tavisha_icon.gif tuck_icon.gif

Scene Title Green
Synopsis Tavisha is new in town. It's really obvious.
Date January 7, 2009

Tucker's Pawn Shop

Every shelf, every flat surface in the entire shop is covered with things. VCRs, DVDs, small pieces of machinery, cheap jewellery - all the kind of stuff worth little money. It's the merchandise that's not worth protecting, even here. If someone wants to steal a VHS copy of 'The Little Mermaid,' then so be it. The primary purpose of the clutter of items is a front - to distract from the fact that the real purpose of the shop is to sell stolen, high-value goods.

The front part of the shop with its knick-nacks and assorted low-value items is separated from the high value items by a counter and a layer of bulletproof glass. There is a slot beneath the window for exchange of money or small goods. At the base of the counter is a chute for larger items. Surveillance cameras keep a vigilant watch over every square inch.

There is a small arsenal of weapons up on a pegboard above the counter. Not just guns but knives, tasers, pepper spray, handcuffs, nightsticks, brass knuckles - all sorts of things meant to cause pain. There's a rotating case at the counter that holds many expensive jewellery pieces, including a few Rolexes and a large assortment of engagement rings. There are expensive cell phones, iPods, laptops and other various small electronics, including listening devices and CB radios. Just about anything worth stealing is displayed behind the glass and up on the walls. Many items however, are by special request. You gotta know what you're looking for.

Normally the proprieter of the shop is safely behind a layer of bulletproof glass. But things have been quiet lately and the merchandise out front needs re-stocking. Tuck's got a basket and is haphazardly shelving DVDs into rough (very rough) alphabetical order. There's a cigarette between his lips and a pair of plastic-framed glasses on his face. An old radio somewhere crackles with the sounds of Frank Sinatra. Things have been quiet - quiet enough that he takes a glance out the window every few minutes just to be sure the city's still there.

City's still there, snow-touched from a long winter, and there are ice-crystals in Tavisha's coat when he opens the door to the pawn shop, footsteps wet from slush. For once, he's actually here with some context of purpose - there is only so much meandering of Staten Island he can do before he needs to find things to do. Shopping? Shopping counts. He's dressed well, almost expensively, in a dark green woolen coat with slacks and a dress shirt, the addition of a grey scarf warming his neck. Certainly not the usual lowlife of the Rookery but then again, they do come in all different shapes and sizes. Still, there is something about this man that reads "perpetual tourist", in the way he glances about the pawn shop in renewed interest. Tuck is not someone easily missed, the only other occupant of the store, and Tavisha shuts the door behind him. "Are you open?"

Tuck's nose twitches, as if he caught the scent of outsider. In truth, it's just an unconscious reaction to what Tavisha looks like. Feds are usually more subtle though, so the tightness in his shoulders relaxes almost as quickly as it comes. "Ye-ees. And what can I do for you?" The words are polite enough, but the one cocked eyebrow and half-squinted eye betrays his suspicion. He drops a stack of Disney movies down, drags from his cigarette and meanders back towards the rear of the shop. He's not dressed all that poorly himself - a v-neck cream sweater and a pair of black slacks is not exactly thuggish. But unlike his customer, he does look like he belongs here. It might be the body language, or maybe it's the practical strength or the filaments of scars that tick what skin is showing.

The suspicion isn't entirely missed on Tavisha, but he can't quite identify why. That is, until he looks beyond the store front, through the bullet proof glass and at the assorted guns and weaponry on display. Oh. His eyebrows lift a little before glancing away in a slightly awkward gesture. "I was looking for a place to buy a watch," he says, looking back towards the store owner. The corner of his mouth lifts in an attempted smile, and he takes something from his pocket - a flimsy looking wristwatch, not inexpensive looking, but he waves it a little before clasping it in his palm. "The street markets kind of sells things that break down the next day."

"I sell watches," says Tuck. There's a hint of defensiveness in his tone. Why, why wouldn't he? He's a legit businessman. "Got a whole bunch of 'em. What kind of price range are you looking at?" He drops the basket and heads towards the back. Once he's behind the counter, he throws up a series of latches and slides the bulletproof sheets aside. Apparently he's decided that Tavisha isn't enough of a threat to warrant it. Oh how little he knows.

The cigarette is crushed out in the ashtray and he motions to a spinning jewelry case. "I've got everything from Timex to Rolex."

As if feeling invited, Tavisha only then makes his way further into the store and ceasing to block the frame of the closed door. The useless watch he'd shown by way of example is tucked back into his pocket, seeing as he doubts he could push such a thing onto this man, pawn store or no. It's not as though he has any belongings for trade anyway - everything he's currently wearing is brand new. Tuck receives an uncertain smile and a shake of the head. "I don't know brands," he explains, approaching the counter and turning towards the jewelry case, studying. If he'd known he was a watch repairman in another life, he'd realise the irony of this - but it's all gone to him, now. The watches all mostly seem the same. Price range? Tavisha considers then takes out a shiny leather wallet, oepning it just enough - the fan of money inside it is kept discreet, but visible to prying eyes right now. Man is fairly loaded for a random passerby.

"Whelp. Let me show you one from each range and see what you think, huh?" He stifles a cough, then reaches for a bottle of water to swallow a mouthful. He tugs a small key from somewhere and opens the jewelry case. A decent, if slightly scratched Timex is set out - one that's worth about eighty bucks new. Then, there's a slightly more pricey digital with all the bells and whistles. An old 1970s style one with leather band and gear timing is set out as well. That one's got a large scratch down the face, but otherwise looks in good working order. "You wanna see anything pricier than that, you gotta show me you can pay for it." He taps a heavier locked case, beneath which gleam the watches that run in the thousands.

A glance to the pricetags of those items within the locked case, and Tavisha probably couldn't justify spending that much money on a watch even if he had it - it's not his money. The digital watch is dismissed, fingers first going to touch the Timex, likely the most obvious choice, picking it up to inspect before setting it down rather quickly - as if to reassure the store owner he's not going to steal anything. His wallet is set down rather trustingly on the counter as he peruses, finally touching the edge of the 70s watch, studying this with more interest. "It's running slow," he says, after a moment. He doesn't say how he knows this, just shrugs, moving on. "Fixable, I can find someone. How much?"

"What are you, one of those Evolveds with a perfect sense of time or something?" There's no accusation or malice in Tuck's tone. On the contrary, it's more curiosity and a bit of amusement than anything. He picks up the 70s watch and runs his thumb over the scratched face. He eyes Tavisha, eyes his wallet, clears his throat and says, "One-seventy. It's an antique. Don't make 'em like this anymore. And the strap's in good shape."

Following Tuck's glance, Tavisha then picks his wallet back up, opening it and leafing through a few bills. There's hesitation, there, at the number, but ultimately, he begins counting it out anyway. He'll just have to ask for another stipend. It's Tuck's lucky day - an amnesiac case with no real sense of economy or value, and therefore, no real conviction to haggle. "Is your name really Tucker?" he asks, conversationally, as twenties are laid out in a slight stack.

That's awful suspicious. Even the upper class folk tend to haggle a little. Especially one who seems to know something about watches. Tuck works his jaw back and forth and looks at Tavisha over the top of his glasses. "Ye-ees. My last name anyway. Does it sound like a name that's hard to believe? Why would I have paid for it to be twisted in neon if it wasn't?"

"I was just wondering," Tavisha says, lightly. It won't be the first time he's asked a strange question, and it won't be the last time. "I didn't want to start calling you that only to know you're like the assistant manager for the day or something. That would be awkward." Because, you know - that wasn't awkward. At all. Tavisha doesn't seem to think so, anyway, offering a smile and then sliding the money towards Tuck. "One-seventy." And his gaze flicks over the man's shoulder once more, towards the display of weaponry, unable not to be a little curious and interested. "People— pawn a lot of guns?"

Tuck eyes Tavisha. He tilts his head in a curious manner, then offers his hand out towards him. "To make it official, my name is Gilbert Tucker. And yes, I am the proprieter of this establishment." A beat, "You…must not be from around here. European?" Spoken like someone who's never been outside of New York. "People don't pawn guns, generally. I acquire them by…other means." He makes a motion with his hand, then gathers up the cash, counts it and tugs it away. "And I suggest if you want to survive in this neighborhood, Eyebrows, you'd best not be asking questions like that." The other two watches are slid back into the case, then locked.

The wallet is pocketed and his new watch is picked up, studying it for a moment before strapping it around his wrist in precise movements. "I'm new," Tavisha agrees, although as to where he's from, he doesn't state as such. A twist of a slightly less shy or awkward smile at what Tuck has to say, a smooth if quiet chuckle. "Trust me, I'm getting that impression. I didn't mean to pry, I was just— Tav." See look, he can learn. Taking on Jack's advice on how not to introduce himself to Rookery regulars, despite the fact Tuck seems largely unthreatening, Tavisha offers this handy, if incorrectly pronounced, nickname. "My name's Tav." And it's better than Eyebrows.

Tuck withdraws his hand and then leans on the counter, chin in hand. "Well there Tav. Welcome to the neighborhood. Be sure you contact the Welcome Wagon." Those words fall flat off his tongue. "I hear this month you get a cheese wheel. Brie. Good stuff." His hand snakes into a bag of Cheetos. One bright orange morsel is withdrawn and placed on his tongue. Crunch. "Now. Are you looking for anything else?"

"Not today," Tavisha says, with a shake of his head, amusement obvious. "Thanks, for the watch. I hope it maybe put your kids through college." An attempted jab at the steep price, but nothing particularly venomous, and he takes a step towards the door. Time to go back to meandering again. He pauses, though, something making him hesitate. Tuck is, after all, maybe another random stranger who wasn't immediately vicious, and the amount of those, Tavisha can count them on one hand. The next question is odd, and open. "Mind if I come back sometime? Even if I don't buy anything."

The chuckle that comes from Tuck's lips is a bit rough, a bit…pained. "…through college. Right," he looks to the side and runs his fingers over his hair. That stings. But the question draws him back and he blinks. "Uh sure, pard. For what? I make shitty coffee." A rough chuckle. Then he snaps and points towards Tavisha. "Do you play cards? Pool?" Hey, the guy's got money. Can't hurt to hustle him.

Not for the first time, Tavisha lies if only to conceal what weirdness he can, still moving towards the door only now he rests his hand on the handle as he considers the question and considers his answer. "Sure," he says, with a half-smile. He can learn, maybe. It's not like pool can be that difficult, right?

"Well then, we should have a game sometime. There's a bar around the corner." Well isn't he such a nice guy? Tuck's eyebrows lift as he lights another cigarette and watches Tavisha head for the door. He's not above exploiting a greenhorn, and this guy seems as green as they come.

Tuck may need to take a number, but Tavisha isn't making it difficult for him by any stretch. "I'd like that," he tells Tuck, with far too much honesty for his own good. "It was nice meeting you." And with that, Tavisha steps back outside into the light snow, cold blowing into the pawn shop for a moment before the door swings shut again. Tavisha pauses, as if trying to decide which direction to go, before disappearing leftwards with a lighter wallet but what he came for.

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