and potential for complication can be resolved with a single name: Anya Claireaux.
Prompt word:
EXPRESS
“So, Ian, these people you have invited to breakfast,” Detective Captain Anton Rilke leaned back and to his right, his chair sounded an inanimate alarm at the shift in the man’s considerable weight, “they have names?”
“Forgive me, Anton, my lack of manners is inexcusable,” The room was a noisy but aromatic collection of: students preparing for the day’s classes like soldiers prone on a rifle range trying to imagine the battlefield; businessmen focused on the far side of the plate glass window, well-dressed generals peering down on a diorama of scale-model combatants and minuscule weapons, and old men muttering into their coffee cups, self-consciously brushing pastry crumbs from life-worn cardigan sweaters while their wives smiled affectionately and pretended not to notice.
Mornings in a café, (or a restaurant or a school cafeteria), offer the opportunity for those equipped with a certain flexibility of intellect, an express insight into a rare transmutation of time, wherein deadlines and appointments, crouching in the upcoming day are, not so much eliminated as they are bookmarked; the most fundamental hierarchy of human needs tempering the demands of the world, ambition momentarily deferring to the need for sustenance.
Before I could continue, a French-accented interruption, (which, call me provincial, sounded as smooth as a cue ball rolling across a brand-new pool table at one in the morning), took over confidently, “Mille pardons, Herr Rilke, je suis Ford Jouets, la charmante dame à ma gauche est mon associé, Chris Stanople-Talle ; nous sommes en prêt très officieux d’Interpol pour aider le… hum, inspecteur ici;” I watched Anton accept Ford’s hand without taking his eyes off Chris; one barely-discernible smile eliciting the raising of an eyebrow, combined, the non-verbal repartee replaced a thousand words and a bottle of expensive wine.
Even as I tried to figure out how to explain my young heiress and her ride-along, Stacey Whitelaw leaned across the table towards Anton, her adjunct friend managed to divert her Max Mara scarf from the coffee cups, as it swung like Tarzan’s vine; she didn’t appear to notice, “For the record, Sargent Schultz, I’m the only one here that actually was with the murder victim you’re all so intent on investigating.”
Ten eyes swiveled to various degrees of arc and focus as Stacey sat back in her seat, “If you people are as stereotypical as you look, and, for the record, you do look the parts, I claim Mister Black for my code name; wait,” the young woman’s laugh spread through the cafe like gold coins thrown from the carriage of passing royalty, “make that Miz Black”; I was alone in joining her laughter, apparently the only other Tarantino fan at the table.
About clarkscottroger
Would love to be sitting in your café one table over from that group, lol. The dynamics at play sufficient stimulant until I ordered my first coffee, lol.
I love your characterization of cafés in the morning in sentence 3. You realize however, my visual of this scene has totally changed with sentence 6, lol
yeah… a lot less shootin’ and swearin’ and such
I’ve seen so many break-ups being lamented in cafes, on a morning cup of coffee.Stories spilt out of steaming cups of coffee.
what excellent imagery
eavesdropping can be most educational. you are a master at the sentence.
thanks, Paul
(Of the two serials this is my fave)
Hey, good work with the narrative extension (or whatever the term is for getting enough backstory in to ground the serial going forward)
I like the description of those students being “aromatic”.
Another nice description: “sounded as smooth as a cue ball rolling across a brand-new pool table at one in the morning” although I’m not sure how such a cue ball would actually sound.
lol
but we know it (the sound) would be soft and round
Very nice, brought me back to a winter day in 1981 at the URI student center.I was sitting alone at a table getting ready for the day with a coffee, cigarette, and a Ring-Ding. In the distance, deciding on his purchase was the mysterious ageless Clark. (You did not see or recognize me – too busy talking to the Roger.
It just occurred to me, wait staff have to be, like janitors, able to keep quiet. We hear and see things, you know.
The fly on the wall effect (I suspect most of us, writing these Sixes, have that desire to observe without necessarily being a direct part of)
Cafes in the morning – a study in themselves, and I can visualise the one you portray here.
Your descriptions are so cleverly crafted. ‘…like gold coins thrown from the carriage of passing royalty.’ That says so much about Stacey.
Had to look up the Tarantino thing – I learn every day…
it’s funny (the Tarantino reference)… a big fan and the movie referenced, Reservoir Dogs, was his first breakthrough hit… but the mind plays tricks, the line I attributed to Stacey wasn’t spoken my the character I had in my recollection (Steve Buscemi), rather it was Lawrence Tierney
the fun of writing Sixes
One of my not to secret pleasures in life is to eavesdrop. Oh, to have been the gentle observer with the half-empty cup of cold coffee, just lapping those exchanges up.
that would have been an interesting table to watch… a private eye, an heiress (and boyfriend), two agents from Interpol (with one seeming oddly familiar) and a German police official.
You spin prose as smoothly as a blender purees.
lol thank you, Lisa!