Fancy Business Cards


laura_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Fancy Business Cards
Synopsis You can't argue with 'em. Laura and Logan practice their day jobs during a security consultation.
Date August 26, 2009


There's an aura of backstageness that seems to settle within Burlesque when it's daylight and the hour hasn't yet turned even to the afternoon shifts, which doesn't mean to say that it's empty. There's a woman in a glittery pair of short shorts and a regular looking midriff T-shirt swinging herself around a pole with more flexibility than a woman with her salary should have, and two others of the same brand, as it were, nearby - one crossed legged upon a table and the other stretching her legs as they talk quietly. As if there were a proper performance to be done reasonably soon, and in a way, there is.

In a manner of speaking. The manager, currently, is leaning against the shadowed bar as a staff member stands at the other side, cleaning and stacking glasses, with another young woman leaning her back against it and talking to the two quietly. Logan has a lit cigarette between his fingers and a glass of white wine in front of him - it's never too early - and dressed in a way that would count as casual, for him. Slacks, sure, polished Italian leather shoes, sure, but the white dress shirt is untucked and reasonably plain, sleeves rolled to his elbows and collar opened wide.

Sunlight is currently trying to filter in through the heavy curtains that are designed to keep light out so the place can design its own atmosphere, although right now that atmosphere is bare. The jukebox plays nearby at a low volume, enough for the woman on stage to practice by. But more sunlight is let in as the front door is opened to Laura's silhouette, with thanks to the security man strolling around outside, gaining Logan's attention.

"Excuse me, my dears," he tells both stripper and male bartender, before reaching out a hand. "'ere, pass me the riesling, I should make a good impression." Why yes, he has started early. Very early.

Pale hair combed back into neat order, sky-blue blouse complemented by a small pendant of black hills gold and blue topaz, slacks a dark charcoal that goes with everything, Laura Morgan is dressed as befits a business errand. Doesn't stop the young woman from wiggling her fingers cheerfully at the glittering women, accompanying grin just a little more impish than polite, even if she walks straight across the room to Logan. They aren't her business. Blue eyes flick over the room in a way that might be expected for a first-timer; except the slight pauses representing mental notes happen when she regards windows, doors, furniture (or the nearest equivalent) — not the bar, the practicing dancers, or the manager himself.

As Laura approaches Logan, however, she does leave off the survey and focus on him. "Mr. Logan?" she greets, tone making the words into a question because it isn't quite proper to let the patron know you've already looked them up. The young woman slows to a halt, offers her hand. "Laura Morgan."

Breaking from the bar, Logan meets the security consultant halfway - as much a security consultant as he is a strip club manager, anyway. Everyone has their day jobs. "Ms. Morgan," he greets, switching cigarette from one hand to the other so that he can reach out and grip her's in a brisk clasp, a smile knifing across his features. There's a mark, high on his cheek, and one could inagine it's where a nail or a ring hooked into flesh during a blow, or perhaps something more ordinary. The kind of scratch that doesn't go away when you pick at it.

"Just 'Logan', usually," he's saying as he retracts his hand - no need for the chemical-level of encouragement, not yet anyway. "Can I get you a drink? Bar's always open."

The woman inclines her head at the correction, returning her own hand to her side. "Then it's only fair if I'm 'just Laura'," she allows with a genial smile. The consultant glances towards the bar at Logan's invitation, seems to consider it for a brief but measurable moment. "Certainly," she agrees. That slightly mischievous not-quite-a-grin flickers on again. Laura otherwise remains quiet as they settle in; actual business can wait until the initial rituals have been completed.

Logan steps back on over, nudging one of the tall, silver-legged stools away from the bar with his ankle as the Englishmen takes his own seat, gripping the bottle of riesling by the neck and angling it so as to funnel the pale liquid into his own glass, giving a brisk instruction to the bartender until another empty one is settled next to his, and this is filled as well. The jukebox switches over into David Bowie, lyrics of Man Who Sold The World not particularly inspiring for a strip club but utilised all the same by the blonde on the stage, who'd delivered Laura an automatic wink.

"So you're not exactly what I expected," Logan states, setting down the bottle and collecting up his glass. His accent has been put up a shelf, far less the East End drawl of usual and a little more prim. "Surely you can't really be anything that ends in 'consultant', can you?"

Laura hops up onto her stool and accepts the glass offered to her, gently swirling the white wine within the goblet but not yet drinking from it. Regarding Logan across its rim, she chuckles, grinning broadly. "Now you have to tell me what you did expect," the imp declares. "Middle-aged, glasses, severe-looking?" She sounds like she might get this fairly often.

A business card appears in her free hand, planted on the bar between them with the mutedly definitive tick of cardstock. "It says 'consultant', right there," Laura states, pointing at the spot in question. "Therefore, 'consultant' I am," she concludes, taking a sip of wine.

As the goblet is lowered, that impish grin reappears. "You going to argue with the business card?"

"Mm-mm, fuck no, 's practically a passport round these parts," Logan says, pinning the card to the bar with a tip of his finger and using another to flick it around so might take a look. "Not as fancy as my business card - it's got a mostly naked woman on it." Impishness is met with devilishness, traded over the tops of the wine glasses as Logan lifts his to sip from, throat working around the sip of dry wine. "But yes, I did expect older. Not sure about severe, or glasses - doesn't seem like a prerequisite to me. But you came highly recommended - I believe through common associates."

Logan's riposte elicits a brief laugh from the woman. "I suppose that would be good advertising — in any other field. I think I'd lose more customers than I gained if I went for 'fancy'." Another sip of riesling, followed by a smaller, knowing smile. "I get a lot of business through common associates. What can I say — people like my work, and they tell their friends. Probably not too different from you in that respect." On the one level, anyway.

"I'm afraid so." The negative affirmation can be read into any which way, Logan remembering his neglected cigarette in his hand and tapping away the smoldering cylinder on the end into the glass ashtray situated just beside him. He takes a deep breath of smoke, directing the exhaling stream somewhere away from them before shrugging at her beneath the fine fabric of his white shirt. "Depending on what they tell their friends, anyway. Which brings us around full circle, doesn't it - I don't need a strip club to be Fort Knox but something a little more under my control would be ideal. Should I show you around?"

Whatever Laura may read into his response, it seems an expected answer; or perhaps a relatively inconsequential one. Either way, she lets it pass. Watching the cloud of smoke dissipate, her gaze flicks back to Logan, and the young woman's head bobs once. "That'd be a good way to start," she agrees. "I took a look around the outside earlier, but that's only about a third of the picture." Glass still in hand, Laura slides off the stool and grins at Logan. "Have to say I'm glad you don't want Fort Knox; that would be just a little difficult to pull off. Too many people."

Letting his shoes touch ground once he puts his cigarette out, Logan picks up his glass and uses it to gesture around the main room. "Only way in and out've this bit is the front door and a fire exit towards the back, towards the end, there. Then there's the backrooms and upstairs, naturally. When you're in this particular industry, it pays to be cautious."

Both the sex industry and whatever makes up the industry of the cloak and dagger, really. He starts to move towards where a narrow entry way leads into a slight catacomb of hallways, thin walls separated out the back rooms, one of which he nudges open to demonstrate the building's function. Plush seats, privacy, a couple of the bigger rooms with raised levels and silver poles.

"You should have seen my last place. It's amazing what you can turn into a fortress, people or no."

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