“You fell out of the sky and I ain’t gonna let this ‘piphany go by without giving it an honest, working man’s attempt to allow the synergy to be.” It was Clive at his grandiloquent best. “This time, the mountain come to Mohammed and I am grateful, as you will come to see.”
They were eating steaks again but this time not at the Pantry. Clive chose the restaurant, which turned out to be the Pacific Dining Car on West Sixth.
“What exactly do you want?” Yates asked in a truculent manner calculated to convey that he was seduced by neither the single malt Scotch nor the filet mignon tender enough to render a knife unnecessary.
“That’s exactly the question you ain’t supposed to ask! First ‘cause I don’t want nuthin’. Never did, never will. Second ‘cause we ain’t never met. You got to get your legs around that.”
Yates could feel the ‘Clive effect’ welling up in him.
“You jus’ gonna live your life like I don’t exist. When you see me in a line-up or hear them speak my name, you jus’ say to yourself and anyone who’ll listen, ‘Non lo conosco.”
“What?”
“It’s how the Libyans used introduce their relatives to the occupying forces,” Clive explained while laughing at his inside joke. “Be the smart guy you are. Anticipate but don’t formulate. Think of me as the best friend you don’t have. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do jus’ as long as we never met, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Am I supposed to be some kind of an alibi for you?” Yates demanded more out of a need to impose his authority than because he wanted to know.
“Man, I got a woman whose always tellin’ me not to spoil a good thing by talkin’ too much,” Clive explained, “and hangin’ with you, I’m beginnin’ to see what she’s sayin'.”
More to follow...
(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell
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