See my baby jive
\”…we lived on the same page. We shared a certain olfactory bent.\” – ib
The man hovering in the doorway resembled Henry Chinaski in a suit borrowed from the C.I.A.. An invisible pork pie hat. 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.