expletive, Non classé, prose, short story, writing

Negatives (#2)

A thick steam was floating around over my coffee. It was black, a deep and dark black. As black as you can get. And yet I could not get myself to drink it. There was something compelling about it, the liquid, the circles it made, the cup holding it, the steam, everything seemed to have a sense, a purpose and yet I did not seem to be able to quite make it out. I thought about black coffee some more, and blues, and both, and Henry Rollins, then got back to my desk and sat down. The whole room was opening itself before of me, fully exposing a former life now, some sort of remnant, a vision that remained unchanged by time.
I sipped from my cup and drew another file from under the mess; ah, the Mendez case. One day, perhaps a bit after noon, Wilson spotted this big gorilla of a man waiting outside our door. Mendez was not sure if he should ask for our help or not, so he thought he would wait before knocking. Wilson left the door ajar in case he would make up his mind and decide to actually step in – that cracked me up. But anyway, he finally made it in and sat down on the dirty sofa. You see Mr. Mendez was convinced, here I quote the file “damn sure”, that his daughter was, and I quote again, “banging his work mate”. But since he did not want to spy his own daughter, he figured he would ask someone to do so, and what better suited people than guys who make a living out of it. Wilson was not interested, bigger fish to fry he had said, so the whole thing fell on my shoulders. Two days after his visit, I started tailing the daughter, and there was nothing out of the ordinary for a sixteen year old girl. I made sure she was alone when changing in her room, no hanging no banging, that was a fact. I thought the next day would go on without any trouble, I really did. But then Wilson called…
There was a knock on the office door which drew me out of my reverie. I got up and opened; behind the door stood a middle-sized man, late sixties, expensive jacket and leather gloves, two goons in his shadow – he had means and money. He stepped in wordlessly, and looked around as if searching for something.
“Has Mr. Wilson not returned yet?”
“Nope. You are?”
“Ah, where are my manners? Please forgive my attitude Mr.Quinn. My name is Edward Kingsley, we spoke on the phone. I am looking for Mr. Wilson. I have been told he is the best in his particular area of expertise.”
“You’re a bit early aren’t you?”
“What can I say, I like punctuality.”
“Right. Listen, as I told you, Wilson’s not here. He won’t be for a while. But I’m sure …”
“Call him now. Are you not his employee?’
“…whatever that is troubling you won’t be too much for me to handle…”
Have I already told you that I – sadly – belong to this group of people who are, how can I say this, short-tempered? I tend to think things through, that’s a real gift, but it always comes too late, that’s a real problem.
“… Hey now you condescending prick, I’m not his employee. I’m his partner. ‘t says “Wilson & Quinn” on the door, ya skipped reading classes?”
“Hahaha. But you, dear boy, are just a kid.”
“Really? Whatever. But as the case may be, he’s gone. And you can look wherever you want, nobody in this goddamn town will be able to help you, except me. I’m guessing you can’t ask your people to handle it, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone through the effort of looking for someone like Wilson, and you certainly wouldn’t be willing to pay for the services. It means you either need it to be discreet, or you might run some risk by doing whatever it is you want to do. Either way, it’s nothing you can solve yourself. You said Wilson is the best, I learned from the best. Let me prove it to you”


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