Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is our weekly contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.
Hosted by Denise every Wednesday.
This Six is a continuation of last week’s, so allow us: Previously in this story...
This week’s prompt word:
VAULT
“Goes by the name, ‘the Sophomore’; long hair, quiet-type, dresses la maison de Salvation Armee, kinda mumbles when he talks, but funny; you did say you knew where I can find him, right?”
While not quite like when you wake up from a particularly intense daydream, the source of the jolt in my stomach was a toss-up between: when my passenger got in my car just outside of Boston city limits, the sun made her longish hair seem more white than blonde, in contrast to the brunette hair that was cut short enough to serve to frame eyes darker than the night-sky and the fact I was currently at the bottom of the off-ramp, five minutes from my office.
“Can’t say I know the guy personally,” I sensed an angry withdrawal from my passenger, like those demonstrations of inertia, where a balloon is tied to the center console of a car speeding along a road and, when the brakes are applied, the balloon moves, counter-intuitively, towards the backseat rather than the windshield, “But I have heard that name from a guy I know who is one of the owners of a place called the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, it’s not that far from my office, I can drop you off there”.
Praying for green lights, I drove past my office building; not that there would be anyone in the waiting room of Devereaux Investigations and Conflict Resolutions LLC, as the city was wrapped in night and the only pedestrians, at least in the part of the city we were driving through, were people who were lost, or those hoping to become so.
“You know, it’s late, why don’t I give a call ahead, maybe this guy you’re looking for has, I don’t know, left for the day?”
As we drove through a sodium-light waterfall at the intersection between the Superior Court building and the DMV, my hitchhiker finger-combed her short dark hair and adjusted the lapels of the pin-stripe business suit that made the blue ambient lighting pretty much surrender, she smiled while reaching into the back seat,
“Don’t fuck with me, you so much as think about warning your friend at this Bistro place, I will stop you like a bank vault door.”
*