Bribe Him With Beer


nick_icon.gif raith_icon.gif

Scene Title Bribe Him With Beer
Synopsis … a good idea in theory, but not when the beer is Natural Ice. Nick York takes down a request for Walsh from the King of Swords.
Date August 3, 2010

Port Ivory

Port Ivory is not a place most people would go in search of anything, primarily because there's nothing to be found. No businesses, no people, nothing. Of course, for the few people that know exactly where to look, Port Ivory's a pretty good place to go in search of things.

When the side entrance of the warehouse that has been claimed, tentatively, by Daniel Walsh is thrown open with a 'bang!,' it's Jensen Raith that steps through the portal. "Hey, Walsh!" he shouts, not at all surprised that the warehouse floor is not covered top to bottom in guns. The ones the Irishman does keep on hand in the port are all safely hidden away in the walls, under the floor, and who knows where else. "Walsh, I need an ordering form! I know you're here, you son of a Brit, I heard you from outside!" An odd choice of insult, to be sure.

From a back corner where he's organizing a shipment of the guns to delivery to another member of the cell, Nick glances up, hollering in a standard American accent, "Hold on!" as he draws his own weapon, just in case the friendly greeting is a trap. Boxes and crates keep him from seeing the entrance, and he leans against a stack of crates to catch sight of who it is yelling. Raith, while he doesn't appear to be harmless, doesn't look to be trying to threaten anyone.

Nick tucks the gun in his waistband and steps around the crates. "Walsh ain't here," he tells the older man. "He'll be back later if you need him in particular, or I can help you, maybe." He gives a shrug of one shoulder, as he appraises Raith carefully; he can't place the man's face among those in his inner mind of the pictures he's been told to keep an eye out for, but he'll check again later.

Raith really doesn't look dangerous, black suit with no tie, oddly mixed with worn, black combat boots, dark, round-lensed sunglasses and, of all things, a good-sized insulated lunch box hanging from his shoulder by a strap. The ex-spy listens to the explanation for why he's not talking to Walsh, and apparently deciding the explanation is satisfactory, swings the door shut behind him and removes his shades as he steps in. "Just maybe you can," he says, unzipping the lid of his, dinner? "What's your name, son?"

Nick glances at the motley outfit curiously. His own attire is less of a mix: faded jeans, black boots, a black t-shirt, black sunglasses hooked on the collar that looks just a tiny bit stretched out. "York," he says simply enough, last name seeming to suffice in his mind. "And yeah, kinda 'new,' so we can get that joke out of the way; I already heard it. Fuckin' hilarious, right?" He does offer a smile that doesn't quite meet his tired-looking blue eyes.

"So. Walsh expecting you? He didn't say shit to me, except that he'd be back in a while. Might be soon. Might be hours. Might be tomorrow. Whatcha need?"

"No, that fairy never expects me. He never turns down a sale from me either, though, so it balances." Before Raith even bothers launching into whatever that order might be. He reaches a hand into his lunchbox and brings out something that Nick may or may not have been expecting to see, or at least something that might not surprise him. "You drink Natural Ice?" the ex-spy asks, holding out in offering, a can of what looks like might be some very inexpensive beer.

"Tastes like shit, but it's fuckin' hot in here, so if you're offering, I'm drinking," says Nick easily enough. After all, the best way to get in with the locals is to get drunk with the locals, right? Or at least accept their gifts of cheap beer. He accepts the can, short nails catching on the tap to open it. Bringing it to his mouth, he takes a couple of swallows, only grimacing a little bit as he turns back to Raith.

"Thanks. And you are?" Nick asks, swapping the can to his left hand so he can offer his right for a handshake.

"Anyway, I need a few things." Another can comes out, and Raith happily pops it opened. "Big things, if Walsh can get them. Or if you can get them, in the event he can't or won't. Get something to write with, I've got a list." A list he brought with him, fishing a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket while he takes a long swig of his own drink. The first one goes down pretty rough.

"No promises, on his behalf or my own, but I'll see what I can do," Nick says, moving to a table that serves as a desk of sorts and grabbing a pen and a pad of paper. taking another swig of the beer — it is warm in the warehouse, if not as warm as it is outside, so while the beer is definitely not going to be on any connoisseur's top 10, it's cold and wet, and sometimes that's enough.

Nick leans against the table, clicks the pen to the "on" position, and ticks a brow up at Raith. "Shoot."

"Need more barrels for the M60, unless you can get me a replacement weapon altogether. I'd prefer that, really," Raith begins, briefly glancing over his list. "We need some more stun grenades, figure ten ought to do it. We'll need those soon, so if you could rush it, that'd be great. Need more ammo for the Browning M2, need more five-fifty-six. A lot more five-fifty-six, actually. Two thousand rounds would be good. I want a Protecta shotgun, or at least a Stryker if one of those cannot be found, I'll handle the shells myself." Raith pauses to take another swig, and apparently, to give 'New York' some time to catch up and brace himself.

"We'll also need an RPG-7 and some HEAT." Because nothing says 'inconspicuous' like a rocket launcher and anti-tank rockets.

The pen scribbles down the order, Nick looking like a waiter trying to take a very complicated order. This isn't what he's really here for, of course, but it's certainly curious. "Just some light shopping, huh?" he says, one brow ticking up at Raith as he jots down the last word, then taps the pad of paper twice with the end of the pen. "And how much 'heat' are you looking for on the RPG? Quantity-wise, I mean, unless it's a standard order and the leprechaun knows what to get you."

"Well, that's trickier, because it's anything but standard. As much as he can scare up, really. At least five, depending. Dangerous times we're living in. Can never be too prepared for anything." One more, long swig, and then the ex-spy crushes the can, having powered through his beer in record time. It goes down rough, so best to get it out of the way fast. "Some more Semtex, if it's in season. If he has issues with that, tell the bastard it's for a mutual acquaintance of ours, and I intend to deliver it compression wave first." A beat missed. "Here, listen, how long ago did you sign on with him? You'd think he would've mentioned something like a hired hand."

"Five or as many as he can get, then," Nick says, jotting down the rest of the order. "How much Semtex—" he begins to ask, stepping over the question that Raith poses, and then he stops and looks up from his notepad. "I brought in some cargo from down south, and that was the end of that gig, so I asked if he had something for me to do for him, that I'd run shit for him if he needed," he says with a shrug. "Not much else goin' on and the economy's shit so what else am I gonna do, right?"

Nick reaches for the can of foul-tasting beer and chugs a couple more swallows to finish it out. He juts his chin at the ex-spy. "So who do I say this shit's for? I can't give you a number on it 'til I run it by him, but you probably know the drill. Me, I'm just the help. Can't be trusted with numbers yet."

"Here here. Five kilos of plastique, if he can get it. Just tell him it's for the King of Swords, he'll know who I am. If he has any questions, he knows how to get ahold of me, too." Another short pause, and Raith breaks the silence by pulling another can put of the lunch box and placing it down, apparently for Nick to drink whenever he feels like it. "You seem like an alright sort of guy, York," he decides, "Just to ask, but what else do you do besides this?"

"The King of … Swords," Nick repeats, arching a brow at the strange moniker. "I hope he knows who that is and that's not some prank to make me look like a tool, man." He gives a crooked smirk, and a nod of thanks at the can of beer set down on the table.

"I got me a job down at the docks. You know, longshoreman. Only part time since I don't have any seniority, but I figured between that and this, I might be all right. It's an expensive city, though, so donno how long I'll stay. See what this does for me. Might lead to bigger and better, right?"

"Very well may." Without any prompting, bam. Another can comes out of Raith's lunch box and is left for Nick to take whenever he pleases. Not that he ever might please to drink Natural Ice. "I might have some work for you, some time. Can't promise it'll be as honest as this is, even. The pay probably won't be great either. But, if you know your way around a firearm, and know anything about 'cleaning,' you can make some extra cash from it, at least. And that, too, might lead to bigger and better things."

Nick's dark brows quirk up again at the addition of another beer — not that it's a bribe, surely, at just 50 cents a can! But he crosses his arms, fingers tapping on his biceps as he seems to consider the offer. "I can shoot," he says, with a small shrug. "And I can match a picture to a real person and find a bullet with the person's name on it, if the pay was right. I don't think me and Walshie are in an exclusive relationship, so, you know, you know where to find me if you need me. Dock 57 or here — if I'm not one, I'm at the other."

"Dock 57," Raith repeats with a nod, "Got it." And out of the lunch box comes… nothing. The King of Swords zips it shut, and it appears that three is the point at which Nick is cut off. "Like I said, York, you're alright. I think I'll be looking you up again really soon. Try to stay alive until then. It's dangerous out there-" A pointed finger towards the walls of the warehouse- "Don't you know?"

"Yeah. It's a rough world out there," Nick says. "I'll tell Walsh you stopped by, your Majesty. Thanks for the beer. Maybe. Depends on if I can take the aftertaste out of my mouth." He grins, and once more the humor doesn't quite make it into those bright eyes that look just a touch too world-weary for someone of Nick's apparent youth. "I better get back to work. Unless there's anything else you need? Oh, any deadline you need this stuff by? You planning on invading Canada or something with all that?" He tosses the notepad onto the desk, theoretically to wait for Walsh's return.

"I need the Semtex, stun grenades and the five-fifty-six ASAP. The rockets no later than the end of September. Everything else as it comes." What more does Raith need to say? Nothing, apparently. He's already turned and is moving back towards the way he first entered. "Take care of yourself, York. Don't let Walsh push you around too much. Bribe him with beer if you have to."

"Sure thing. Have a good one, Majesty," says the new kid in town to Raith's retreating form. Nick gives a dubious glance to the beer — bribery using alcohol might work, but he's pretty sure that, while Walsh is a walking piece of shit, he has a better palate than that. After all, he almost has to.

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