Storytelling With Confidence

A Captive Audience, Episode 3.2

A few days later, a new officer visited the cells. He was broad-shouldered and short - not as short as me, but definitely shorter than Silversteel. He was also a gruff-looking sort of man, with a bushy beard, and where the arresting officer's uniform had been pressed and polished, this newcomer wore a uniform that seemed poorly-tailored and ill-fitting. But across from the scuffed-up brass buttons on his coat, he wore a badge pinned just beneath his left collarbone - the badge of an investigator. Shaped like a wide-open eye, it rather looked like an occult symbol, or perhaps the insignia of a secret society, instead of the official badge of a licensed, law-enforcement detective. Since I was feeling somewhat out of my comfort zone, sitting in a barren cell behind locked bars, I opted not to voice those observations.

I watched him as he shuffled sideways through the doorway and then waddled down the steps into the detention area. In this particular jail, the cell block was dug down beneath ground level and arranged as connected iron cages a horseshoe pattern. I was sitting in the cell at the very middle of the horseshoe, and the stairs led down from the upper-right corner of my view and terminated right in front of my cell, so when he stepped off that last step he stood face-to-face with me. Despite Silversteel and myself being the only two guest of the authorities this day, the officer made a show of scanning the entire room, with his brow furrowed and his head canted slightly forward each time he looked to the left or right. Eventually he settled his gaze on me.

I was standing at the front of my cell, with my arms passed through the bars, nonchalantly flipping a coin outside of my cell in a vain effort to relieve my boredom. The gruff inspector grabbed the back of a nearby chair in one hand and spun it around to rest, facing backwards, in front of him, so that he could straddle the seat and rest his crossed arms on the backrest. Sitting this way, facing me, we were nearly eye-to-eye.
"Hmph," he grunted. "Your name is Sparrow," he stated rather than asked. I inclined my head fractionally to affirm. "Is that a first name, or a last name?"

"It's an only name," I replied. "My father didn't stick around to share his name with me. I once briefly changed my name to 'Sparrowhawk' for publicity purposes, but that felt derivative." I glanced sideways at Silversteel, but he apparently understood my vocabulary less than he understood his own (which I would have thought impossible, but for the blank look on his face).

"According to the arrest report, you self-identify as a 'racketeer'?" the inspector raised an eyebrow.

I grimaced. I really should learn my lesson, and start using more simple words when speaking to law officers. "Raconteur," I corrected, "It means 'storyteller,' but with the implication that I am witty and amusing." The inspector gazed back at me without expression. I sighed, "I suppose that's something of an exaggeration."

The inspector drew out a small notebook and began scribbling some notes in it with a fragment of a pencil. Surprisingly, I felt that I could detect that tiny spark of intelligence in his eyes, and for a moment I wondered whether he was writing down an incriminating statement about me or actually taking notes on the word that I just explained to him.

"My name is Inspector Stagger," he introduced himself, "And I'm the guy assigned to the Madigan Price case." He licked the tip of the pencil and held it poised above the page. "Tell me, what's the nature of your relationship with that guy?"

***** ***** *****

I had just finished telling one of my most popular tales, one that I called "The Breathless Poet." It had a surprise ending that never failed to astonish the audience, and I would accompany the story with a few stage tricks that would leave the audience, if I may be so cliché, breathless. The candles and lanterns of the tavern were re-lit during the hearty applause, and I collected my hat and found my way to my usual table. A few coins jangled in the hat, but I could tell that it wasn't much of a reward. Lately, the patrons of this tavern had been as stingy with their money as they were generous with applause. Luckily for me, they kept drinking and coming back, which kept the bartender in a good mood. I needed him in a good mood when I would inform him that I was unable to pay my tab.

When I got to my table, I found it had already been occupied by a suave, confident fellow who was sitting in one chair and was resting his feet in the other chair. I didn't want to be rude and ask him to move, but all the other tables were occupied and I didn't want to drink standing up. So I stared at him intensely and then tilted my head toward the second chair. He gave me a wolfish grin and kicked the chair out a few inches so I could seat myself, which I did. I set my hat upon the table also, figuring that this guy looked rich enough that he wouldn't think of stealing my meager earnings.

"You tell quite an engrossing tale, my friend," the young man said. I saw that he was playing with some coins in his left hand, rotating them around his fingers and folding them over his knuckles. It was somewhat mesmerizing to watch, even though he didn't seem to be putting much attention into the trick. He plucked one of the coins away with his right hand and bounced it on the table where it landed in my hat.

I gave him a grateful salute and a nod, the kind that you would perform when sitting in a chair makes a theatrical bow impossible. "That's kind of you to say."

"It's a skill to be appreciated. You have a knack for enchanting, enthralling the folks here listening to you. I daresay that while their attention is on you, they aren't noticing anything else around them. Why, an opportunistic fellow could get away with just about anything in that situation." He bounced another coin into my hat.

I narrowed my eyes. "I hadn't thought about that. I wouldn't like to think of any of my fans becoming the victim of opportunity."

He scoffed. "Fans?" he questioned. He looked pointedly into my hat. "I'd say that the only real victim here is you. Your talent is worth much more than that." He bounced a third coin into my hat. "Look around - do any of these people look like victims?"

He had a point. The room was boisterous with laughter and conversation, as the patrons ordered round after round. I noticed just a few of them patting their pockets, as if they were searching for something, but whatever they were missing was quickly forgotten when some friend or another would cheerfully order another round of drinks. The bartender must have been making a grand profit that night.

"I think I could say that I'm your biggest fan, Sparrow," the suave, confident fellow said, standing up to leave. "The name's Madigan Price. I took the liberty of paying off your tab. You'll be back here tomorrow, telling your stories again, won't you?"

***** ***** *****

"I guess you could call us 'drinking buddies,'" I tentatively replied.

Inspector Stagger didn't look like he believed me.