"...we lived on the same page. We shared a certain olfactory bent." - ib
The rain spat into empty flowerpots on the balcony behind him.
The boys bickered down the hall.
I don't mean several rude acquaintances deep in a game of cards. I mean my boys. The five-year-old and the teenage delinquent Waffen-SS tank commander rumbling in their turret.
The Chinaski character pretended not to hear.
He held onto the demeanour of someone who sets store by tact. A civil servant, for instance, moonlighting for the Agency.
In less than a month or so all residue of it would have evaporated. Leaving in its place a caustic observance of protocol merely, a standing on ritual chewed up, masticated, coaxed into a line delivered out the side of one's mouth.
He held out a laminated badge. Pinned to the pocket under his jacket lapel.
"Good morning, sir."
Ipsos MORI, the blue and green square announced. G-Man.
"Shoot," I said.