Small-Talk
“Define ‘act natural’.” I couldn’t bear myself to let out yet another question to the portly acquaintance of mine, already plenty occupied with setting up the necessary equipment inside the back of what was the most important ice cream van in the state, at least in our line of work. “You’re just asking me to repeat myself.” He responded, not even batting an eye in my direction while I plucked some pesky lint sticking to my white-collar shirt. “Well, you didn’t clarify it as suitable as you could have.” I held back a cheeky snicker when his frustration lashed out on slapping the terminal of one of the many various computers finally booting up. “You just walk in, meet with our inside peep, and just get a good look in the place without looking suspicious.” He swiftly intervened with a question he already predicted from me. “And by that, just don’t do anything someone having a good time wouldn’t do. Like go to the restroom, then back to the bar for some gin.” I couldn’t have asked for anything to be more precise, so now having my fun of poking his working mind with endless critiques was quenched.
The backstory isn’t as complicated as it would look. Myself and an easily annoyed technician were on duty for sniffing out information on what was some sort of supposed “top crooks” of the town, only noted for being especially well dressed for any occasion. For the longest time, we, the “feds”, had only thought of this too simply: suited hitmen being sent out to take down likewise street scum. Then, came in reports of these same tuxedo clad gentlemen taking exit from laundromats, grocery stores; suspiciously local establishments that people of their physical caliber should have no concern with. An investigation was called up for such a widespread phenomenon, and I drew the shortest straw for being out on the field.
As for the technician, whom I’ll only refer to as “Marc”, his story is a little more vivid as to what was beyond being a key asset to this surveillance duo. I only found it respectful, what little of it I acknowledged having, to keep that particular manner to only himself. I approached the side of the interior, not cluttered with various gizmos finally filling the open space of the vehicle with a gentle humming, and peered out a slit from a rusted gash in the vehicle, instead of the conventional serving door inches away from me. Anyone could have seen that it was a somewhat public establishment, where the somewhat high-class, hoity toity of society would lounge about inside, dining on overpriced cheese and crackers with a side of wine, fancy bottle label included. Somewhat, in the sense that if you didn’t look better than your Sunday best, you’d get the tap on the shoulder and kindest “get out” an employee could muster. I was hardly used to wearing such quality of threads, but then again, this was the second time in my entire life wearing a simple cotton dress shirt.
“Alright junior, everything’s set up. Go to the front and we can get to work.” I blinked, blotting out the gleaming restaurant to focus in on the announcement Marc had called out. “Excuse me; ‘junior’?” I retorted, and he twisted around to give me the first hint of a smile I had witnessed from him. “You said it yourself that you hated your name, Jeremy.” Unnecessary emphasis on my formal title, which I admit wasn’t a blessing from birth. “Go on, then.” Giving me a taunting wave, my lips silently directed a phrase towards his flaunting hand, one I certainly wouldn’t mutter grudgingly in front of my mother. Showtime! Let’s do this, I ushered to myself, taking strides out the manual-lock backdoor of the van, with my eyes set on the location. I would be going solo, the only thing Marc would be able to note from me was anything I saw from my sleek, trimmed reading lenses.
I’ve considered myself reasonable at impersonations, though usually just for a witty jab at a particularly annoying character, some have alerted me before, that these comical figures I conjured would be passable as an alternate human persona I could silhouette myself with. So, as if setting up an imaginary interview for myself, who am I now, to the kind and curious? I was a banker from Boston, merely strolling about the local dives for good eats, and stumbling upon this fine crock of marketable dung to fit in with fellow folk like myself to perhaps know a thing or two better of this city. What a loony idea, but everyone in the north-east knew that they often went to see the rest of the north-east, differing opinions on sports teams aside. As the imaginary character had completely formulated, which was more than a possibility it wouldn’t be put in to use to begin with, I was standing in front of the yellow-paved walls, and a door which beckoned for my entrance, only revealing a blurry fraction of the buzzing, jiving activity within.
My palm plastered on to the wooden rim of the transparent, multi-paneled gateway and I was finally in to the objective. Reservation for table “Trent”, take a good view from every angle I could achieve, I reminded myself. Inside, the sounds, smells, and sights naturally mellowed on to me. Sizzling wooden griddles on the hands of stout, broad-chested waiters, clinking, chipping of various glasses and silverware. I liked new places, and had I not been more unsuspecting of organized criminal activity taking place in this very area, I probably wouldn’t have minded the atmospheric presentation being served, and I hadn’t even been seated yet. “Can I help you, sir?” A miss called to me from a stumpy reception desk, and I swiftly geared attention to present manners. “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a reservation for a table?” I approached closer to the stand, as the employee was already starting to skim through the plethora of names. “Trent.”
“This way, please.” Momentarily in the zone of consciousness where the only thing present were my own daydreams, I popped out of the bubble of lacking attention and followed the clip-clops of the waitress’s heels. She was escorting me along a banister surrounding what appeared to be an open dance floor, occupied by columns of chattering dining tables. All of the tables seemed occupied, yet something had choked a knot in my stomach as soon as we had approached, and stopped at an empty booth. “A waiter will be with you momentarily!” She chided, busily striding away and leaving me stranded in a booth, with me being its only occupant. An informant was supposed to be here. Why were they not here? Did they run off to take a leak? Some highly trained government employee they were, if that were such a case.