Author's Note: as usual, same disclaimer applies. Although, I would love
to own Methos, and perhaps date the eternal grad student, Adam Pierson.
to blackblade: Duncan's startledness last chapter was from Darcy arriving early to work. She never does. His reaction was more of a joke than most anything else.
to SouthernChickie: I do edit, however in my defense, I do it very early or very late in the day. And exhaustion is the more enemy of the writer and editor. I will try my best though. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------
April 12, 2005, 9:35 AM, Le Blues Bar
Duncan MacLeod had not lived more than four centuries on pure adrenaline alone. He was as human as they came; both Joe and Methos had frequently told him so. He felt a mission to look out for the little people, to help mankind. He knew from first glance, this Sam Clarke was trouble. His judgement had sometimes been off (as he now believed he had pegged Methos completely wrong), but this time he just *knew.* Sam Clarke would bring trouble to the simple paradise he and his friends had hesitantly and slowly rebuilt since Joe Dawson's death.
"This is Le Blues Bar, oui? Mike Ross does still work here?"
"It is. He does. He's not here now, however. Too early for his shift to start," added Duncan. He did not mention that Mike worked his own hours, coming and leaving as it suited him. Nor did he mention that Mike often was there long before him, unloading stock, cheerfully whistling the 1812 Overture under his breath.
"So, I see. Well, do me a favor then," he trailed, and confidently extended his hand, shifting his briefcase from, right hand to left. "My apologies. I did not catch your name, monsieur."
His French was off, Duncan noted. Spoken flawlessly, but the accent was strange. Not American, but not quite something else either. "Duncan MacLeod."
"Samuel Clarke. Sam. Tell Mike Ross I stopped in, please."
"Of course. The nature of your business?"
Sam laughed. A short, level sound, perfectly in sync with the three piece suit, and flat gray eyes. "I'm his lawyer."
"I shall tell him you stopped in."
"Merci, Monsieur MacLeod," he paused to make note of the pleasant atmosphere the bar alluded to. "Nice place you have here. I can understand why my client enjoys working here."
He stepped carefully around the tables, and the small front stage, and the back booths, making no sound, and making no judgement to what Duncan could see.
Silently, keeping his senses alert, Duncan returned to the steady movement of the stocking of the alcohol, and to the steady background music of typing keys. He noted when Darcy re-emerged, and gave no sense of surprise when she bent to take two bottles, and placed them on the shelves. "Who's the stranger?"
"Friend of Mike's, it seems. A slippery type. I don't trust him."
Darcy bit back a laugh, and bent to take two more bottles. From the backroom, came the smooth sound of Richie's laughter, and the delightful annoyance of Asher's followance, as she threatened both Richie and the computer.
Sam Clarke made his full circle, and came again to stand before the counter. "When shall Monsieur Ross be in today?"
"Shortly, I imagine. Could I relay a message? A phone number?"
"No message. He has the phone number. I always keep the same room when I visit Paris," he paused again, to allow the words to sink. "This girl a waitress?"
"I am," shot Darcy, straightening, hands on hips, eyes in defense.
Sam laughed shortly again, and his eyes too lightened, but only for a moment. "Relax, sweetheart. I meant no offense." He turned his attention again to Duncan, oblivious to the steam escaping Darcy's ears. "You employ any other waitresses?"
Duncan frowned. "The nature of the bar, and whom I do and do not employ does not seem to be your business, Monsieur Clarke."
Sam laughed. Quick, demeaning, almost cruel. "Mike did warn me about you. My card, Monsieur MacLeod. Have a nice day," and with no further words, he ducked out, and the bells echoed his departure.
Duncan MacLeod visibly paled at the sight of the white business card he held. Calmer, Darcy swore under her breath, and mentally Duncan echoed her sentiments. The card gave a number and address out of the States, out of New York. He worked from the same building Nick Wolfe did.
A small, small world.
to blackblade: Duncan's startledness last chapter was from Darcy arriving early to work. She never does. His reaction was more of a joke than most anything else.
to SouthernChickie: I do edit, however in my defense, I do it very early or very late in the day. And exhaustion is the more enemy of the writer and editor. I will try my best though. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------
April 12, 2005, 9:35 AM, Le Blues Bar
Duncan MacLeod had not lived more than four centuries on pure adrenaline alone. He was as human as they came; both Joe and Methos had frequently told him so. He felt a mission to look out for the little people, to help mankind. He knew from first glance, this Sam Clarke was trouble. His judgement had sometimes been off (as he now believed he had pegged Methos completely wrong), but this time he just *knew.* Sam Clarke would bring trouble to the simple paradise he and his friends had hesitantly and slowly rebuilt since Joe Dawson's death.
"This is Le Blues Bar, oui? Mike Ross does still work here?"
"It is. He does. He's not here now, however. Too early for his shift to start," added Duncan. He did not mention that Mike worked his own hours, coming and leaving as it suited him. Nor did he mention that Mike often was there long before him, unloading stock, cheerfully whistling the 1812 Overture under his breath.
"So, I see. Well, do me a favor then," he trailed, and confidently extended his hand, shifting his briefcase from, right hand to left. "My apologies. I did not catch your name, monsieur."
His French was off, Duncan noted. Spoken flawlessly, but the accent was strange. Not American, but not quite something else either. "Duncan MacLeod."
"Samuel Clarke. Sam. Tell Mike Ross I stopped in, please."
"Of course. The nature of your business?"
Sam laughed. A short, level sound, perfectly in sync with the three piece suit, and flat gray eyes. "I'm his lawyer."
"I shall tell him you stopped in."
"Merci, Monsieur MacLeod," he paused to make note of the pleasant atmosphere the bar alluded to. "Nice place you have here. I can understand why my client enjoys working here."
He stepped carefully around the tables, and the small front stage, and the back booths, making no sound, and making no judgement to what Duncan could see.
Silently, keeping his senses alert, Duncan returned to the steady movement of the stocking of the alcohol, and to the steady background music of typing keys. He noted when Darcy re-emerged, and gave no sense of surprise when she bent to take two bottles, and placed them on the shelves. "Who's the stranger?"
"Friend of Mike's, it seems. A slippery type. I don't trust him."
Darcy bit back a laugh, and bent to take two more bottles. From the backroom, came the smooth sound of Richie's laughter, and the delightful annoyance of Asher's followance, as she threatened both Richie and the computer.
Sam Clarke made his full circle, and came again to stand before the counter. "When shall Monsieur Ross be in today?"
"Shortly, I imagine. Could I relay a message? A phone number?"
"No message. He has the phone number. I always keep the same room when I visit Paris," he paused again, to allow the words to sink. "This girl a waitress?"
"I am," shot Darcy, straightening, hands on hips, eyes in defense.
Sam laughed shortly again, and his eyes too lightened, but only for a moment. "Relax, sweetheart. I meant no offense." He turned his attention again to Duncan, oblivious to the steam escaping Darcy's ears. "You employ any other waitresses?"
Duncan frowned. "The nature of the bar, and whom I do and do not employ does not seem to be your business, Monsieur Clarke."
Sam laughed. Quick, demeaning, almost cruel. "Mike did warn me about you. My card, Monsieur MacLeod. Have a nice day," and with no further words, he ducked out, and the bells echoed his departure.
Duncan MacLeod visibly paled at the sight of the white business card he held. Calmer, Darcy swore under her breath, and mentally Duncan echoed her sentiments. The card gave a number and address out of the States, out of New York. He worked from the same building Nick Wolfe did.
A small, small world.