Participants:
| Scene Title | Gone Fishing |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Wendy sniffs out Future Peyton's future boyfriend - Smedley - so she can give her approval to her friend before she parts ways. |
| Date | February 18, 2010 |
A place that used to be a cafe and is making a slow progression towards being a dive bar. During the day, the balcony and a good portion of the sidewalk is taken up by outdoor chairs and tables, where people can enjoy a beer as well as a sandwich or whatever else is on their menu - a decent, if simply array of bar food. During the evening, unless it's a warm night, these are taken inside, and the kitchens are closed. A wide variety of beer is available, along with hard liquor and maybe a few wine labels, but nothing fancy. The interior decor is similar to traditional British pubs, with a hardwood bar and brick wall. There's an old pool table towards the back, along with a dart board. The building is actually two stories high, but whatever is upstairs is inaccessible to the general public.
The chill of winter means that Wes Smedley isn't conducting business inside the Angry Pelican. The open air of that particular venue makes it one hell of a place to linger when the wind is blowing in off the harbor. It means he's had to relocate into Shooters, and with a little extra cash given to the manager on duty this evening, it means Carson can snooze peacefully under his stool.
Same song. Different bar.
He's dressed for the weather in a charcoal, cable-knit sweater that contrasts the tooled leather holster with twin revolvers that is buckled around his hips, marking him as a man who dresses for practicality and comfort over style. The jeans and boots only further emphasize this. An oilskin long coat is draped over the back of his chair. Either he's settled in for a stay, or he's already been here awhile.
He slowly spins a lowball glass between his thumb and forefinger as he speaks in low tones to a man sitting beside him. Nods are exchanged, and the other man - who looks even less respectable than Smedley - gets up and walks away with his longneck in tow.
Curiosity killed the cat, and it took a few cats - and dealers that she knew - to track down the bad boy that is Peyton's smedley. Not that Peyton has met him, she managed to get that out of Peyton along with a few other things. Dressed up warm against the weather and after a bit more sniffing around, exchange of money, she's got a good idea of where to find him.
Which brings her through the doors of shooters. jeans, sweater, rugged black boots that seem perfectly fine on the tall gangly brunette with the eyes that are a bit goldfishy on her face. A regular for finding and scoring drugs from around the area. She needed some refrain is her excuse, and so she's here. Looking for the man with a dog.
Of which there is one, and he matches the description that Peyton gave her friend. She wants to watch him, debating whether she should approach him or not and in the end, getting a drink and sitting down wins out over outside approaching. She doesn't need an Asian hissy-fitting in her face about talking to people she shouldn't be talking to and changing things. Long legs stretch out, two tables away, a bottle in hand and she quite obviously watches him from afar.
And it would work if Smedley were in any other line of work. As it is, he takes him about half an inch of whiskey to realize that Wendy is watching him. Not just glancing at him from time to time because he's a man with a dog in a bar. But because she's watching him. He narrows his eyes at her, then sets his glass down and clears his throat.
"There somethin' I can help you with ma'am?" he asks, the alcohol already in his system drawing out even more of the cowboy drawl than normal. He looks her up and down, and juts his bottom lip out in an appraising expression before he lifts his drink. "Bet'cher phone's got a camera. Why not just snap a photo and save yerself the time?"
"It wouldn't last long" Quipped back at him. "Maybe I just like watching a man and his dog" The corner of her full lips creeps up, dropping her gaze suggestively from top of his hair down to the bottom of his boots and the dogs. "Just seeing what the big deal is"
Wendy lifts her brown bottle, tipping it's neck to her lips to take a long pull from it. "Can I buy you a drink?"
There's something in the way Smedley shifts how he sits on the stool that perks Carson's attention. The dog lifts his head, looking fist up toward his master, then over at the girl. He sniffs, then yawns, a soft whine escaping his white muzzle. Smedley snorts out a chuckle and shakes his head as he takes his drink down another quarter of an inch. "Ain't you a liberated lady," he murmurs. Looking at Wendy again, he jerks his head to motion her toward the bar and away from the tables. "As much as I appreciate the gesture, wouldn't be fittin'. But I can replace that beer with uh'nuther one when you run empty, if y'like."
A grin that is just shy of a lear spreads across his face, making the skin around his eyes crinkle. He's definitely got some years under his belt, that's for sure. "But I'll only do it on one condition."
"I'm not riding your lap in this place, if that's the condition. Liberated lady and all" Wendy fires back, disappointed that he won't let her buy him a beer. Does she buy him a beer in the future? He was Peytons one night stand that turned into something more and she can see why her friend might actually like him. Because he's not the pretty boy meterosexuals that she used to be associated with.
Smedley sits a bit straighter and sets his glass down again at Wendy's reply, his brows knitting and his grin replaced by a stark frown. "Hell no," he says, looking askance to see if anyone overheard the woman's accusation. "I just wanted'yuh t'come sit over here. Hard to have a conversation sittin' s'far apart."
And she clearly came to have a 'conversation' with him, whether it be about his business or her own. Swallowing, he looks straight ahead and polishes off his drink. "I'm all paid up with Susan, so if she sent'cha, well, she didn't have cause'tuh. She weren't ever that talented when it came to figurin'."
"I'm here on my own" She unfolds gangly legs, grabs her coat and makes for his table and mindful of Carson, parks her ass on the chair that the man who recently left the bar counter had occupied. "Call it, curiosity getting the better of me. I wanted to see who you were for myself. Smedley is it?" She offers her hand out to him. "Call me Fish"
For all his offense, Smedley doesn't hesitate to drink Wendy in as she crosses the small section of Shooters to join him. He uses the hand that hasn't been recently holding the cool glass of liquor to shake her own, but he shakes it like an equal. "You're'n awful tall drink'uh water there, Fish," he says with a remnant of that previous grin. "It ain't every day a gal like you's lookin' for a guy like me."
Breaking the shake, he lifts his hand to signal the bartender to fill his glass and bring Wendy another brew, despite the fact that she's barely begun her first. He said he'd buy her a drink, and he means to do just that. "So what's the cause of it, hm?" he asks, eyebrows lifting as he sets his mouth for the hum. "You need somethin'?"
"I always was tall. Odd duck. But I like it, Folks don't fuck with a tall girl with goldfish eyes and money" Her shake is equally as firm, letting go so she can take another pull from her brown bottle. "Just wanna know if you're the kinda prick who will break a girls heart on purpose"
The laugh that erupts from Smedley is the sort that, had he any liquid in his mouth, he'd coat the bar with it. It's guttural but short, and he shakes his head. "What kind'uh question is that?" He asks as soon as he has control of his voice again. "I think you might be thinkin' uh some other poor sap named Smedley." Not that there are many - it's not exactly a common surname, and coupled with a description, known haunts, and Carson, well, it'd be one hell of a coincidence for Wendy to be off her mark.
He stares at her a moment, then leans in closer, resting an elbow on the bar and his opposite hand on his thigh. "Look'ere, Miz Fish, but…well, I ain't the sort t'be gatherin' hearts to break in the first place. I'm a businessman. An'that? That ain't my business." Unless you could the smuggling of people he does from time to time, but he has a feeling that's not exactly what Wendy is getting at.
"Nope, You're the right sap named Smedley" She gestures to the pooch below the table. "I mean, how many guys named Smedley walk around with a dog and talk like you talk hmm?" She's finished her drink, pushing the bottle over to be collected and get another one. "Okay businessman. Are you a good lover? What's the worst thing you've ever done to a woman? Answer me that and don't worry, I'm not in the habit of swinging fists. I'm just curious. It's a need to know kinda urge. I know you're not evo, I'd feel you a mile off" She gestures to a ratty looking guy in the back corner. "He is"
Things just got really, really weird. Smedley tenses visibly, then looks from Wendy to the man she indicates. His eyes narrow. "Curious, huh?" he finally says. He lifts his own recently refilled drink and knocks back a couple of swallows that make his face contort. Whiskey wasn't intended to be drunk that quickly, after all.
"Need t'know. Sorry, Fish, I ain't buyin' that." His frown borders on a scowl, and he starts spinning the glass just as he was when Wendy walked in, his eyes focused on the way the ice inside clacks with the motion. "Now who the fuck are you," he asks in a low voice, "and why'd'ya come out this way to bother me?"
"This time traveler totally came back from ten years in the future, and told me that you were the best lay in her life and I had to see for myself. I totally love a hot piece of ass" Deadly serious, her eyes locked on his, leaning forward just enough.
Then she erupts into a bark of laughter, taking her fresh bottle of beer. "Seriously though, no, I was just hunting for a score of Refrain and someone had said you might know where I could find some. I just thought I'd fuck around with you just a bit. I want an answer though, good in bed?"
Smedley leans away from Wendy when she shares her tall tale, his own eyes darting away from hers just as soon as they lock in. "If you really wanted'tuh know, you'd be doin' a better job'uh tryin' to find out," he deadpans, as if he were talking solely about the drugs. Then again, he hasn't shared his bed with a women he hasn't paid for the pleasure in longer than he would ever want to admit. "I can't help y's'far as the stuff goes. Sorry, Miz Fish."
He takes another drink of his whiskey, eyeing her in his peripheral vision then. "Someone tell you I could do that? Hook you up? Cause I think you might'uh misunderstood'em. Or else got your need for corn-feed lovin' mixed up with your need for a boost from the Blue Fairy." He looks at her again, or rather her right cheek, and gives her a somewhat sympathetic smile, as if maybe she's still hanging on to a trip, or caught wind of someone elses through God only knows what crazy telepathic means. Smedley's heard enough stories to guess. "It happens."
"someone said you would know where to get the Fairy. Don't worry if you can't, I can always hit up Rapture. There's always some guy there not selling the watered down washer fluid." She shrugs. "You do right by a woman though, right? I mean, if you knocked her up, you'd do right by her? Would really suck if you didn't, Means someone'd have to come and hunt you down, cut off your balls and feed em to…" She looks down at the dog. "What's his name again?" She smiles, ever so sweetly at Smedley.
"Carson," Smedley says, the smile once again wiped off his face. He sets his drink down with a sigh and lifts a hand to rub at his forehead. "Look, lady, I don't know who you are or why you're s'dead set on figurin' out how I tick." Maybe she's a novelist dipping into Staten Island for inspiration as well as a few vials, and someone tipped her off to the oddity that is Wes Smedley.
"In case you hadn't gotten the notion yet, I ain't no pretty city boy. So all that shit you hear about happenin' to your girlfriends?" He shakes his head with a frown, his eyes closing for a moment. "That shit just don't happen where I'm from. N'I don't take too kindly t'bein' lumped in the same boat's'those who it'd apply to."
Somehow, some way, Wend is actually getting, what she wants. She tips her bottle over, clinking the neck and grinning at smedley. She lifts the bottle, tipping ti back, back, back and chugging the beer before releasing it with an ahhhhh and thunking the bottle down. Her hand closes on the neck of her jacket, plucking it off the seat so she can start putting her arms through it, tipping her head to the smuggler. A twenty down for tip, or to pay for a drink, who knows, and she's heading away from him and towards the door with a grin on her face.
Score one for the Jackrabbits?
Smedley turns to watch Wendy leave, confusion twisting his face into an open-mouthed gape. Shaking his head, he tips more of the whiskey down his throat. "Frank, y'all gotta be more careful on who you let wander in here. Junkies like her'r just gonna bring business down, I'm tellin'yuh." Frank doesn't answer apart from looking from his regular customer to the wandering woman who's already halfway out the door. He just keeps polishing glasses with a cloth that used to be white on some far, distant day in the past.