I knew Blake would be punctual. I skated over the ice to get to the junction of McLean and Kimball Avenue for 7 a.m. and barely had time to thaw my shaking fingers with a polystyrene cup of coffee before he pulled up outside the Kozy Korner Diner. It was still night dark but those good eyes of his somehow picked me out even though the truck abandoned outside the Shamrock Gift Shop should have blocked his view. He cranked his stern attention to the road ahead like I wasn’t there, like the appointment had started already and he was working some sort of professional code that meant I was reduced to a piece of meat and he needed to pretend I didn’t exist. Suited me anyway, I was having major second thoughts about the whole deal and didn’t need oily small-talk: the odor of clinical disinfectant pulsing from deep in the car upholstery was almost enough to choke me already. Fleetwood Mac playing Go your Own Way. I swiped through his iPod, boosted Cantaloupe Island through his cool Bose speakers, made Blake snort and twitch his clipped eyebrows like I had over-stepped some mark, some code of conduct that he had created inside the bubble of his car. We played straight through to Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers before he gave me a sideways look. ‘Our work here is confidential,’ he said. ‘None of my staff need to know your business so just leave the talking to me, okay?’ https://youtube/watch?v=ynZDm50EgBY
Posted on: Tue, 21 Oct 2014 20:11:59 +0000
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