Participants:
| Scene Title | A/S/L? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan has a favour to ask of Ina. It's not that. Or that either! |
| Date | July 22, 2010 |
It's warmer out there than it is in here, Logan having run the AC for the last half-hour to accommodate his hanging out at Burlesque during its off hours, the warm of a high noon baking its brickwork and signage. The front door is partially opened to catch whatever breeze might skitter through, and he hasn't bothered with the house lights in favour of sitting at a rounded table where a shard of sunlight is streaming through, lighting up the dancing dust and finer details of his cigarette smoke.
Though he hasn't touched it in a little while, ash burning into half an inch of cylinder with sneaking embers in its grey. A gin and tonic sits at his other elbow, more tended to, with a small boat of lime slice afloat on melting ice and the clear, dry mix. Also featured on the desk — a half opened briefcase, one that even contains paper instead of guns or similar, and a couple sheets of its contents are spread out as if picnic covering the tabletop with information and grainy, surveillance imagery.
The strip joint is otherwise empty, and he sits with his chair the wrong way around, straddled, arms folded on tall back and dressed entirely in black, from shiny patent shoes, slacks, the trim waistcoat over the ebony shirt with its sleeves carefully folded up to his elbows.
She's still at Burlesque, working as diligently here as if she were back at the Corinthian. Burlesque now has a facebook, myspace, a variety of sources from which to a) find other dancers to look into should he need to replace or freshen up his roster, free advertisement, and because it's modern. There's even a twitter in which one of the employee's in the bar, twitters about who exactly is going up on the stage and any special events that are going on.
One can hope that Logan can keep it up whenever she ends up returning to her actual real non-strip club job.
She has faith that he can, and if he doesn't, well, it won't be the end of the world. Hair still damp from her shower after having run halfway across the city - okay slight exaggeration - and coming into the bar in anticipation of getting a drink and an escape from the heat of her little place above that still serves as her home away from home. "There an altercation here last night I didn't know about?" At seeing the pictures that are spread out. She can't see the contents, just that they're pictures of some sort. "Or just stalking someone and looking at the fruits of your labor?"
Long fingered hands touch down lightly if protectively on the fanned out sheets of paper, a photocopy of a recent FRONTLINE article angled almost enough for Ina to at least recognise Michael Spalding's profile from what seems to be a press conference, and what the highlighter marks on the copied article are attempting to flag don't get seen as Logan messily pushes the pages to one side, as out of order as a shuffled deck of cards. "Something like that," is his response, for all that the variety of which he's looking at don't suggest just one person.
But some people make a good habit out of asking Linderman Group employees exactly nothing. Or asking Logan exactly nothing. "When abouts were you planning to mince around that stage, anyway? I vaguely recall that I profit from it, or something. Or Kain losing." A one shouldered shrug expresses that these two things aren't mutually exclusive.
"Soon. Kain's got his panties in knots over something and keeps pushing it off. Why? That eager to get rid of me, am I killing business?" Behind the bar she goes, charcoal yoga pants, sports top and sneakers, she's not really looking like she fits in here. At least in these clothes. Somewhere behind this bar, there is coke, and there's is Rum, and she wants the two, mixed together in some combination.
"That's FRONTLINE'S main pretty boy you're looking at. The hell do you have a picture of him. Blackmail or something? Because let me tell you, unless you caught him with some underaged girl, or doing some really obscene act, it won't fly. Maybe if he was a senator"
There's a soft rustle as Logan tries to put pages back in their suitcase in some form of order, though likely not putting thhhat much into their organisation. Corners are dog eared and ruffled, and he impatiently belts up its fastenings. "Just curious," he dismisses that first part, picking up suitcase to set it down on the ground, but he doesn't get up from where he's sitting — simply waits for her to join him. "And no, I'm not looking to do anything bad to Spalding. But you're right — he's rather spotless, isn't he? I wouldn't mind besmirching his reputation."
Taking up his cigarette again and tapping excess ash off its end, Logan gestures with its embered tip at the empty chair adjacent to his backwards one, invitation.
"Oh ho, what did he do to you? Make a pass at your girl?" She's got her drink, coke, heavy on the rum and is quick to come when beckoned. He's the head of this place, he's boss and when says jump, Ina jumps to his specifications. Ass meets seat, one leg lever over the other and she shrugs just a little.
"No ones ever spotless. They're skeletons are just well hidden. It's a matter of where you dig, how much money and how badly you want to know those skeletons. Now, if it's just a little tarnish, might not be worth it to do so. Or you might dig up something big. Wasn't his brother… part of… like… who are those bird types here, some pro-evolved rights group…feee?"
A hand goes up, a vague splayed-fingered wave around the last few words until he folds them together, which corresponds neatly with verbalised request: "Stop talking. I meant it, when I said I'm not going to do anything bad. You just keep your nose out of it, Anderson." That hand collects back up his gin and tonic, gestures with it vaguely, the especially sliced lime wedge dancing a little with the gesture as his drink threatens to jump up over the crystal lip of its container.
"But I do need to ask something of a favour, if you aren't busy."
There roll the eyes. She's no stranger to the behind the facade behavior of the Linderman Group. Men. Meterosexuals.
"I will not pose as your fiancee for your mother or whatever relative it is that might be coming into town and you need to prove that you are normal. I'm not doing your laundry either Logan. If it's any of the above, it's a no. If it's potentially something else, then possibly"
The highball is tipped back, a healthy sip of her own high noon alcohol sliding down her throat easily.
The horizon of his shoulders tips a little on either side, pale eyes going minutely distant at the attempt summon up some form of comeback, or lie about how normal he really is, but really all he can manage is a sneer across at her as he lifts his drink to sip in time as her. By the time twin clicks of glass are connecting with the table upon set down, Logan is shaking his head. "No, it's something different. I'm looking to smuggle someone in from a different country, by plane. Or a boat, but I'd rather not have any detours to Alaska."
He only heard just last week that Alaska is a part of America. The entire state is now shaded with a thin coat of distrust. "A passport should suffice. And a plane ticket. I can pay. And if you don't have those connections, then I'll need you to point me to someone who does."
"Male or female?"
She takes it all in stride. She's no stranger to unorthodox requests and while they usually come from clients of the respective Corinthian hotels. Well. "Age?" She has a reason for asking. Fingers carefully adjust and re-adjust to turn the glass around and around.
Lovely~! Logan trades her a brief smile, before responding just as curtly: "Female. Fifteen, ish. She's not for me," he feels moved to add, bringing up his cigarette to his mouth, inhaling the last that it has to offer as embers flare and burn close enough to the filter for him to put it out again. Draconic curls of smoke are exhaled from his nostrils as he does so.
"Hmmm. Fifteen" Upper teeth draw over lower lip as she starts running over what they could possibly do to get her own. "Passport and ticket might not do it. She got family here that you're trying to match her up with, or family there that you're trying to get her away from?"
Kids are not easy to bring across borders, or even to another country but she has an idea. "Exchange student. Boarding school in the states. There's a woman I know who's.. well, lets just say she had peculiar tastes when she visited. But she the head of one all girls school. I can see if she can furnish me with… the necessary paperwork so that a passport and a plane ticket will work. She won't actually be a student there, but.. Immigration doens't need to know that. It just needs to pass muster."
"Yeah yeah. Well. I haven't seen any pictures just yet — I need to find the girl, first." Yeah this is sounding better and better, although Logan appears to be unphased at his own sincere lack of organisation. "But if she passes for 18, does it matter? Or whatever's meant to be 'adult' these days. Otherwise, that sounds like it works." It sounds like it might work, but that's not the part of this project that Logan has to worry about. That's Ina's part, now.
He picks up his gin and tonic to finish, leaving only shards of melting ice behind where he picks out the lime slice to fidget with. "Just be sure to connect none of this to me. Not because I don't want any on me if it goes wrong, just that it will go wrong if it can be traced back to me. So you and I aren't actually having this conversation."
'Age counts. Hey, I'm 18, coming from some country, for pleasure and I don't look like I can afford it. People use 18 year olds to smuggle so much into this country, not to mention for sexual purposes. You can take your chance, smuggle her in on a boat, or in through Canada and drive across the border. But if you can get paperwork, paperwork that will hold up to a cursory glance, you can get her in easily. Fifteen, as an exchange student to a valid school, eighteen, get her in as a Nanny. They come in in droves. Paperwork barely looked at and to find a 'sponsor' family won't be that hard." Ina it seems, might have the solution.
"Or there's the good old fashioned ticket, passport, bring her over during winter. Oh look, i'm going to disneyland, this is my family… everyone scatter like roaches once they hit outside the airport. That's a bit more trickier"
Usually it's trucks. The supposedly 18 year old illegal immigrants for sexual purposes, that is. The ones Logan is used to, anyway. He's listening, is probably what is surprising, maybe even respectfully if that's what eye contact and silence is meant to indicate. "I'll forward you a photo, when I get one," he says, after a contemplative pause. "Then I shall trust your judgment."
White teeth nibble and then tear the soft flesh of gin-soaked lime, catching its thready texture with a slightly doggish tug backwards before he drops the rind into his glass. Swallows. "She has family here, but none that can be associated with her arrival. I'm arranging for someone else to go get her, and I've the candidate in mind — one of ours.
"Girl doesn't actually know she's going anywhere. Yet."
"Here's to hoping she wants to go here. If I can't do it, I'll find someone who can and won't trace it back. Last thing you want" and she says you because if it isn't obvious, she's loyal to Linderman, and not someone else. "like you said, is it traced back to you. You got any other strange requests to spring on me bossman, or should I go back to seeing what aspiring dancers have sent their applications and interest through facebook for you to peruse"
"Oh, she'll want to. Don't worry — that part's my problem." And if he can avoid a trip to Russia while he's at it, all the better. Picking up glass and ashtray in one hand, briefcase in the other, Logan levers himself up to stand and uses the toe of his boots to nudge the chair back into place with a scrape of metal against hard floor. "Right, Facebook. I thought only ugly people went on the Internet."
"Even playboy uses facebook these days Logan. Just give it a try" Glass emptied in one last gulp, leaving him alone to his table and the page within the briefcase that she is to forget about and not get involved in. "I'll let you know when Kain's downfall is supposed to happen. Anything else?" She'll ask one more time as she's rounding the bar to place the cup in one of the sinks, ready to be run through the washer.
He follows, mostly to set down both grimy ashtray for cleaning as well as his emptied glass, talking as he goes. "I've used it for clients only, back when I had the brothel and I needed lowkey way of attracting some attention. They might never have met Rebecca Bunny sixty nine ex ex, but I won't flatter myself to think that they didn't get a better deal.
"Last thing's last, love: don't work too hard." And with a snake-fast slap of Logan's palm to Ina's derriere, he's stepping (quickly) away and towards the stairwell that winds up to changing rooms and his own office, briefcase swinging in his loose grip.
A yelp comes from the woman, not expecting that. Sure, from guys who come in the club and think the woman in the fitted suit and bustier is all part of the show and hey, if she's there to ensure they're having a good time, she can come right over and they might cop a feel. "Fucker!" It's because she's here, that she yells that at his departing form. Never in the casino would she have done that. "I'll get you back for that" A wadded up dishtowel pitched at his head before she does the same, disappearing out the door so she can hightail it up to the apartment.