Boozey Breakfast


seamus_icon.gif smedley_icon.gif

Scene Title Boozey Breakfast
Synopsis Smedley and Seamus share a late breakfast, and Seamus shares a few pearls of wisdom for how Smedley can extend his life expectancy.
Date October 14, 2010

Shooters Bar and Bistro

A place that used to be a cafe and is making a slow progression towards being a dive bar. During the day, the balcony and a good portion of the sidewalk is taken up by outdoor chairs and tables, where people can enjoy a beer as well as a sandwich or whatever else is on their menu - a decent, if simply array of bar food. During the evening, unless it's a warm night, these are taken inside, and the kitchens are closed. A wide variety of beer is available, along with hard liquor and maybe a few wine labels, but nothing fancy. The interior decor is similar to traditional British pubs, with a hardwood bar and brick wall. There's an old pool table towards the back, along with a dart board. The building is actually two storeys high, but whatever is upstairs is inaccessible to the general public.

Not having Edgar around to haul merchandise means that Wes Smedley, unless he hires someone and takes the accompanying risk, has to make the trek into the Greenbelt to hide the goods from his latest job. This also means that as he sits in Shooters taking in a low-ball glass of whiskey before the suits on Manhattan start their 4:45 PM meetings, his boots and the hem of his jeans are caked in mud. It's that time of year, after all. Carson lies beneath his bar stool, his own paws dingy from their creek stomp.

He's about halfway through his glass when someone approaches him. They aren't far off from the usual Rookery riff-raff, but in exchange for a carefully palmed yet quite thick envelope that Smedley slips into an inside pocket of his leather jacket, the man receives a small sample of the goods in a tiny zippered bag a scrap of paper detailing the location of the rest.

The exchange takes as long as the barman needs to fetch the second man a drink, and then he's off with a nod as soon as he's traded a bill for a brew. But Smedley remains, sipping his whiskey as the dog beneath him snoozes.

It's a beautifully executed maneuver, subtle and practiced and almost artfully done. Too bad that, if a handoff like that is done exceptionally well, not a single soul notices it. Smedley will just have to be satisfied with his payment, and go without the adulation. Too bad, so sad.

One figure in particular would have taken an interest in the tradeoff, but he arrives just a moment too late into the bar. Seamus shoulders open the heavy door, hands rubbing at his cheeks to warm them up after the brisk walk through NYC's fall weather. It's not as cold as it would be in Ireland, but you still can feel the bite of autumn in your skin around here. Heading on in, he circles towards the bar, tugging off his fingerless gloves and trying to catch the bartender's attention. "Oy, barkeep! One to warm my core, eh?"

Heading directly for the bar, it's not long before Seamus notices Smedley there, though a look of confusion crosses his face as he gets mostly just a look at the back of Wes' head. This guy looks familiar somehow…

But Smedley turns it just as Seamus's eyes settle there, his attention pulled by the distinct accent. For as plentiful as those with Irish heritage are in the city, an accent as thick and un-diluted as Seamus's bears remembering. "You're Lex's brother, ain't'cha?" Smedley says with a slight narrowing his eyes as he lifts his glass to his lips, the amber liquid inside sloshing slightly. A smile tugs at one side of his mouth.

"I'd ask'yuh what's brought y'to Staten, but I'd be willin' to bet y'won't tell me. So I won't." It's common courtesy between men like them, anyway.

As Smedley turns, a lightbulb goes on over Seamus' head and smiles, coming up behind the other man with a hearty clap on the back, though perhaps a little harder than is necessary. "That I am! And you're th' fella I found alone in a basement with my sister a few days ago, aren't you?" The bartender, having just arrived with Seamus' drink, looks up at their exchange. He shoots a worried look from Seamus to Smedley, perhaps wondering if he should call the police before Smedley gets in danger of having his teeth knocked in. But Seamus simply slides up into the seat beside the other man, looking pleased as punch as he takes up his drink, taking a swig.

"Mmmmm…what, like it's hard t' figure out? The beer, 'course!" With it just being past lunchtime, Seamus is in danger of falling behind his drinking schedule. Or maybe it's something else, and the booze is just a good alibi. In return, Seamus doesn't ask in return, but instead nods to the glass in Smedley's hand. "What's your poison?"

Smedley can't help but chuckle - it's literally pushed out of him with Seamus's hand on his back. Carson lifts his head with a grunt, but when his master doesn't bristle or call to him, the dog melts into the scuffed hardwood floor once again. "Jim," Smedley says, lifting his glass in a mini-salute before he rests it on the bar top again.

"I got a hard time believin' you'll come all this way for a pint when you got your sister's fine ol' Irish sitting back across the Narrows." But Smedley doesn't press beyond that - it's enough to point out his skepticism.

"Two Jim Beam's," Seamus says with a headtilt to the bartender, "For me and my friend here." Grinning at Smedley over the lip of his brew, he knocks back a mouthful. "Mmmm… Naw see, that there is for the customer. That stuff is too damn good to be wasted on a lush like m'self. Like pouring it down the drain." His nose wrinkles as he says this, likely repeating some of it verbatim. "B'sides, s'not healthy to stay inside all day, yeah? Gotta get out, see the sights, and has there always been a dog under your chair and I just now noticed?" Leaning back, Seamus looks down at Carson with a quirked smirk.

Carson looks up at Seamus without lifting his head, and after a moment expels a sigh that would make any normal man cringe with pity. It's something dogs do - they can appear so pathetic even when they've got it made.

"S'Carson," Smedley says with a smile, nodding his thanks and lifting his drink for another sip. "Staten's 'bout the only place where he can run around without a leash n'nobody cares. He ain't used to bein' on the end of a lead, anyway. N'he's too old to keep one on 'im too much'uh the time."

Seamus's jaw tenses at that sigh, having to bite his tongue to not let out a very unmanly 'awwwww!' Pity certainly crosses his features and he looks up to Smedley. "Looks like he could use a treat. Does this place sell jerky? Yo, barkeep! Y'got anything for a carnivore to munch on? Or maybe a saucer of Guinness? He drinks, right?" This last is turned back to Smedley in an honest question.

"He drinks," Smedley says, looking sidelong at Seamus, "but water. He drinks water. He's a dog, Seamus. Not a horse." A horse, you can give beer to. "But he's playin' you. Don't you fall into those big brown eyes. Ain't no way out once you do. 'Sides, I think he caught himself a frog earlier. He'll be alright till dinner time."

Smedley polishes off his whiskey in time to take the second brought over by the barkeep, and he gives the other man one more thankful nod. "So this work your sis's got planned for me - you know anythin' about it? Care t'fill me in a little ahead of the game?"

"Shame, that. Had a gorgeous sheep dog back in Ireland that hung out at the pub. Retired, and would finish off your beer if you left it sit anywhere for too long." Smedley's warnings have Seamus raising his eyebrows in disbelief before looking down at Carson once more, this time more critically. He jabs two fingers at his eyes, then down to Carson's, and back. "I'm onto you, best watch yourself," he warns that adorably pitiful face.

Straightening back up, Seamus sees the whiskey put before him, and he nods happily to the barkeep. "Good way to start the day," he says, knocking back the rest of his beer to free his hands for the second course. Smedley's question get a shake of Seamus' head, making his shaggy brown hair sway. "I would, but it'd have to be someplace a little more private, yeah? Besides…I've got some catching up to do with you."

Back goes a mouthful of that whiskey, getting the Irishman to scrunch up his face, and come up with a cough and a sigh. "Ahhhh, that's Jim, alright. So how exactly did you make contact with Lexi, Wes?"

Is that why Seamus has come to Staten Island and walked into where Smedley's doing business for the day to have a boozy breakfast? Smedley straightens a little, then slams back what amounts to a few shots of whiskey in the low-ball. He sniffs, then breathes deep as the drink blazes a trail to his stomach. Finally, he wipes his forearm across his mouth and drops the glass to the table once more.

"Few months back. Needed a a gal like her when a job went south, and someone pointed me in her direction. She was newish in the game, and that worked to my advantage. But then she needed me to do what I do, and before you know it, we've got a steady stream of business flowin'." He turns to look at Seamus, a small smile eases onto his face. "Don't worry, Seamus. I've been where you're sittin'. Y'ain't got nothin' to worry about when it comes t'your sister, least where I'm concerned.'

Seamus watches that drink go back, swirling his around in his glass, leaning an elbow against the bar. Smedley's response gets him to smirk, clearing his throat of the lingering burn of the whiskey. "Good news, good news. Oh, you've been here? Fantastic, so y'know that this next part is mandatory."

Leaning over, Seamus slips an arm around the tipsy smuggler's shoulder, though it slips up, and Wes finds himself being dragged closer by his neck in a headlock. Nothing choking or painful, but he's not getting away without a fight, judging from how hard Seamus is holding him. "Y' keep your manners around my sister," he says through a clenched-teeth smile, his hushed voice a deep, dangerous growl even as he gives the curious bartender a friendly nod. "Nothin' personal against you, but she is a lady and y' treat her like one. That means y'keep your eyes on her face. I don' want to hear you calling her anything other than her name or occasionally maybe "ma'am". Respect her, and we won't have problems. Cozy?" That arm's not letting go just yet.

Smedley grunts, his nostril's flaring when Seamus's arm grips him. Carson lifts his head and barks once, the sound low. Smedley lifts a hand to the other man's arm, patting it once. Twice.

"Cozy," he says, his own voice lower and steadier with a higher degree of solemnity than before. He can't be upset with the other man - not when he knows he would do similar or worse if he had any reason to believe one of his own unmarried sisters was in such subtle danger.

This close, Smedley can get a good whiff of Seamus, whether he likes it or not. Soap, whiskey, the acrid residue of New York City, as well as some scents that he can't quite place, but trigger thoughts of danger and toxic fumes.

The Irishman fixes his eyes on his captured friend, not blinking until that second pat, his lips still pulled into a mirthless grin. "Good to hear." Giving Smedley's neck a quick squeeze, he loosens his hold and sits upright again, looking fairly pleased with himself. Though he does shift his calf away from Carson, giving the dog a wary look. Don't want to be near a dog when you just threatened his master, just in case. "How far in are you, and how long do I have to catch up?" Seamus asks, pointedly knocking back the rest of his whiskey, grunting lowly at the burn.

"Just the two," Smedley says as he slips off the stool and straightens his jacket, giving Seamus a brief view of the revolvers at his hips, holstered there in a tooled leather belt that looks like it came straight from the Old West. "You have a good breakfast, Seamus. Take care'uh yourself and that sister of yours." It's his turn to clap the man on the back now. "Thanks for the drink."

He whistles then, and Carson crawls out from under the stool to join his master, tail wagging and tongue lolling. "See y'around," he says with a nod before he turns and heads toward thedoor.

Seamus rocks a little from the clap on the shoulder, though he's giving those guns a good onceover, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. "And you, Wes. I 'spect we'll be seeing more of each other in the near future." As Smedley heads towards the door, Seamus smiles and leans back, raising a glass to Wes and calling after him, "Be safe, buddy! Watch where your ass is pointed, and don't take any wooden nickels!"

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