April 12, 2005, 145 PM, Le Blues Bar
Once Darcy had exchanged the white cotton apron for her leather jacket, and walked the short distance to a neighborhood deli, to spend her lunch eating corned beef on rye with sour pickles and flirting with the counter help in exchange for free cream sodas, Duncan poured himself a glass of scotch. He had stored the white business card in the back pocket of his black jeans, and he had it on the bar counter now, staring at the letters, so familiar, and yet, so strange. Richie had called him ten minutes earlier, to say he and Asher would be back soon, and Duncan estimated he had about thirty minutes of peace and quiet. With a resoluted swallow of the alcohol, he dialed an American number into his cell phone.
"Hello. Nick Wolfe, speaking."
"Nick, it's Mac. How are you?"
"Tired, my friend. I'm into hour forty of a forty-eight hour shift. Sometimes, I think it is only my exclusive membership which keeps me from keeling over."
Despite himself, Duncan allowed himself to laugh. "Bert that much of a slave driver?"
"No, but I am. So, Mac, what's today's excuse?"
Duncan frowned, and he knew the marred expression was audible in his voice. "Can a four hundred year old man not call his best friend to say hi?"
"Well, normally, yes. But you, Mac, you always have an excuse. So, what is it?"
"I had a Sam Clarke in earlier. He left a card. A New York address. Works out of the same building you do. Know him?"
For a moment, Nick Wolfe was quiet. Elbows against the wooden desk of his New York City office, chin propped in his hands, for a full moment, he said nothing, but only calmly took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. "Clarke? Lawyer, right?"
"Correct."
"There is a law office. Wales, Johnson, and Clarke. I believe Clarke is the junior partner. Friends with one of they guys who works here. He had mentioned a trip to Europe. Say anything of notice?"
"Said he was Mike Ross' lawyer. Most lawyers will not travel across an ocean to visit a client, Nick."
"I'll see if I can find any dirt on him. Just do me a favor, Mac?"
"Yeah, sure."
"You and Richie both need to stop calling in favors. First, he needs me to hack into the Watcher database, and now this. Someone's bound to notice something. Bert is very perceptive. Suppose he has to be in his line of work."
"I'll keep that in mind," laughed Duncan, grateful Nick had laughed as well. "So, how's my favorite girl? Keeping you on your toes?"
"What she does best. She sends her love, I'm sure. Keeps begging me to meet with you. As if, you were all just not here for Christmas."
"Well, Amanda is special."
Nick's laughter rang through the wires. "And, how is everyone there? Heard from Adam recently?"
"Everyone is well here, but no, no word from Adam," and Duncan paused, swallowing more of the scotch. "Speaking of which, seems our Asher knew Sam Clarke in a past life. Think that somehow has something to do with his arrival?"
"Maybe. As said Mac, I'll see what I can find. Ciao."
The dial tone echoed in Duncan's ears, and he ended the call, swallowed the last of his scotch. There were still boxes to be unpacked, of a late arrival. Once Mike arrived, he would ask if he knew a certain Sam Clarke. Now, he only flipped on the radio, and went to unpack the boxes. The bar felt entirely too quiet.
Once Darcy had exchanged the white cotton apron for her leather jacket, and walked the short distance to a neighborhood deli, to spend her lunch eating corned beef on rye with sour pickles and flirting with the counter help in exchange for free cream sodas, Duncan poured himself a glass of scotch. He had stored the white business card in the back pocket of his black jeans, and he had it on the bar counter now, staring at the letters, so familiar, and yet, so strange. Richie had called him ten minutes earlier, to say he and Asher would be back soon, and Duncan estimated he had about thirty minutes of peace and quiet. With a resoluted swallow of the alcohol, he dialed an American number into his cell phone.
"Hello. Nick Wolfe, speaking."
"Nick, it's Mac. How are you?"
"Tired, my friend. I'm into hour forty of a forty-eight hour shift. Sometimes, I think it is only my exclusive membership which keeps me from keeling over."
Despite himself, Duncan allowed himself to laugh. "Bert that much of a slave driver?"
"No, but I am. So, Mac, what's today's excuse?"
Duncan frowned, and he knew the marred expression was audible in his voice. "Can a four hundred year old man not call his best friend to say hi?"
"Well, normally, yes. But you, Mac, you always have an excuse. So, what is it?"
"I had a Sam Clarke in earlier. He left a card. A New York address. Works out of the same building you do. Know him?"
For a moment, Nick Wolfe was quiet. Elbows against the wooden desk of his New York City office, chin propped in his hands, for a full moment, he said nothing, but only calmly took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. "Clarke? Lawyer, right?"
"Correct."
"There is a law office. Wales, Johnson, and Clarke. I believe Clarke is the junior partner. Friends with one of they guys who works here. He had mentioned a trip to Europe. Say anything of notice?"
"Said he was Mike Ross' lawyer. Most lawyers will not travel across an ocean to visit a client, Nick."
"I'll see if I can find any dirt on him. Just do me a favor, Mac?"
"Yeah, sure."
"You and Richie both need to stop calling in favors. First, he needs me to hack into the Watcher database, and now this. Someone's bound to notice something. Bert is very perceptive. Suppose he has to be in his line of work."
"I'll keep that in mind," laughed Duncan, grateful Nick had laughed as well. "So, how's my favorite girl? Keeping you on your toes?"
"What she does best. She sends her love, I'm sure. Keeps begging me to meet with you. As if, you were all just not here for Christmas."
"Well, Amanda is special."
Nick's laughter rang through the wires. "And, how is everyone there? Heard from Adam recently?"
"Everyone is well here, but no, no word from Adam," and Duncan paused, swallowing more of the scotch. "Speaking of which, seems our Asher knew Sam Clarke in a past life. Think that somehow has something to do with his arrival?"
"Maybe. As said Mac, I'll see what I can find. Ciao."
The dial tone echoed in Duncan's ears, and he ended the call, swallowed the last of his scotch. There were still boxes to be unpacked, of a late arrival. Once Mike arrived, he would ask if he knew a certain Sam Clarke. Now, he only flipped on the radio, and went to unpack the boxes. The bar felt entirely too quiet.