Participants:
| Scene Title | Blindside |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A conversation that starts well enough… |
| Date | January 8, 2011 |
The crisp winter air of the late afternoon gusts into the lobby of the Corinthian as those large double-doors permit patrons entrance for business of one kind or another. Saturday, however, is, for most, generally a day of leisure, not business, bringing most of the patrons to the grand hotel for some measure of pleasure. The crowd appears moderately different than those appearing through the course of the work week. Moderate being the key word. Business casual appears to be the general dress code for the Saturday-goers. And perhaps, there's a slight slowness about them, a small respite from the hustle and bustle of New York City's reputation as the city that never sleeps. Not that the Corinthian is quiet.
In fact, today it's quite the opposite with people meeting for various reasons. Like dinners. And gambling. And drinking— some leftover from the night before.
Bradley Russo's appearance, however, reflects his sense in being here, somewhere between business and pleasure. His thick wool peacoat had been unbuttoned shortly after walking through the metal detectors, leaving his navy suit jacket, white tie, and matching dress pants to peek out underneath it. The rubber soles of his shoes squeak nearly irritably underneath the slow pacing he's been at for awhile as he glances at his wrist. Yet even in this presumed impatience, he wears that brilliant-always-white-flash-of-teeth smile generally reserved for the cameras, exercising at least a small measure of patient restraint.
After checking his watch again— the second time in less than a minute— he tucks his hands inside his jacket pockets and suppresses the sigh on his lips, letting his guard down against the dimpled grin. It only lasts a moment before he leans against one of the white-coloured walls.
It's never too early to start drinking.
At least Logan has something of an excuse, without even being an alcoholic! Which is great for him. Mostly, he is a nocturnal creature, and though that would mean that the gin and tonic he is nursing in the waning afternoon is breakfast, his sense of social propriety regarding when it's okay to have a glass of wine is somewhat skewed in the first place. That and he does things that aren't strictly okay at any hour. In some other corner of the hotel, namely a part that has a bar, Logan is slouched against the wooden edge and staring into where ice makes patterns in soda and liquor, turning it around in slow increments.
And then he looks up. Technopathy works at a constant, and the only priority given the infinite source of information at his fingertips is how much Logan can put up with without going comatose, and his own installed walls of importance. A phone number resting snug in Russo's pocket pings like a beacon.
"Fucker."
"What?"
"Not you."
Downing the last mouthful of icy gin and tonic, Logan leaves bewildered bartender behind in sudden animation. He isn't drunk, mind. Drunk is a poor excuse for anything. He's a darkly dressed figure in a greatcoat with more weight to it than strictly required, a suit beneath that with a splash of colour in the form of cheetah print satin that makes up his shirt, shown in a V beyond black waistcoat. Being kind of skinny and not overly tall, there's nothing physically intimidating about him save for a kind of certainty and confidence in his movement, underlined by lower class aggression in basic things like walking.
Which is why he accidentally shoulderchecks a fur-wearing hotel goer on his way into the foyer, the small "ah!" from the woman echoing off the high ceilings and white walls.
Logan's steps and generally aggressive posture don't really garner Brad's attention. In fact, his pale blue eyes, nearly grey in this light, turn up expectantly towards the stairs, intent in their purpose. It isn't until that sound, the exclamation from the woman reverberating among the walls, that he even takes notice. His entire head turns while scrutinizingly, his eyes narrow slightly. Yet again, Logan hardly warrants attention. Russo isn't unfamiliar with men in or leaving bars doused in alcohol looking for a fight.
The best thing to do with a drunk? Ignore them.
Avoid eye contact.
These are Brad's strategies as he links his arms over his chest and physically turns to watch the stairs. He whispers quietly, as his rocks slightly on the balls of his feet, "C'mon Nicole— "
"Oy!"
And he's English, as announced in Logan's choice of attention getting. It barks sharp across the foyer to Russo, which gets the attention of those with little labels on their jackets that mark them out as employees here, but nothing more than that — it's just one of the mobsters that bring in the other money, with enough employees in on such a conspiracy that he really just gains a dirty look for being loud and not much more than that. His foot falls are sharp, too, as he heads for where Russo is all.
Leaning. And shit. Like he owns the place. "Yeah, you, I'm talking to you. Bradley Russo." In case there was any doubt. Logan is at least conversational by that point, steps slowing and a smile in his voice and on his face, ice-green eyes betraying nothing of that mirth. "Man of your measure, they surely can't be making you wait for your room, can they?"
Oy.
The expression echoes over Brad's thoughts once uttered by his drunken copatriate. His name, however, is what actually gets his attention. He gives the stairs one last glance before twisting his entire body away from them, facing Logan in turn. Nearly warily, his hands drop to his sides, but he manages a tight-lipped smile, and general good humour reflects in his eyes. He presses his palms agains the wall, pushing off from it, the stationary wallflower left behind.
"Nah," he manages with a lopsided grin, and a tight shake of his head. "There are more important things to wait for than a room," he counters as his eyebrows escalate. The smile tightens further into a near grimace as he actually inspects Logan. "But there's nothing wrong with waiting."
That last swallow of gin is quick to work a little magic on his bloodstream, but outwardly, Logan looks sober. His pale eyes are clear and focused— maybe too focused, scanning the Americanly shiny quality of the other man's smile, the contours and planes of his face which is familiar enough if you watch some TV. "Well, I'm a big fan of yours," he demures distractedly. "I was going to offer them to hurry up quick, but then again, now that I think about it, your studio isn't unfamiliar with the management. 'm sure you've got plenty've sway on your own.
"Name's John Logan, how do you do?" Chipper enough, he puts out a hand to shake.
The magic words yield a different sparkle, a slight twinkle in Russo's eyes alight at the notion of having a fan. But that's about where the spark of pride ends, outwardly, anyways. His smile grows slightly as he takes the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake. "Pleasure to meet you." And even though Logan already knows his name, he reintroduces himself anyways, this time with far less formality, "Brad." His tone is also chipper, upbeat, even.
"Yeah, the Studio keeps its friends close." For good reason. "So you work with the management, I take it?"
The handshake is certainly real, a subtle squeeze of the Brit's left hand to Russo's, although the fact that Logan can't do anything with it, power temporarily hijacked in place of another that can't do anything immediately bad to Bradley than delete his contacts list, let alone make the owner of the device insane, or falling over with giddiness, or induced into a panic attack, is a problem. It would be probably be easier if he could, but rather his right hand sinks deep into coat pocket instead.
Left hand released in the same time a soft metallic snk of telescoping baton clicking into place is heard, and then, a truly heartless swing across, left to right, designed to crack teeth and bone in its honest trajectory for Russo's expensive face. A smile cuts quick across his face, showing canines.
The quick motion of the baton is met with an equally quick reach of Russo's right hand hand, grasping the metal with a strong grasp. It will bruise later, but it won't break his face and ruin his bread and butter in the process. Jaw tightening, breath becoming ragged, and smile transforming, his steel blue eyes try to catch Logan's green ones, intent in purpose. There is no blinking, no retreat of gaze to the stairs, no distraction, just his hand on the baton, clasping tightly, whitening his knuckles underneath the pressure. But his eyes don't relent, suspicion and anger reflecting within them.
Several onlookers stop and gape as the two men stand there at some kind of impasse.
Russo's jaw doesn't relent. His teeth clench, and through them he hisses, "Don't cross me."
Breath catches high in Logan's lungs as the swing is denied its follow through despite the fleshy smack of baton to face and palm, momentum jarring him but unwilling to break his own white-knuckled grip on the steel weapon held between them. Smiles turn to mere showings of teeth in the same motion as violence, and green eyes reflect little back than piqued interest and a sort of 'caught me' guilt that has little to do with conscience. "Oh, pretty boy," he says, where the t's both drop out of his Brixton pronunciation like they were left behind somewhere between throat and teeth in the word's formation. "This isn't close to crossing you."
One of the men at the door, someone with a wire in his ear, is making steps over now, mouth open to bid the gentlemen to break it up when an electronic whine pierces through his headpiece, a ragged and surprised startle having the man in his suit reeling back from it, Logan's pupils dilating in the same moment.
His thumb seeks out the button lock at the handle, and his own protesting pull is accompanied by attempted mechanical collapse.
"What the hell is your problem?!" is also hissed through those clenched teeth. The snap of the baton against his hand is met with the slightest flinch, minimized only by the wonder drug, adrenaline, streaming through his system. Russo's gaze, however, maintains on Logan. His body maintains its stiffness, even as he lowers his hand. The slightest motion can be seen in his fingers while they ball into fists, defensive in nature, but maintained by his sides, closely regarded against his body. Without thinking, he naturally takes his former fight club stance, one foot edging further than the other, staggering his footing for better balance. His chin drops slightly, lowering his stance in the event that this other man will strike again for no apparent reason. None of this is conscious, it's merely a reaction of muscle memory. And it's just as much a reaction when his fists actually raise tighter to his chest, prepped to defend that which actually makes him money— those boyish good looks.
His eyes narrow and his eyebrows crease together while his lips curve into a grim smile. Always a smile, which more than John Logan would like to wipe from his 'pretty boy' face.
Logan has no such training, no such instinct, simply stepping back as Russo falls into that stance with a look of interest shining in a glance up and down; a kind of coyote assessment of threat. Does he want to get into fisticuffs with a man who knows he's coming? The answer, if Logan's own stance is to be of any judge — very upright, a subtle lean away so as best to look him over, and shoulders slack beneath his great coat — that would be a no.
Cowardly, but true. "Relax, Rocky," he says, voice taking on a velvet tone that is no less threatening than the silkiness of a snake's movements would be. He rocks back a few steps, flipping the retracted baton around. "'s just say that'll teach you before dipping your pen in comp'ny ink. 'specially when the CEO's a crimelord, or didn't you hear?"
A glance for the stairwell might check for the soon arrival of Nicole Nichols, although she isn't visible by the time Logan's top lip curls in a sneer, and he's turning on a heel and headed for the door. Getting the police called in response of random acts of violence being something that he theorises to only happen to other people.
The other man's stance has Russo straightening, a single eyebrow ticking upwards, while his hands are lowered to his side. His pale blue peepers narrow at Logan's retreat. A quick glance is given to the stairs, but there's no sign of Nicole, beckoning Brad forward, traipsing after his near assailant, his jaw finally unhinging for actual words, dripped in some pent-up passion reduced ignited through the suppression of fisticuffs and the (formerly) impending fight, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about! You're delusional! I can't even imagine what you mean— exactly."
There's a curl to his lips even in his anger, an odd permanent smile even in sadness, desperation, and, evidently, anger. A single finger extends towards Logan while he closes the distance, "Or is that how you operate? Blindside the other guy, Distract him while his guard is down, then retreat when he's actually aware enough to defend himself?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
Good assessment, Bradley. "Don't follow me, anchorman," is both threat and warning, tossed over his shoulder. Logan is at least partially sure that that's what Russo is, in any event, snking open his baton in absent fidget before sliding back in as he heads for the doors, obviously intent on making it all the way out into the chilly, hazy afternoon barring being physically prevented from doing so. Russo's eyes can probably pick out telltale signs of tension, even through greatcoat, that communicate Logan half-expects it.
There's a twitch in Brad's lips as he takes another step forward, just one. It's not in his nature to seek out a fight. Not anymore. While he could feel insulted, retaliate for the intentioned hit, and generally enter into a pissing contest, he's expecting Nicole and he's left Delia home still recovering. There's no fidget when decisively, Russo turns on his heel, back to his perch along the wall like the wall flower he's trying to be. Still on edge, his posture retains that tension, even as he reaches into his pocket to fish for his cellphone to place a call. To one Nicole Nichols. He needs to leave. With or without her.
There's a twitch of a glance back at the first sign of digital activity, but Logan's instinct to flyswat the connection of the air is tempered only by listening in as he pauses outside to pocket baton and get out his cigarette. A match, this time, rather than a lighter, discarded with a spiral of flickering flame by the time he's inhaling smoke, and continuing down the pavement.
Bugger, is really all he can think to himself. It would have been nice, to get in a really good snap of bone.
But there's always next time.