the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s weakly contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, subject to the Rule of Six.

Previously, in our SSC&B story...

Prompt Word:

ENTRY

“Want a Xanax?”

I kept my eyes on the dashboard, my feet on the floor mats and my head in the reassuring embrace of a 35 mph wind coming in from the front passenger-side window; my mind, well like the owner of an excitable puppy bouncing off the entry gate of a safely-fenced dog park, I unclipped the leash and let him run.

“What? I believe in a well-stocked medicine cabinet and my business partner is a major underworld crime boss, I could take you to the hospital but all they’ll do there is pump you full of sedatives, put you in a room that’s nothing but soft, well-rounded corners and have a social worker talk to you like a child; or you can close your eyes and pretend you’re a college sophomore.”

I took a chance and turned in my seat to look at Diane Tierney, being extra careful to focus on her face and avoid the motion-blurred scenery that was, unfortunately, for my present mental state, an essential element in automobile travel; damn I was high.

Her face was as beautiful as always, framed in brown hair that always managed to be an essential element in her communication style; a turn of her head was accompanied by a slow wave of hair from one side to the other, every bit the placing of a hand on the forearm of the person you’re trying to persuade; her lips, as delicately sculpted as if daring the world to ignore the sensuality they outlined, her eyes… her eyes were brown most of the time, slightly-hooded and was the essential point-of-entry for anyone with a heartbeat, a life-force and a desire to become, if only for a moment, immortal.

Did I mention how high I still was?

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s weakly contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, subject to the Rule of Six.

Previously, in our Six Sentence Serial...

Prompt Word:

ENTRY

“Listen, while I appreciate a tête-à-tête with a fellow pillar of the community, I do have a business to run… illicit substances don’t grow on trees, judges ain’t gonna corrupt themselves and I got too many cops on payroll that need constant supervision,” Lou stood with the silent grace of a shark in an evening-shaded coral reef.

“Anytime, Lou,” the tall, thin man stood with a formality that spoke volumes even as the third person re-established her presence;

“Wait a minute…” Rosetta Storme took out her phone and with a Gen X pirouette tried for a selfie while, in the way of her generation, launching into a complaint about some aspect of her life, most likely her being an employee of the Café.

The owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge paused, not yet beyond the circle of light that illuminated the table, “Godamn, that’s right, there isn’t a boarding school in New or Old fricken England that’ll accept you and me, fresh out of severed race horse heads…”

Looking back to the young woman, “of course, you could come to work for me at the Bottom of the Sea; it’d be entry level management position, my hostess and business partner might be open to…” a smile of a problem well-solved began to fissure the club owners face.

“What, are you fuckin’ high, me work for that old…”  a conductor’s baton, raised high on Opening Night before a SRO crowd had nothing on Lou Caesare’s elevated eyebrow, as he continued,

“Diane could teach you more about business management in a single week than two years listening to an Ivory League professor lecturing on the subtle intricacies of monetary policy and maximizing inherent labor resistance.”

“If I may, Lou,” the Proprietor smiled like an experienced lion tamer entering the cage, “You are welcome to continue on here, Rosetta….”

“Oh, great, this is where you go all sitcom on me, how I’ve become a part of the family and everyone likes me.”

“Well, no, ” a cough of laughter stowed aboard a cloud of cigar smoke from the opposite side of the table, “They don’t, but the thing is I promised Lou that as an employee, I’d keep you safe from them; so if you choose to continue on here I should mention we’re having a special celebration event for all employees and their friends and family, April’s Fool on the Third and you will be on duty.

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Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s weakly contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, subject to the Rule of Six.

Previously, in our SSC&B story when last we saw the tall, thin man and Lou Caesare.

Prompt Word:

WOUND

An objective, unseen observer might be forgiven for describing the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge as being in a state of paralysis and the Proprietor of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro as ‘rocking-the-spectrum’ while staring at nothing, were it not for one very simple fact: given who the two men were, ‘unseen’ would not be a possibility.

The tall, thin man watched as his guest’s eyes, dark wounds in a face comprised of as many scars of battle as wrinkles of good-natured camaraderie, focused on the figure moving invisibly from the bar to a point in front of the small stage. Rising with a lethal languor, the Proprietor caused the stiletto knife to drop down inside the right sleeve of his suit jacket, pointed end peeking out of a tastefully-monogrammed cuff.

Lou Caesare rose from his chair, right arm scything into the dark behind his host, who, in turn, felt his nostrils flare at a scent even as he felt manicured fingers caress neck along his carotid artery; a slow waterfall of stress-embedded silence filled the Café.

Lou’s crocodile laugh, after exploding the tension, smoothed itself into words and they, in turn, signaled an all clear, “Luce dei miei occhi, Rosetta?”

Rosetta Storme, her own laughter more of the young leopard returning to the pack after her first hunt, slipped the ice pick back into a pocket and. leaning into Lou’s bear hug, shrugged a smile at the Proprietor who returned it, the click of his knife lost in the soft-scraping of chairs on the floor of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro.

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