Hinky (2)

Yates knew that anytime a cop was seen in public with a civilian, especially in a downtown restaurant late at night, the civilian would be perceived as a snitch by anyone interested enough to be paying attention. It would never occur to onlookers that the cop might be up to something. For that reason, Yates decided he would pay for the guy’s dinner, just to twist the knife.

“My name’s Clive,” the guy said after they were seated. He reached across the table to shake hands, but Yates ignored the gesture.

“The DMV computer says you’re Raymond Sloan.”

“I used to be Raymond Sloan, but then I saw Don Cheedle in this movie using a really bad English accent and I figured if he can do it, so can I.”

“You don’t talk with an English accent,” Yates observed.

“With a name like Clive, I don’t have to.”

The waiter took their order of New York steaks medium rare before Yates started in on Clive.

“Ever done time?”

“Do I look like the marrying kind? Jus’ cause you bought the whole program don’t mean everybody got to. Man, if you aren’t an ex-marine I’ll kiss a fat man’s ass!”

Yates studied the guy to assess his level of intoxication. His pupils were affected but he didn’t have a sweat going. The euphoria was probably manic rather than pharmaceutical in nature.

“Who do you like?” Clive asked him.

“Pardon me?”

“Marvin, Miles? Who?” When Yates didn’t register comprehension, Clive clarified with: “Music, baby. Who moves you?”

“Johnny Cash.”

“Fuck me! Jus’ cause you was born a redneck cracker don’t mean you have to stay that way. I read where people can change.”

“You read?”

“No. A woman I know heard it on Oprah and told me, not knowin’ I was gonna meet you.”

It suddenly occurred to Yates that he hadn’t given Clive a pat-down before entering the restaurant. Very careless, he thought to himself.

The steaks arrived and Clive poured half a bottle of the steak sauce onto his. He began eating with such relish that Yates might as well have been absent.

“From what I can tell, you’re a manic depressive, self-medicating section eight with a gift for gab and a twenty-year-old clunker that’s painted eight shades of grey. What have you got to say I should be listening to?”

“Don’t you like to eat?” Clive asked without looking up from his plate.

Yates could feel the anger in him swelling to the surface, but since this was the only dinner break he’d get that evening and a hot steak was preferable to a cold one, he set aside his question and began eating. It didn’t dawn on him that, since the very first moment of their encounter, he had been under the complete control and supervision of Clive, aka Raymond Sloan. Clive, on the other hand, had a full appreciation of the situation.

“Bet you’ve never been to Roscoe’s,” Clive said after he had finished his steak and signaled the waiter for coffee.

“Only to break up a disturbance,” Yates replied between mouthfuls. He didn’t like that Clive had finished his meal while he was still eating. It threw off his equilibrium.

“Can you take that to go? I got some bidness to talk about and I’m not gonna do it while you grindin’ your teeth on that steak.”

Yates could feel himself starting to disassociate from the environment. It was what the department psychiatrists had described as phase one of a manifestation Yates was to avoid at all costs.

“Bring this man some Styrofoam,” Clive told the waiter when the coffee arrived. Before Yates could stop him, the waiter took away his steak for packaging.

“Anyone can trip over a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, it don’t matter how many shades of grey your ride is. If you find it, he will come.”

“What?” Yates thought he recognized a line from a movie his ex-wife dragged him to see.

“I found it and you came. You gotta believe in these things or they won’t happen to you. Dig?”

The waiter returned with Yates’ steak in a bag and Clive gestured the bill in the cop’s direction.

“Give him twenty-five percent. He’s lookin’ downhearted tonight,” Clive instructed Yates. “I’ll be in the head.”

Yates did as he was told and determined that the psycho brotha had five seconds to launch into his pitch when he returned from the can or he’d find himself booked into the Glass House for the duration. That thought put a smile on his face.

Yates’ pleasure was short-lived, for three waiters came to his table offering a slice of apple pie with a lit match sticking out of it, in lieu of a candle, along with a dismal rendition of “Happy Birthday to You”. They hadn’t finished the second bar before Yates tore off in the direction of the men’s room, which he found to be unoccupied. He was about to give in to an urge to destroy something when his radio chirped out his call sign.

“The plate you ran about an hour ago belongs to a black male whose body was just found under a parked car at Fourth and Hill. Can you report to the scene?”

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell