Participants:
| Scene Title | Diamonds Aren't a Boy's Best Friend |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Smedley sets up a meet with Kelly to discuss a business proposition. |
| Date | July 18, 2010 |
The Sunday night patrons of strip clubs are of a certain breed. Some call them desperate. Others, creepy. But those that know them know that they are simply dedicated to their chosen goddesses. It's not their fault those goddesses wear tiny panties, platform stilettos, and swing on poles to curry favor with their worshipers.
But Smedley isn't here to worship at any shrine to the female form. So rather than sit along the catwalk, he's tucked himself into one of the leather booths while he waits for the rest of his party to arrive. But that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the offerings of the establishment. Grinning like a sly cat, Wes Smedley leans back against the cushioned booth and gazes at the curvy college student who's dancing her heart out to "Got Money" while enjoying a glass of something amber colored, on the rocks.
While Kelly doesn't normally frequent places like Burlesque, she doesn't seem to have the reaction to it that a number of women would have. She's entirely comfortable. No blushing, no averting her eyes from the scantily clad women. It's just another club to her. Her cover charge is paid, and the escort to a table waved off. No, she's not here to enjoy the show. She's here for business.
She moves slowly while she looks around, until she spots Smedley, then she moves purposefully towards his booth, and slides into the side opposite him. "Should I even bother asking why you wanted to meet here?" she asks in the flat tone that is normal for her.
All he does is shrug, his smile and gaze unwavering. "Could be educational if you did." Smedley takes another sip from his glass, then proffers it. "Want anything?" He turns as he sets it down, his smile fading from his eyes despite his lips staying taut. All the same, his eyes don't meet Kelly's, but rather, stay focused either on her nose, her forehead, or someplace in the middle distance between them. "It's public. It's loud. And places like this are more likely to only have the really good cameras in the V.I.P. rooms. Also, I'm not a regular. Dunno if you are, but I'm gonna assume you're not. So, the chances of our little meet'n being documented or found out about'r closer to the slim side'a none."
The smile returns to his eyes, and Smedley winks. "It's nice to see you again, Kelly. Want a bit'a work?"
"Educational? How do you figure?" Kelly asks, head tilting slightly. "And I don't know. You going to look me in the eyes at some point tonight? I don't take a job if I can't trust that I'm not going to get stabbed in the back, and I don't trust anyone who can't look me in the eyes." Of course, she doesn't actually trust anyone, but that can be her little secret.
The question rocks Smedley to his heels, or rather to his back, given that he's seated. He frowns, and is able to meet Kelly's eyes for the briefest of moments, but he doesn't give any explanation as to why it's difficult. How can he? Instead, he clears his throat into a fist.
"If anyone stabs you in the back, you can bet it won't be me. Hell, any sane man'd want to be looking at your frontside if and when they didja in. Not that.. I would ever do you in…"
That didn't come out right. Smedley takes another drink and squints as too much liquid hits his throat all at once.
"Anyway," he half sighs, "So I got this lunchbox. On a job. Kinda silly now that I think about it, but hey, it had a good payout, and it's a fucking lunchbox. But it's given me nothin' but trouble, and I need help trackin' down why that is."
There's the faintest of smirks. "You couldn't do me in. There are all types of backstabbing. I abhor any of them being used against me. That's all," Kelly says, shrugging. "And what sort of trouble has this lunchbox caused? People trying to steal it back or something?"
"For one," Smedley says with a bit of a squeak along with a squint and a one-shouldered shrug. "Waste of skin asshole blew up my damned boat. Took a bunch of stuff, but he knew the box was special. Idgit buried in his yard like a bone. Then, when I'm about to make delivery, these…joggers blow a hole through my contact's head."
Smedley glances into the bar proper and squints through the darkness, though the volume of the music and the preoccupation of both the employees and other club patrons mean their pretty safe from eavesdroppers. "It's got Transformers on it - the lunchbox. And I was asked to pick it up. Not what's in it. That was just a special surprise for yours truly. Anyway, the job came for the lunchbox. Old school. Tin. You know the kind."
Kelly frowns a little, nodding slightly as she listens. "What is in it? And what the hell is so special about this lunchbox? Is it a collector's item? Though even then I can't imagine that it would be worth enough money to go through this amount of trouble to get. You can probably get one on eBay for a hundred bucks or something."
A laugh makes the lines near Smedley's eyes pop out, even in the shadows at the back of the club. "Well, yeah, but I'm tellin'ya, the job was for the box. Box's too dinged up to be worth anything decent, collector-wise. Besides, what the hell kind of person hires a man like me to find a collector's item. Believe you-me, the price? The price came from what was in it.
"And I don't rightly know what exactly it is, but I do know given the price tag and bullets attached to this thing, I ain't tellin' you much more without a solid answer. I'd like to think that there still might be a bit of honor amongst our lot, despite what they say."
Eyes narrow ever so slightly and Kelly studies Smedley's face for a long moment. "If I take the job, what's in it for me? You know I don't do anything for free. You can't survive on goodwill."
"Well now," Smedley says with a bit of that old smile. "That depends on how much of the job you do. If you find out what bit of glowy-goodness someone'd decide to stick in a beat up ol' lunchbox for safe keeping, you might be in on the cut if we can round up a fence for it. If you help to sort out this mess'a people trying to fill me full'a bullets over it, then your cut gets a bit bigger." The smile widens. "Assumin' the inital quote on the job was hittin' low, we're talkin' at least fifty grand. More, if it's as crazy as it looks. Like I said. I don't know. That's where you come in. More eyes and ears I've got lookin' and listenin' and askin' various questions with discreet amounts of force applied with extreme talent, the better."
There's a long moment where Kelly simply thinks that over, then she nods once, the barest of movements. "Okay, I'm in. So give me the rest of the info, Smedley. What's in the box? And do you have any idea who it was who tried to take you out? If you do, I can deal with that easily enough."
"The Staten Island fucktard is just that - a fuctard." Though Smedley clearly harbors some ill will toward him. "Geoffrey Metzger. I can give you his address, but unless he's got friends in high places, I think he's just some nobody tryin' to get a leg up. Not worth your time." Smedley sighs then, shaking his head. "Don't have anything on the guys who offed my contact, other'n that there four of 'em, all in their thirties, maybe. Big bastards, but kinda yuppies. They were jogging.
"Contact's name was Claude Frambois. First job I'd ever done with him. Found me at the Pelican. Heard about my work, and was offerin' a pretty penny for that lunchbox, plus a ton of other stuff. But the lunchbox was special." Smedley pauses to polish of his drink, and just in time to wave the waitress on by.
He leans closer then, dropping his voice to whisper. "It's got this weird sort'a diamond in it, only it's not like any diamond I've ever seen. It's…kinda yellow, and it's crazy shiny. Unreal, in a way. But there's this electronic junk inside it, which is even weirder. And it's got flashy lights."
"What other stuff did he want? You sure that shit wasn't special too?" Kelly asks, brows lifting slightly. "And I hate to be the one to break it to you, but if what's in that lunchbox is electronic, then it's not a diamond. Diamonds are minerals, and natural. Electronics are manmade. And hold on just one sec…If the contact was offed, how the hell are you planning on getting paid for this little job?" she asks, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, and lighting one up.
"Simple. Sell it to the highest bidder. S'clear that there's more than one person interested in this damned thing." Smedley shrugs at that, as if it's the easiest answer he's given since this whole thing began. "It may not be a diamond, but it sure as hell looks like one. I ain't tried to break it yet, but I ain't gonna try either. The other shit he wanted was standard shit. Medical grade drugs, ammo. That shit. All dropped off someplace in Staten. But the box, he wanted that delivered all personal-like."
Kelly makes an uninterested noise at the other items Smedley was hired to get. Standard shit is boring because it's…well…standard. "Where you got this diamond? I wanna get a look at it before I start poking around, trying to find out who's after it and trying to off you. And tell me you've got it someplace safe. Because if you don't, I might just have to shoot you myself for being an idiot and bringing me into something while being an idiot."
"Kelly~," Smedley coos, looking at the bridge of the woman's nose. "Would I ever do such a horrible thing to such a pretty girl? But yeah, sure. I got it someplace safe. Might move it though…haven't decided. I can show you, so calm that itchy finger'a yours. I can meet you somplace tomorra', then take you to it?"
"Oh stop trying to charm me. Doesn't work. I'm too practical for that and you know it." Kelly considers for a moment then nods. "Okay, yeah. Tomorrow works. And it wasn't you not showing me that'd get you shot. It'd be you hiding it someplace unsafe. Lucky for you, I believe you, so there won't be any shooting tonight."
"Great!" And with that, the nigh-on legendary charm of Wes Smedley drops like a mask. "'Cause I am getting sick of being shot at. I mean, a break would be nice. Really. I'll get in touch with you tomorra' then?"
"Eh, you get used to it," Kelly says with a shrug. "But yeah, tomorrow, barring any emergencies at work, but I doubt it. Things have been pretty quiet lately."
"Maybe some'a that'll rub off on me," Smedley says with a chuckle, turning back to his original position in the booth and raising his glass to summon the waitress back. "See you soon, Kelly. Watch your back out there." He winks again, emphasizing the occupational joke in the phrase, before returning his full attention to the dancer on stage and the drink on the table.