know her?"
"Iris French? Yeah. Know ‘er.”
"How’d ya know her?”
"Don't worry about it. Let's get back to the boy. What did he say?"
"Well, he described things that happened last night; everything that went on in the club, to a detail. Sounded like to me he was going to be helpful. Said he wanted to talk about you.”
“The night of the Funky Butt case; said he wan’nd ta talk about me?”
“Well yeah, he called me. We met. But when he got in front of the police he stalled.”
"Stalled? Okay, ok, well what good’ll he be?”
"Hold tight. Getting back to this Iris. You dated her?"
"A while ago."
"Pipe?"
"She was kinda crazy." Jake shifted.
"Pipe?”
"Yeah. Sheiiettttt. Commo forday. What happened the other night?"
"Bitch flipped. Folded. Snapped, and missed a target.”
“Missed a target?”
“Not important. Ya know her boyfriend? Von Tepp?”
“Ah, no.” He shifted.
"Ah, ya better come with it dude.”
“Don’t know ‘em.”
“Fine. Fine. Jake, again, what’d the boy see in Venice Jake?”
"The whole thing Luke the whole funcking thing-the stop, the cops, the assault, the shots, them planting a gun on me! Commo man, ya know!”
“Three in your chest?”
“Seriously Luke? Serious?” Jake peered at the stained ceiling.
“Then one shot from the gun they planted on you?”
“All old stuff man! Old stuff. Hold on, fuock!”
“Three, then one?” Luke asked. “’bout minutes apart?”
“Yeah PI. Yes.!”
“S’ important.”
“Sorry. Yes, it’s just...”
"We’ve got something to work with now. Now you’ve gotta sell me the entire package!”
"Entire package?” Jake snapped. “What? You come here to tell me nothing. No news? And to get summin’outta me?”
“IS thjere something YOU need to tell me,’ ‘sumum ya were workin’ on; a case? Somebody? Some work?”
“Been over dis, aye? Dozens, hundreds of time Luke! Come on now. Huh?”
"Huh-hell Jake. Huh my ass! I got a call, attacked, dealt wit! Mutherfoucker’s said ‘got news on Jake, outta the blue, out the clear freeakkin blue sky.”
Luke turned to find the guards motioning wrap it up with circling fingers. In a matter of a few seconds the door of the holding area had opened, someone in a business suit had walked in and whispered to the guards. They glanced at the two with increasingly rapid fingers swipes.
“That’s it.” Luke raised his eyebrows.
“What. What’s it?”
Jake-Luke stood/sat see-saw, they rotated back-forth toward the guards. Their eyes met midstream and lowered to the grey cold counter tops, then again locked unfocused between thick wired glass. A symphony of strained emotion. Standing there, in the raggedy prison uniform, disheveled, unshaven, Jake blew through puffed cheeks. As always, in one setting, the prisoner went through emotional extremes: puppy joy to hyena anger.
Luke starred into space behind Jake, then into his face.
“Out-of-the-clear-blue SKY.”
“What. Dealt wit?” Jake asked.
“Ah yeah. Ah. Ah. Henchman heavies, down by the pier.”
“Henchmen? The waterfront pier?”
Luke’s tone was tamed, low thinkingly: “Yeah, gotta call. Said they had something on you. Asked me to come down to the wharf. Out of the clear-blue-sky.”
“That’s some movie bullshit Luke.”
“I know, I fuoken’ know.” Luke’s answers, responses were tamed, muffled, indifferent.
“What cha thinkin’ bout?” Jake frowned. “ What is it, man? Damn! After all this time? I’m the da one in the rat den.”
Luke snapped back to the conversation. He breathed, now he yelled- “What the fuck were you workin on Jake?”
“What?”
“Down there. In Venice.”
“Just some estate planning. For a client.”
“Anything else? Here, there, anywhere?”
“Nuttin’, nuttin. Naugh. Standard case load. Nuttin special.” Matos sighed, clumsily moved, held his cuffed hands-wrists on the table, glancing at ‘em, the floor, then back to Luke. The clinking of the metal echoed throughout the rooms. Cold metal on metal noises.
“I gotta know man. S’time Jake. S’time!”
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