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, guided by the simplest of rules: use the prompt word and tell a story in exactly six sentenceseses.
[N.B. I’d almost forgotten the story thread involving Ian Devereaux being ‘requested’ by Lou to do some background research on Cyrus St. Loreto. This was at the outset of the merger proposal from the Bernebau Company to the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge. I’ll try to find the link back. First, I got, like, eighteen sentences to pare down. In my defense, our Mr. Ceasare simply writes himself and anyone else he cares to interact with, once he takes the floor.]Prompt word:
SEAL
“Yeah, the deal is off,” being a Friday, Lou was dressed in business casual, which in the world of crime, restaurants and other non-FTC regulated financial institutions, meant a white shirt half-buttoned like a badly stitched wound, two Cross pens keeping a cigarillo prisoner in the breast pocket, a pair of drugstore reading glasses hanging from a lanyard of pray-worn rosary beads; his face betrayed nothing that did not reinforce whatever message he was interested in conveying; he simply looked at me, the way a hawk on the top limb of a tree is just looking at the grassy meadow below.
Before I could respond, Diane Tierney walked up and spoke into Lou’s ear, the brown waves of her hair tugged by gravity into a profane sacramental seal as effective as any confessional’s latticed-wood screen; I knew better than to interrupt, fidget or do anything that made my presence in the other half of the booth more obvious than it was, not that it would matter; Lou ended whatever discussion he was having with a sotto voce PowerPoint consisting of a series of ‘fuck that’ bullet points.
I looked up as Diane turned to walk back to her office, aka the hostess station at the front entrance, and was rewarded with a half-smile swinging from a raised eyebrow and the brush-bump of her left hip; my day’s ledger left the negative column and soared, discretely of course, into the positive.
I turned my attention back to Lou, as voluntary an action as a dinghy tethered to an oil tanker, in time to see him begin to address me, “Just outa curiosity, mind you, what didja learn about my guy down in Miami?”
Despite the name Emile Zola trying to crash the party, I leaned over the table as far as the force of Lou’s personality permitted, “If the key metric on this guy was deferential respect from his peer group and the desire to do business with him, Mr. St. Loreto makes Keyser Söze look like John Mayer; in one word: Be Careful.”
Lou’s outburst of laughter was as commanding as it was loud, like a pack of starving timber wolves avalanching into a pre-school playground, everything in the place stopped: Sal Divine ceased her slide down the brass pole, the table of college boys froze into sexual mimes and at least one of the power drinkers at the bar had what was clearly a Moment of Clarity; finally Lou stopped laughing, “I like you Devereaux, I know I shouldn’t, but what the hell.”