Participants:
| Scene Title | Flirting With Disaster |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two undercover cops in a bar run into Deckard… you know that's the start of a VERY bad joke. Or a bloodbath. |
| Date | March 30, 2009 |
The Angry Pelican
Night has long since fallen all across the five boroughs, and Staten Island is no exception. The only difference is the general sense of impending doom that often accompanies one's journey here. At the Pelican, this aura is even more intensified if anything. The faces here generally immediately invoke the prejudice- there is just no question that these people are criminals.
Which is, if anything, amusing considering that one of them is one Gabriel Patrick McNamara. He has adopted a new look to fit the new locale, though. His pants are slightly baggier and hang just slightly lower than usual. Instead of a dress shirt, he sports an unzipped black hoodie with the arms pulled up. This reveals the top of a tattoo on his chest, and a few on either forearm, which do nothing for his image. Neither does the wallet chain which hangs nearly to one knee. He is situated by himself, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he stares out towards the water.
When she steps into the Pelican, Elisabeth's done what she can to *not* look like a cop. A pair of far too tight jeans with a pair of really frakkin' high heeled boots, a loose jacket tossed over a tucked-in T-shirt, blonde hair sleeked into a perfectly straight fall of gold. She fits right in with the working-class blue-collar suburbanites who generally inhabit Staten Island — or who did before it became Mos Eisley. She definitely looks like she could be looking for trouble, and maybe has found it as she makes her way toward Mack's table. "What, and this is the place ya wanna buy a drink for a girl?" she murmurs as she drops into a seat and crosses her legs.
"Hey, I figured it was best to clear things up from the beginning. I like my dates cheap." Mack says around his cigarette, though he does at least the basic courtesy of winking when he says it. When Elisabeth settles in at his table he disposes of the cigarette and leans forward to lift a tumbler of golden liquid settled around a few melting ice cubes to his lips. "Cheap date or not, you look good though." Apparently his voice has taken on a subtle Boston accent over the past few days, but its only just identifiable. He slides a napkin across the table towards Liz.
In a brown leather jacket over a white button down and blue jeans, Deckard might almost pass for a regular, contributing member of criminal society here on Staten Island. It's the whole sunglasses at night thing that tends to set him apart. He hasn't been here long. Not for more than a few minutes, anyway, having arrived shortly after Elisabeth and moved immediately for the ramshackle bar, where he now stands tapping a cigar off into an overflowing ash tray with one arm braced against rickety wood while he waits for his beer.
There's a sly smile at Mack, and Elisabeth preens. "Only the best fer a guy like you," she comments with a smirk. Her own voice has the tonality of a local. She's lived in Manhattan all her life — Staten Island has half a million people on it, no one's going to know all the local girls. "Anything's better'n Jimmy. Gimme a beer," she tells him and plays with a crucifix on a gold chain around her throat. She figures if she has to draw eyes (and a woman in this place is bound to), she might as well keep their eyes where she wants them — her cleavage or her ass, not her face. Even the bruise on her face and her split lip is playing into the role she opted for in coming here tonight — they're just visible enough through the make-up to make clear some jackass belted her and she's getting her own back. And she whispers into the air, carefully sculpting the sound to carry only to Mack's ear and no further, ~Kinda hard to have this conversation in public, you know. What the hell are you doing here without backup, Mack? Ivanov just got himself DEAD over here on his own.~
"And I'm better than anything." There's a smugness that comes with arrogance or confidence- or both -that just seems to fit on Mack. Hell, there are probably plenty of people that wouldn't even notice the difference. Unfortunately, he doesn't possess the ability to customize the audio on his own voice; that's Liz's bonus feature. He just lowers his voice a bit. Not too much, don't want anyone thinking he's whispering. Whispering is worth listening to. "That's shitty news. Kind of alters my game plan a bit. But me 'n him, we're different people, and sometimes you gotta do shit you don't want to. Hold on, I'll get your beer- service here is shitty." With that he stands and makes his way over to the barely qualifiable bar. Deckard gets a nod; the kind of serious faced gesture that says 'I see you, I'm not disrespecting you, but I'm not getting all up in your shit' that works wonders in dives. Of course before he gets around to ordering Liz's drink he takes a cautious double take. He doesn't say anything just yet, though…
The beer is warm. Given that it's something like fifty degrees out, this is kind of an accomplishment, but not one Deckard's inclined to complain about. A test sip confirms it still tastes fine, so back from the bar he leans, returning Mack's nod carelessly as he goes…only to take note of the doubletake that follows a few seconds later. The wiry crook's head turns back from scoping at the bar to scope out Mack instead. That particular skull sitting on that particular assortment of bones rings a bell. Somewhere.
Liz remains 'reclined' — well, sort of, in the seat that she's settled into. It's not a reclining seat, it's just busted to hell. The booted foot on top bounces lazily, and she continues to toy with her necklace as she watches Mack's back as well as the door. Deckard's appearance damn near blows her away. Oh God…. here? Now? REALLY?? Fuck me to tears. Not by dint of a single bat of an eyelash does she give him away, though. She can't warn him to keep his head down — not with Mack standing right smack next to him. She can only watch the two of them with a neutral smile on her face and a calm expression while Mack brings back a beer.
It doesn't click immediately. No, it takes several uncomfortable seconds with two men standing at a bar before Mack finally lubes up the ole hinges on his jaw and lets noises come out. "I know you." Are the words that finally come out. His head cocks to one side as this new development is considered. "Midtown's kind of a shithole these days, huh? Damn birds don't seem to care, though. I guess I'd take the skyrats over getting hit in the head with a rock from abandoned building, though." No lights, no sirens, no handcuffs. What's he getting after?
With a beer in one hand and a worn down stump of a cigar in the other, Deckard has two convenient ways to keep his own mouth occupied. After a beat that stretches just a little too long for comfort, he opts to go the cigar route while he listens to Mack talk, as polite and patient as someone breathing out noxious smoke can be. Midtown, birds, abandoned buildings. "Jesus Christ." Voice limited to a resigned mutter around the damp butt of his stogie, he glances down over Mack once more in detail, then sideways to the bartender. Seriously?
Elisabeth tenses slightly, moving to uncross her legs and rearrange her position in the chair. She can't wear either of her preferred holsters in this outfit, but the reason for the slightly larger sweater than necessary is to hide her backup gun, the little 3" Springfield XD 9mm, tucked into the small of her back. It's not an easy draw if she needs it, but she sure as hell wasn't coming to Staten without it, either. She's got her eyes on the men at the bar, but she sits tight for now.
Mack has some things you'd expect a cop to be carrying, and others that you wouldn't. Tucked into the front of his pants, just off to the side is the .9mm Beretta he always carries as a service weapon. Where it sits, its just barely hidden by the unzipped hoodie, but somehow Mack has done a decent job of keeping it out of normal people's view. There's also a knife of some kind on his right ankle. What's missing? A badge. Not like he's just not wearing it around his neck like normal, its not there. "No, I'm not much of a stoner myself. Alcohol's my kick. Speaking of which, what you drinking?" He finally glances over his shoulder, nodding towards Liz. "Come have a drink with me and my girl over there, on me. I got a few questions that are worth a drink and some favors."
"Beer," says Deckard, maybe a little flatly. He's drinking beer. Cigar drawn aside again, he pushes smoke thick through his sinuses, breath fogging thin after the oily furl of it when his eyes track over to Elisabeth. As luck would have it, she draws a neat blank in the rumpled field of his memory. Nice boobies, though. His brows lift a little, appropriately appreciative.
"Do I look like a RadioShack to you?" Rhetorical irritation rankles faintly at his nose and refuses to be staved off by a longer swallow of beer. In fact, when he pushes his cigar back into the corner of his mouth, it's to reach back around for his wallet.
When Deckard glances at the table, Liz is taken aback… he's got two eyes. Holy…. yeah, okay… so the rumors about Abby are true. She gets up and heads toward the bar, "C'mon, babe… the guy doesn't wanna be bothered. Besides," she looks Deckard up and down and then opts to lean over and murmur in Mack's ear, "I got better things to do with you than listen to you chat up an old guy. Far, far better things."
Mack allows one eyebrow to raise ever so slightly above its corresponding eyeball at Deckard's response before glancing in Liz's direction when she approaches. "I'm sure I can think of a few myself," Gabriel says before answering Deckard's possibly rhetorical question. "As for RadioShack, no, you don't. But you don't look totally fucking retarded, either, that just didn't seem like a very polite thing to say at the time."
The five dollar bill Deckard thumbs out of his wallet and onto the bar passes over the ID of someone very clearly not him on the way. Welcome to Staten Island, Officer Mack. He watches them sideways while he pays, attentive for all that he's not picking up whatever it is that's being put down, sunglasses black with a few isolated points of yellow orange where the Pelican's poor lighting sees fit to reflect. "At least I don't smell like bacon." His change is slapped back down across the bar at him, coins pushed back at the tender so that a one can be tucked back into his wallet, which is in turn tucked back into his pants so that he can head out ahead of them. "Enjoy your stay, Mahoney."
Elisabeth stares at Deckard, and then gives Mack a querying glance from the corner of her eye. If he friggin' well says 'take him', as stupid as that would be in this place, she'll do what he tells her to. But dear GOD, she hopes Mack's got more brains on him than that. He wouldn't be partnered up with the Captain if he were a dumbass, right?
Mack doesn't throw a hissy fit at Deckard's response. He doesn't even pull out that Beretta- chances are one could get away with it on Staten Island, but that's not the route that Mack takes. "Guy doesn't like greasy breakfasts." He comments idly. "Ya know, I met a guy like that once when I did a couple years out in Folsom. Coulda sworn that guy actually /liked/ being in prison. Weird." Then he shrugs and offers Liz a smile of the cheesiest variety. "I'm not gonna bitch about it if a guy turns down a free beer, though. Now, lets talk about those 'things' we could be doing."
Deckard's teeth bare out into a half-smile that has more in common with the knife Mack's wearing than it does anything else. Meanwhile the half-turn he excutes to make the rest of his way out backwards doesn't actually slow him down that much. Not nearly enough booze in him yet for that. "If you step on the rat, sooner or later it's gonna squeak. And down here, there are a lot of people to overhear. Keep out of my business and I'll keep out of yours. Otherwise we're going to have a problem."
Liz watches Deckard go, and she murmurs softly into Mack's ear since she's standing right there, "That could be a rather large problem." Cuz after all, she did help Felix bust Deckard, though that's apparently not in his own head. Still, she looks back at Mack and smiles faintly, "C'mon, handsome," she says in a slightly louder tone. "I'll show ya the sights," she promises in a voice clearly laced with amusement. What sights, you ask? She'll never tell.
Mack doesn't bother to look over at Deckard at the man's parting threat, though he does speak as he pushes away from the bar. "No shit." He wraps his arm around Elisabeth's waist, though, apparently content to, ya know, not doing anything incredibly stupid. "Guess that's what you get for trying to be friendly with rodents, though." He pauses and looks Liz over in a rather lascivious fashion, "I guess I'll just have to let you console me for a while…"
Elisabeth snickers softly, choosing to ignore the whole 'smells like bacon' crack and hoping other people do too — for Mack's sake. She walks out of the bar with him, and once they're out of earshot of other people, she gives him the rundown on what's going on around the station. Coren Shelby working on getting a warrant for Muldoon — could come through, may not. IAB's investigation due to Liz's charges of assault on two cops (and Mack's less-than-happy response to the fact that cops have been harassing for a while and escalated). Ivanov's death out here on the Hellmouth that is beautiful, suburban Staten Island right now. And what little information the NYPD has on the Lighthouse attack — something for Mack to keep an ear to the ground about.
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