Participants:
| Scene Title | Business |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sable and Tommy transact. |
| Date | July 24, 2010 |
Another sunny and hot July afternoon. Hot enough to keep the aged thug in the vicinity of the fountain, with just enough breeze to take the edge off, and occasionaly give him the relief that the spraying water provides. Killing time, working the crowd as usual, murmuring a mantra to all those that come within earshot. 'Pandemic, got dat Pandemic…' Every so often there's a customer, and he takes some cash from them, flashing a sign to one of his homeboys. You don't work alone, after all, that would be dumb.
Saturday rolls 'round, and though hours are available, Sable figures that doing the job of the two-armed with just one has earned her something like a break. She can't play, so vices are all that are left to her for distraction. At least, vices are all that come to mind.
Now let's be clear - Sable doesn't usually get mixed up with true thugs, true crime. A girl of her dimensions wouldn't even be given the time or chances to learn from such a mistake - she's 'known better' on instinct and common sense, the former which she has a fair bit of, the latter which kicks in from time to time when survival is involved. But living outside the law means you brush up against those that work actively in opposition to it. She recognizes the signs. She knows the terms. She's streetwise, or as streetwise as you can reasonably expect.
The fountain, however, initially draws Sable because of its cooling effects. She peers into its depths. Cleaner now than last time she was here… Taking note of the older miscreant comes second, but with that notice comes a sudden and clear interest. She sidles up to him, casual-like.
"Whatcha got, in th' way 'f green?" she inquires, regarding him out of the corner of her weird yellow eyes.
It's too hot to wear bulky clothes, so it's likely that the aged thug isn't packing heat today. Or at least if he is it's a tiny little piece that will fit in the pocket of his ghetto-fashionably sagging jeans, barely held on the jut of narrow hips by a hand-tooled leather belt with a large squared off buckle. But then, he's not working alone, is he? The black wife-beater that should be hanging just-so from his shoulders is stuck to his skin, either from the dampness of the fountain, or the sweat rolling off his body. Not the best day to be working outside, huh.
His singsong mantra never stops, barely carrying over the white-noise hissing of the fountain, a chant of 'Pandemic, got dat Pandemic heah,' every thirty seconds or so. Until he's approached, oh-so casually. Brown eyes turn on the girl, checking hands first, then the eyes in a long ingrained habit that's help keep him alive. Checking for a weapon, then intent. he relaxes just a little, as he responds, 'Do I know you?' The shake of his head is followed by a request that's not that uncommon for dealers who don't want to be caught on tape. 'Show me your tits. And turn around.'
Sable gives the thug a very dry look, "Pat me down if y' gotta, asshole," she says, with a world weary lilt to her voice, "I ain't showin' y' shit, though. I ain't after H 'r nothin'. Jesus, what th' fuck d' I look like? You want me t' take my fuckin' business t' a college campus 'r somethin'?" She hocks, and spits into the fountain's water, "I'm talkin' a simple, small scale fuckin' transaction here. Jesus."
'Two strikes, baby,' Tommy explains. 'One more and I be's out. Gotta be careful these days.' He gives the woman a careful once over, shoulders rolling in a bit of a shrug as he moves to cop a bit of a feel. Or so it would seem to an outside viewer as he gives Sable a quick and professional pat down for weapons or transmitters. 'I wouldn't even be out here if Poot hadn't got pinched las' night,' he offers as he finishes up. 'I got Pandemic bags,' he offers, assuming he doesn't find a transmitter. 'Northern Lights #5 crossed with Lolli's Pop buds. Piney highs, slow let downs. Two hundred fifty a bag, one fifty for a half.'
Sable complies with the offered pat-down with a bland acquiescence. She is, at least, happy that he didn't take liberties. He appears to be a man of business, she can appreciate that. "I dig," she states, "I'll be less fuckin' contentious, eh?" Her expression lightens somewhat at the product description, but darkens at the price. "Fuckin'-A. What's that t' y', hazard wages? Jesus…"
She slips a hand into her pocket, thumbing out bills inside her pocket before turning towards the fountain, drawing out the appropriate amount with her back to the world, the thug and the angel on the waters this transaction's only witnesses. "I'll take a bag. Fuckin' bitch t' leg out here. You give a steady customer discount, boy?" The inaccuracy of this age-based nickname doesn't seem to perturb her, nor is it used with any sort of irony. Just the word she uses.
Brown eyes flicker away from Sable as the thug glances over her shoulder and past her, checking out the foot traffic in the area. Can't be too safe, after all. 'Th'price is th'price, you don't like it, go to NYU an' see if they give you the weight. Or to the Dredheds an' see if what they got is really herb.' Shoulders roll as Tommy shrugs, reaching for the wad of bills. He barely scans them before stuffing them into a pocket, mostly making sure they all have the right color and feel rather than taking the time to count. His hand comes out empty, other than a cheap looking business card that's mostly blank, just a ten digit phone number on it.
'You want a lower price, you dial this number and someone will meet you, shawty. You wan't a bulk discount, we can do that too. You want fleeced, you come out and buy it in th'park in the middle of the day when everyone can see what's going on.' His hand dissapears behind his back, flashign a sign to someone, somewhere, after which he points towards a jogging path that meanders into the woods. 'Take a walk dat way, mah man will find and take care of you.'
Sable gives a low snicker at the thug's words, and a small nod. "Arright. Fleeced 's fine, 's long 's we're fuckin' clear on th' matter." She palms the card and slips it into one of her pockets, "I pay my fuckin' dues." Her eyes dart over to 'his man', and she taps the side of her nose, "Take it easy, eh?" And she sidles off to complete the deal.
It's not a man that takes care of Sable, in fact it's barely a kid. One of the twelve year-old BMX riders who are all over every park in America does the business, handing off a package once she turns two corners. And begs for a tip, like they're prone to do.
Sable slips the kid a twenty, which she can't precisely afford, but she has sympathy for the lower rungs, and for misspent youth in general. "Fuckin' listen t' some decent music," is the advice she passes along with the bill, slipping her newly bought bag into her big cargo pant pocket. Business concluded.