Be Quiet



Scene Title Be Quiet
Synopsis Tyler Case just can't catch a break.
Date March 12, 2009

Brooklyn, Barber's Pawn

Brooklyn is located on the westernmost point of Long Island and shares its only land boundary with Queens. The East river borders and defines the borough's northern coast, Coney Island, Brighton Beach, and Manhattan beach are to the south, and the Narrows separate it from Staten Island to the southwest.

Downtown Brooklyn is one of the NYC's largest business districts. Between the Bridge and Prospect Park, brownstones, townhouses, and high-end restaurants are dominant. The culturally diverse communities of Williamsburg and Greenpoint are snugged against the East River to the far north. Close by are far more criminally active neighborhoods such as Brownsville, Crown Heights, and Bushwick. Regardless of the social situation, the so-called Borough of Neighborhoods is packed to the gills in post-bomb NYC.

"Seven hundred and sixty, and that's only because you're such a sorry sack of shit, Case." Throwing the pocket watch down on the glass counter top, James Barber leans back in his folding chair with a creak of the metal, hands resting on his round stomach, eyes focused up to the despondent young man standing on the other side of the glass case.

Tyler breathes in a slow, sucking breath and rests his palms down on the glass case, "You're fucking with me, man. Come on, this— " he reaches one shaky hand for a string of perals, "This is expensive, come on, I really need this money— you— you don't understand."

Rolling his tongue over his teeth, James leans forward and rises up out of his chair, looming head and shoulders taller than Tyler, "Kid, look." He pushes the assorted jewelry aside, "You are fucking lucky that I'm not hauling your punk ass out of here by the back of your fucking shirt. In case you're as dumb as you look, the cops have been here looking for you for about a week now." Tyler's brow creases, eyes widening and mouth falling open. He backpedals away from the glass case, then lurches forward and chokes out a confused groan.

"Why?" He blinks back confusion, fingers raking through his hair, "J — Jesus Christ, what the hell did I do?" His eyes dart around the pawn shop, up until he backs into shelves behind him, sending DVD players scuttling across the shaken metal. "Fuck — Jim, when— when did they come here? How many of them? Christ what did they say I did?"

"Tyler." Jim slams a hand down on the thick glass, then begins moving to circle around the case, "Be quiet you moron." Giving a shake of his head, Jim's tangle of long, curly, black hair brushes across his shoulders, "It was a week ago — there 'bout — kid, they said you're wanted for questioning about some fucking murder in Chinatown." Jim's words cause Tyler's face to pale, one hand covering his mouth, shakily. "That make any sense to you?"

Tyler steps around Jim, breathing out a slow, shaky breath, "Why'd they come to you? Jesus Christ Jim, Jesus." Stopping by one of the windows in the shop, Tyler leans to the side, pulling the blinds away to peer out into the parking lot. While he acts conspicuously inconspicuous, Jim moves to the front door and folds his arms, staring out the plate glass to the mostly empty lot.

"They were asking everyone down here, I don't think they know I knew your sister." His eyes flick over to Tyler, "How could they, right?" There's a press of his lips, frustrated, insistent, "Did you do it? What they said?" The question makes Tyler lurch in his own skin, turning around from the window with an exasperated exhalation of breath.

"Fuck you Jim, I— " He hesitates in his self-righteous defense, rubbing a hand over his face, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Jim parrots, head tilting forward, brows coming together. Tyler gives a shake of his head, moving across the thinly carpeted floor back to where the jewelry is, fingers pawing over the pocket watch.

"Maybe? I— I don't remember. I've— been blacking out a lot, lately." Tyler doesn't turn, doesn't look back to Jim as he continues, "I think I'm sick," is his excuse, hands shaking as he palms the watch, rolling it around between his fingers before settling it back down on the glass case.

Sighing, Jim manages to mirror Tyler's motion, letting a hand come up to rub over his mouth. "Jesus Ty," he murmurs, "you gotta' go to the cops, tell 'em what happened. What the fuck are you going to do, man, what the fuck would Libby say?" When Jim mentions that name, Tyler slowly turns, looking over his shoulder in a warning stare to the older, taller, and clearly bigger man. It's not a name to throw around lightly, it's not a name he wants to be thrown around at all.

"I— " He could, "I can't," but he doesn't want to. "I— I'm in some deep shit, with the Triads." Jim looks up from the floor, eyes wide, and he immediately starts to move away from the door to clear the distance between Tyler and himself.

"Jesus fuck Ty what the hell, Chinese fucking Mafia?" It's nothing short of sheer disbelief, "What the hell did you do?"

Tyler moves aside, just following the counter to divert from Jim's path, "I borrowed some money, a few grand I— " he nods his head to the jewelry, "they sent some thugs, leg-breakers, I— I'mw ay late on paying them back."

"Get out, Ty." Jim stops at the counter where Tyler was, hands pressed to the surface, sliding the jewelry back towards him, "Get out, before I call the fucking cops on you. I can't— " His face starts to turn red, "I can't believe you're fucking gambling again!" He slams his palms down on the edge of the glass case, turning to stare balefully at the younger man. "You remember what that fucking did to Lib? Do you remember?"

"I— " Tyler backs away, away from the jewelry, away from Jim, away from everything. "Keep it," he hisses, pushing his shoulder against the door to the front parking lot, even as the man by the counter just stares down at the pile of assorted jewelry, listening to the electronic chime signaling the door open ring through the pawn shop.

Even as he hear the door slam, and Tyler's hurried footsteps fade away, Jim is given pause. It's not until he looks up, seeing no sign of the young man in the dark lot that he reaches for the phone nearby, quietly dialing the number for the NYPD.

"Sorry Ty… you need help."

March 12th: Pissing Contest

Previously in this storyline…
Greasing Wheels

Next in this storyline…
No Rest For The Non-Wicked

March 12th: Godspeed
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