A Thousand Words from Jonathan Pearce's The Burberry Style
"Burberry. Simon Burberry." The tall sinister-looking stranger introduced himself and stated his business through his teeth with his mouth not quite open. You also got the impression he was looking under his black hatbrim out of the corner of his eyes behind his wrap-around dark glasses. This optional feature was sort of strange since the sun was down already and Front Street was under its usual February fog. Also, we were standing inside Kenworth Kuhl Real Estate & Joseph O. Kuhl Private Investigations with some of the lights off to save on the PG&E bill. Actually, I was sitting. He was standing, his trench coat tied suavely, not buttoned. He had on a yellow plaid scarf, one end hanging out of the trench coat top. He had one of Uncle Anson's buttons on his left lapel. On his left wrist he was wearing a gold watch that he kept looking at.
I went, "Burbley?" trying to match his pronunciation.
"Burberry," he repeated. "English, y'know."
"Yes, Burble. I heard you." The English sort of mess up their pronunciation so you can't really hear what they're saying. "You got a first name, too?"
"Just Burberry." He took off his hat very carefully, put it on the corner of my desk, smoothed his black hair down with his palms. He removed his shades and stuffed them inside his coat.
"Just Burble. Now there's an interesting name. Maybe short for Justice, I guess. So, Just, how come you picked on Balona to hang out in?"
Squinted eyes, suspicious look. "Why do you inquire?"
"Interested in newcomers since I write a sort of column for the paper once and a while and could use some copy."
"I am not seeking 'copy,' dear boy. In fact, I would prefer no attention be paid me at all."
"How so's that?"
"I'm working under cover."
"All right! You're FBI. No, NSA. No, CIA."
"MI-6"
"Wow! All right!" I happened to know already that MI-6 is British Secret Service.
Eyebrow up, steel-gray eyes narrowed. "You know MI-6?"
"Sure, I intend to join up over there myself, soon as I get my diploma, my certificate from C4. That's Chaud County Community College."
"Oh, yes?" There's a twitching at the left-hand corner of Mr. Burble's mustache, a growth sort of like Saddam Hussein's of TV fame.
"Criminal Justice, Just." I smirked at the confluence of names, also pleased at last to find a use, even interminably, for one of my English teacher Doctor Fardel's usually useless vocabulary words like confluence.
"I see. Well, refer to me simply as Mr. Burberry, if you please." Mr. Burberry was lost in thought for a few seconds, looking at the ceiling. "Or you might address me as Commander Burberry when we're alone." He raised both eyebrows, put a mean look on his face.
The English are so formal, getting pissed-off right away about calling them by their first name. The way he said stuff sounded suave, though, even though most of it came through his nose. I think I will try the accent out on Patella and Millie and maybe Willow. See what they think before I adopt it as my style.
"So, okay. Where you staying right now, Commander?"
"You need to know that."
"Well, you're looking for a place to stay, so when my dad comes back from his nap, his research, over at Frings Bowls, I could get in touch with you."
"Yes. I see. Well, don't worry about that. I'll be in touch with you. You say there's a house for rent and rooms for rent. Does the house face east?" Commander Burberry was writing on a 3x5 card while looking at me over the tops of his eyes.
I thought for a minute, turned in my chair in several directions, ponderating. "No, it faces north." I didn't mention that my dad wasn't exactly the agent for it, either. Probably the house didn't have an agent, so that was okay.
"North is not good. Should face the sunrise."
"Old lady Crinkle's place faces south, I think. Or maybe north. Or east, maybe. I forget. She's looking for a roomer, since her daughter moved off and Mr. Keyshot moved out. Nice clean room, they say. Old lady been around forever. Probably mind her own business."
"Old lady, you said. How old?"
"Well, maybe 95, 98, something like that. Old. But she can take care of herself all right. Strong as an ox, they say. Actually a relative of mine."
"Ah. Well, give me the address and I'll swing by there and give it a look-see."
"Is that a Ferrari you're driving out there?" The car was low, blue or black. I couldn't tell in the fog but in the dim light shining on it from Peking Peek-Inn the car looked pretty racy.
"It's an Aston-Martin."
"Wow. Like James Bond."
"Of course." He raised an eyebrow and reached inside his trench coat for his cigaret case. Gold, too. He snapped it open, plucked out a cigaret, tapped it on the case. Put it back in the case, and put the case back inside his coat. "Quit smoking, y'know."
"Yeh, me, too." I never did smoke, but in Balona you are expected to show how suave you are, even to strangers, so sometimes you have to lie a little. Kind of like guys who sport cowboy hats who never saw a cow in their life. Or guys who wear Air Jordans who never lifted their butt off of the couch. It occurred to me that this secret agent might very well be on a case. He looked like a secret agent on a case. He acted like a secret agent in action. He probably even smelled like one. "Say, you aren't a secret agent on a case, are you?"
He raised one eyebrow again. The same one. Twitched his lip. Then raised both eyebrows. "Who knows. If I told you I'd have to kill you." He raised one side of his lip again in what I guess was a smile.
"Wow." I couldn't help admiring how suave he was. I couldn't help letting my admiration show.
THE BURBERRY STYLE
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