Participants:
| Scene Title | A Healthy Arrangement |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Adam is seeking a supplier and Deckard decides his early retirement is negotiable, apparently operating under the assumption that people with posh accents and fancy suits that want sniper rifles probably have dolla dolla billz to spare. |
| Date | April 25, 2009 |
A stone's throw away from the little makeshift harbor on the foreshore of the Arthur Kill river is this little even more makeshift bar. Little more than a shack, the interior barely fits more than its own stock of alcohol and kitchenware, and the seating spaces are outdoors under a rickety wooden cover decorated with fishing paraphernalia and nets. The chairs and tables are broken down cheap things that look like they've been scavenged from all over the place, mismatched but comfortable with some cushions or blankets thrown over them. The ground is sandy and dirty, as if the beach extends right under your feet, and despite being outdoors, the place is cluttered. Simple alcohol is provided - whiskeys, rums, and beers - without a chance of food, and you'll mostly find yourself in the company of thieves, considering the kinds of boats that dock here.
It's early afternoon at the Angry Pelican, and already there's some guy with a beard slumped over one of the plastic tables in an unconscious, smelly heap. But he's the only person here aside from the bartender, who's busy listening to a baseball game over a tinny, beat up little radio.
It's nice out. As nice as it gets out here, with a cool breeze whipping in off the shoreline and enough cloud cover that the sun isn't too oppressive in its glare across the choppy waves slapping brown at the beach.
Ten minutes early, Deckard is still squinting speculatively at his watch when he trudges his way through the sand at the door. He's in a dark suit and darker sunglasses, tall and lean with only the barest efforts made to assign order to the greying scruff of his hair and stubble collection. Not the guy passed out in the back, for once.
Adam had been to the bar slightly earlier. He looks a tad out of place, all suited up and clean shaven and enjoying himself at the bar. He can't seem to decide what drink to have, there are three in front of him, all half drank. He leans over the bar and says to the bartender, "Did you know that there's beers in Sweden that taste like cherries? /Cherries/."
Ffffuck he's already here. At least, as much might be assumed from the fact that there's someone else in an open-aired beach bar who's bothered with wearing a suit. Nose rankled at his own insufficiently early arrival, Deckard is quick to replace the look with one that more closely resembles a smile once he's angled himself over to the bar proper, left hand planted against scuffed wood while he glances over the trio of options Adam's already accumulated. "Adam?"
Adam looks up from his talk with the bartender over Swedish beers. He glances over this scruffy man and nods. This looks like someone who would go by the name Deckard. Fair enough. "Ah, so I am." he says as he offers his hand, "And I would presume we are here to meet?" he questions, "Assuming you aren't retired, as you said…" he pauses, "Would you care for a drink? My treat."
Deckard's right hand is there at ready to grasp Adam's, the brief pump of his grip sturdy and confident in the way salesmen's shakes often are. Never mind the dampness at his palm. He seems secure enough in offering his name as, "Flint Deckard," in return, though he probably already knows it. Never hurts to clarify when a trigger-happy client runs the risk of accidentally tripping over the fact that they've employed someone who has the police chasing after them for several counts of murder. "My retirement is negotiable. Most things about me are. And sure. Miller light." The last is directed at the bartender, who gives him a weird look before stooping to fill the order. Not his usual, apparently.
Adam nods his assent to the bartender, "You won't take it as a national insult if I say that beer tastes like swill to me, will you?" he shakes his head, "I'm having a hard time finding something good to drink in America, personally." he pauses, "But we didn't come here to talk about beer." he pauses, "I have a….well, I don't know what you're used to. Might be a large order, might be a medium sized order to you."
"No. It's piss in a bottle, but it makes me feel like I'm actually doing something for my health, so." Cheers. The bartender is still giving him the fisheye when he pries the cap off a lukewarm round and pushes it across the bar. Deckard fields and returns said fisheye with a look less nasty than he's capable of managing once he's removed his sunglasses and reached to take up his beer. Asshole. "Historically I've handled smaller scale exchanges myself and operated as a middleman for people looking to make larger and more…governmentally relevant purchases. I don't have the resources I would need to bring in boat loads of artillery, but I know people who do." Still standing, he sips his beer before he finally sinks down onto the next stool over.
Adam waits for the bartender to slip away before he says, "Well, no, I don't think I'll be making a governmental purchase." he pauses, "But I'm looking to purchase a couple dozen handguns, a couple shotguns, assault rifles.." he pauses, "Two sniper rifles, preferably able to be broken into suit cases…some silencers….and explosives."
A couple dozen. Deckard swallows against the number, beer burning at his throat more than it should. His bristled jaw hollows out while he does the math, blue eyes skipping away, back over onto the radio. Not easy and not cheap, but better than pulling the trigger himself. Somehow. "The sniper rifles could take some time, depending on who I'm able to get ahold of. The rest I should be able to manage alone."
Adam nods, "I'm not done though. A few of those submachine guns. Enough ammunition for the lot and some armor piercing rounds." he reaches forward and takes a drink from one of the drinks he formerly shunned away. "I need a range of explosives…grenades, some c-4, even some pipe bombs." he glances over, "Is this order fillable?" he questions. His gaze is cool and calm. He still looks polite as he talks of all these weapons of death, but there's a coldness to this man. He will clearly be using these guns.
Most people that buy them in bulk intend to use them, or so Deckard has learned to surmise. Guns make really expensive paperweights. "I'll cover ammunition for the stuff you can't buy in person without permits and/or getting stared at, but you could get a better deal on the rest from someone else. I can't move boxes and boxes of cartridges on my own. Especially if you want them here, on the island. The expense…" he trails off, left hand scrubbed awkwardly over the back of his head. "It's a big order. How soon are we talking?"
Adam mms, "Most of it can wait." he says, "At least a few weeks. I'll need at least ten or so of the guns now." he says. "Preferably a couple of the silencers as well. Can you fill that within the next few days?" his head tilts towards one side as he studies the man, "It would be pretty important." he says.
"Yes." Customers don't like to hear the word 'probably.' Definitely not 'maybe.' Deckard sucks in a deep breath, the same sweat that dampened his palm now darkening slick at his sideburns. "Make a list of what you want and I'll get back to you with a price once I've figured out what it's going to take. You can pay me once I've made the delivery, for the first round. Everything after that will be half before, half after. Given the nature of the order I'm going to go ahead and assume money isn't an issue."
Adam smiles a bit in response. He reaches over, patting Deckard's arm, "Good man." he says, "You're the first person in this damnable city to realize that money isn't an issue. It's always 'if the price is right' or 'you better pay me well'. Come on now, do I look like I'm not serious about all this." he chuckles, "I like you Flint Deckard." he says, "I think we can have a very healthy arrangement."
Deckard doesn't draw back away from the pat, right arm left across the bar where it lies. He endures it with a forced sliver of a half smile and an acknowledging tip of his head. "People stupid enough to bullshit about being able to afford this kind of thing tend to be slow on the draw. One way or another I try to end transactions in the black. Granted, you're the first in a while with a serious order who's willing to set aside the whole reputation…thing."
Adam arches a brow, "Friend, you might say I'm new to town, so I don't know your reputation." he pauses, "I might be willing to hear of it, but let's be frank. You fill my order and your reputation is good with me, yeah?" he pauses for some moments before he leans in and says, "So what's this reputation business you're talking about?"
"Long story short, I got wrapped up in this whole end of the world conspiracy where some terrorist assholes screwed me over and I wound up wanted for something like a dozen counts of murder, arson, and armed robbery. So — you might say local law enforcement has taken up an interest in my whereabouts and whatnot." All this delivered in much the same tone he might use on a story about something stupid his cat did yesterday, Deckard stops there to sip his beer. He could elaborate, but they'd be here all night, and he has places to be.
Adam chuckles a bit as he leans back, tilting his head to one side as he watches the other man, "Well, that is quite a story. I suppose I should be careful." he says as he glances around, "I wonder if maybe I should be worried about a raid or what not." but he doesn't seem worried, he takes another sip of his drink, "But it sounds like you should be the subject of a reality tv show." he mmms, "I hope to hear from you soon, Mr. Deckard."
"Wouldn't hurt," Deckard agrees with a lift of a brow, almost, almost a little too careless in his dismissal of his own dismal situation. Doesn't really bear thinking about right now. In fact, in general it bears thinking about as little as is humanly possible. "There are cops on the island, hiding undercover. I've seen one or two hanging around in here at night, trying to mingle." A glance is cast over his shoulder, back at the bar in general. Still empty.
"You'll hear from me tomorrow. Monday at the latest."