the Wakefield Doctrine

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

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

Hosted by Denise

Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

(when last we saw Lou Caesare… here)

Prompt word:

SLIDE

“Lou?” The slightest hint of muzak filled the interrogatory void like the nectar of a Venus flytrap, barely masking the clittering of manicured nails dancing over a keyboard somewhere in a highrise office building overlooking Lake Michigan;

“Anya,” a softening of his characteristic growl was Lou’s concession to Diane Tierney who sat across the booth from him, her role shifting from executive to auditor.

“How darling, you’re calling me on a landline,” the woman’s voice was self-confidence personified, with a delicate lilt of humor that put most callers into a lesser state of alert; opposite the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, Diane leaned across the table in an effort to hear the far-half of the phone conversation;

“And, I’ll bet my private phone number that it’s one of those black desk-phones, from, like those old movies where everyone wore hats and talked too much,” her laughter would bring a smile to babies and nightmares to toddlers.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Lou remembered why he so enjoyed the old phones, with their solid, dumbbell-shaped handsets so well-suited to slamming into it’s cradle and achieving a satisfying sense of finality; but the discipline and self-will that allowed him to rise in the underworld was never far away; business always came first and was rarely ever personal.

Diane Tierney felt her phone vibrate, followed by an unfamiliar ringtone, a clip from a song by Dove Cameron; staring down at the screen, the hostess of the Bottom of the Sea banished the frown trying to claim her face and, instead, smiled,

“Anya, I must say, you are as impressive as Ian described, but enough about you, my boss has a…request.”

Across the booth, Lou Caesare receded into a cloud of cigar smoke, letting himself slide into his natural persona, that of an apex predator in a world of plenty.

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

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, governed by simple rule: ‘Do it in Six or don’t do it at all.’

Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

If you’ve been following along, here are Tom’s most recent, which serve as a lead-in: ‘Two Sides‘ and ‘Svikja‘.

Prompt word:

BANK

“If I hear, ‘It’s not a bad as it sounds’, one more fuckin’ time, it will be…for you,” Lou Ceasare pointed his cigarillo at the man standing next to his booth, that being nearest to the kitchen and the backstage dressing rooms, served as his office/boardroom; acutely aware of his employer’s business practices, the former owner of a Dark Web consulting company realized that reminding his boss that he was ‘only the messenger’ would do nothing other than hasten his demise.

Diane Tierney slid into the opposite side of the booth, nodded the grateful man away and spoke in a calm yet, somehow, commanding voice, “Lou, in all the years I’ve been hostess here, there’s never been a problem you couldn’t,” a smile teased the corners of her eyes, “solve”; and if you choose not to believe me, I’ve got a list of frustrated local and federal law enforcement professionals who will be surely testify to your innate ability to …problem-solve.”

Her eyes flared a shade of purple not yet proven to exist, and, a heartbeat later, the bartender dropped a glass, and the dancer who, at that moment was playing keep-away with a circle of light on stage in the strip club half of the building, broke a heel which was more serious than it sounds, it being one-half of her remaining costume.

“You can godamn well take that to the bank,” Lou laughed his crocodile laugh and the grey-blue bank of cigar smoke obscuring his face lifted, “I’m open to any suggestions that get my dancer and her bodyguard back in one piece, provided it don’t involve that rompicoglioni down in Miami; I regret trying to put Cyrus-fuckin-St. Loreto in my debt by agreeing to send Rue on a scouting expedition over in England, or Iceland or wherever the hell the company he needed espionaged.

“There is one resource,” Diane did something with her face, a look that Lou had witnessed stopping a hormone-and-gin drunk Superior Court judge from ending his career on the stage in his club; “But it’s worse than dealing with Cyrus and his Bernebau Company, it involves Anya Claireaux.”

This time, the bartender dropped a bottle of liquor and the dancer fell off the stage.