Hot Potato


logan_icon.gif tibby_icon.gif

Scene Title Hot Potato
Synopsis Logan wins Tibby over in his ongoing attempt to sell expensive stolen weaponry.
Date March 8, 2018

The Crooked Point

What used to be a yacht club, and then a recreational building for the United States government, is now the Crooked Point, a fully unlicensed dive bar interested in selling cheap liquor and basic nourishment. It is a one room venue, with a fireplace, mismatched tables and chairs, a bar, and a kitchen. The air if often smokey, either from the partially blocked hearth or lit cigarettes and cigars. Clientele tend to be men and women from the mainland and beyond rather than the Staten Island denizens, but there are some regulars filling out the capacity.

Food is first come first served in limit, usually taking the form of crockpot stews during the colder months and fried fish in the warmer. There is no point in being picky about labels and brands of alcohol, or even whole categories of alcohol in general, because whatever they have on any given day is whatever they managed to get the week before. If the weather permits, then the Crooked Point's service spills out onto open deck that comes right up to the water.

It's cold enough to drive most people inside the Crooked Point rather than lurk about outside of it, but here Logan is, leaning elbows against a railing on a deck that comes up to the water. Behind him, the fire-glow of the interior — lit only with a hearth, with candles, with lanterns — presses against the windows and seeps under closed door, indicating that hospitality awaits inside. But despite the cold, the night is very clear and crisp, and the smell of ocean appeals to Logan's senses more than spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke.

So he's taken his own beer and cigarette out with him, and he is waiting.

He cuts a distinctive figure. Sometimes, when he makes these little Staten Island trips, he'll dress down so as best fade into the crowd, even if he still gives off an impression of being a mainlander. Tonight, he's arrived with a little more style, dressed in a sleek three-piece suit in coal black, a clean white shirt, and a silken scarf of leopard print. Silver rings glitter on his fingers. His shoes are as shiny as an oil spill. The coat he wears over it all is a rich burgundy, with grey fur on the collar, and a gravity knife in the right pocket. The holster underneath has a gun.

He flicks cigarette ash into the water, embers spiralling downwards, and watches the row of boats currently tied up a little further down the beach with all the predatory patience of a great cat. Which is appropriate, given the person he's here to meet.

A long gray cat trots over to Logan, tilting its head up at the man it sits on its haunches waiting for something. There's not a sound as the other cats slink into visibility. Seven in total and the sound of footsteps proceeds a tiny woman coming out from the shadows flanked by two African wildcats. The African golden cat Oya, and Adze the caracal. Tibby herself is dressed in warm fuzzy dark blue leggings. Her platform boots give her a few more inches making her a little under average height, she walks like she knows to how to move in them, a former raver, her white short shorts pulled over her leggings a green faux leather jacket is zipped partially, her own firearm underneath. A wicked looking knife is visible out the top of her boot.

Her bleached blonde chopped mop of hair is straighten and it hangs loosely down her back. Those harsh bangs framing green eyes as the woman studies the man in front of her. Much like one of her feline friends.

She tilts her head as the first cat, the gray one meows and rubs against Logan’s leg with a purr. He's found a friend.

“Aye,” her weird mix of an accent in that child like voice.

On second thoughts, maybe he ought not to have dressed nicely. What with the cats.

But Logan manages not to kick anything feline shaped away as one brushes up against his leg and leaves a trail of fine grey hairs on black fabric, straightening out of his lean to greet her. He smiles, then, on a delay as she greets him. "Thanks for coming out," he says, easy as you please. His contact with Tibby has been, up until this point, fairly minimal, if inevitable, but he strikes her as strange and a loner and lonely, which is always his preference for partners in crime.

Sometimes he's wrong, but only sometimes. "I find certain settings most appropriate for certain conversations."

Inside the Crooked Point, there's the faint blasting of a battery-powered stereo, the creak of wooden slats. Above, in the shadowy interior of a second floor that goes unused, officially, there's low murmuring conversation drifting out of open windows, along with the smell of pot and nicotine.

Only the latter, from Logan's cigarette, which he embers with a breath in.

"Have a deal for you."

There's a firm nod and the tiny woman looks up at Logan. "Got ears everywhere those filthy doos, ya smart doin business in places like these." Tibby likes to keep on the move, her meeting spots often switching and with no real warning. Have to keep them on their toes.

A gray cat purrs and rubs against Logan's leg as he tell her he has a deal for her. "Aye?" There's a pause as she puts her hand into her pocket green eyes studying the man. She knows what everyone who knows about John Logan knows. Not much. He's flashy, not too mean (at least to her). She doesn't think she has a reason to distrust him in this offering of business.

"What's this then?" A hand on her hip as a lazy smile crosses her lips.

"I'm looking for a market."

Setting his beer down on the thick wooden railing, Logan goes ahead and reaches down, picking up the cat, letting it settle against his shoulder. There are other things to know about Logan, especially this side of the Narrows, but war has a way — he likes to think so — of putting things into perspective. Staten Island has its own problems now, and he'd rather stake his reputation on new enterprises, rather than old ones.

He scritches the kitty cat at its furry throat as he looks over at her with eyes a similar shade of pale green. "I have on my hands some items that're hard to move if I'm looking to wring them of their full value. Collectors' pieces, you know. You'll get a cut if you can find people who're interested in spending money. The further out of New York City, the better."

The man couldn’t have come to a better person for this, a market outside of New York. Tibby’s strongest contacts were international. “We can get international in this bitch for sure,” Tibby smiles as the cat meows and purrs as Logan shows affection. Be good to the felines and Tibby will be good for you, the mood of the cat is infectious and Tibby finds herself on tip toes with nose in the air but she plays it off as if she smells something delicious but really.. What’s delicious smelling around here? Besides Logan of course. The younger woman considers what he has to say, “Lekker,” she says softly at the prospect. She and Keira had talked about expanding..

“I’m inclined. Collector’s items you say?” As a rule the African woman doesn’t like to handle shit that will burn her, though a lot of the stuff she sells is stolen so.. Does it even matter really?

“I’ve got contacts all over,” she’s not bragging at all, just being honest.

There’s a glint in those green eyes. Some new business would be a good thing. And she likes this John Logan.

No one really likes to handle shit that burns them, and Logan has the distinct impression that these PMS pistols are a game of hot potato. But that he's choosing not to throw them into a river or pass them to someone he doesn't care for means it's a willing game, and he smiles, now, at the prospect of a participant. The cat purrs, and he rubs circles behind its ears.

"Guns," he says. "The arms market here isn't one I've intention to crack into and stay, so I'm avoiding the usual suspects, but some interesting prospects've recently come into my possession. I want to let them go for no less than five hundred a piece, but I reckon I can mark it up if we're looking overseas."

There’s a purr coming from all the cats in unison and.. Is that Tibby as well? Guns, she knows them and well. Her father made arms runs to Madagascar. She went on those runs. She doesn’t necessarily love them but they make her money and are extremely nifty with keeping you protected (or drawing you closer to trouble). The tiny woman pulls out a freshly rolled spliff from her pocket and lights it, looking at Logan all at the same time.

“Plan on marking it up, I know a bunch of fools who will jump at the chance.” She might even call her cousin Demarco, he was always looking for guns.

“How big is this load?”

She could even run it herself, “My boat and I can run them,” though she’d rather have someone else do it.. She’s not really the type with minions or henchmen that’s more Keira’s style. “It would be ideal if they could transport it themselves but,” she shrugs a shoulder as if to say she’s open. The possibilities of the clients and the money is ringing in her head.

"Visitors might have the neighbours peering over the hedges, but you can accept a charge for the running on top of your share. We'll go over the paperwork when you bring me some names."

There is no paperwork. Only verbal agreements, promises, reputations at stake. "Six pistols," Logan says, ceasing to award the cat pettings as he goes to take up his beer and sip from it. "Russian secret police stuff. Very chic. They only take Russian ammo. I've interested parties looking to take one or two off my hands, but they're expensive for this corner of the world." He has, after all, felt the effects of food shortages himself, even if he's standing here now in his very nice coat and talking of international gun sales.

Another nod and she ashes to the side of her before taking another drag and sucking it in before blowing the smoke up to the sky above her head tilting back. “Okay then, that works for me.” And then there’s a slow grin to her face, “These are those guns.” The African woman laughs out loud. “You know if you’re the one that stole em those butcher brothers ‘rrowhead are pretty miffed. Sagging draws all in a bunch babe,” Another chuckle and she takes a moment to smoke more.

“Oi I’m game. I told em I didn’t know anything bout no fucking stolen, stolen guns. So! I ain’t lied eh?” She raises her eyebrows and tips her head back to look at the man. “I’ll get the names to you, won’t be hard at all.” She’s already compiling a list of who to call when she’s gotten back to her boat for the night. Sleeping there with the water rocking was quite peaceful for her.

Those guns, she says. Logan's head tips, stare fixed, listening intently, and that smile— remaining in place, but perhaps a little sharp at the edges, now. Imperceptibly, his power sinks into her system — and affects nothing, just listens, in his way, to any indication of a lie. Of fear. Of excitement. He's nothing close to an empath, but it's what he has available to him.

Whatever he detects in her brain chemistry doesn't have him, you know, overreacting. He can feel his own heart go a little faster. It's not a bad feeling — like a mild version of what you'd feel from a dodged blow.

"I did see them kicking around poor Ricky the other day," he says, affecting casual. Seems a better play to be as brazen as Tibby's smile, rather than sidle around the topic. He sets the cat down on the railing, giving it one quick pass, palm smoothing from nape to the base of its tail. "They'll get over it. Between you and me, I have absolutely no doubt that it's not the first time those idiots have let something valuable fall off the back of a truck."

Out from his pocket, he produces a white card — The Vault's business details, and his own personal number, already written on the back. Should she take it, she'll know a subtle nudge of serotonin in the moment, warm self-congratulatory pleasure blooming in her guts.

“Ah poor fat bastard. He’s too slimey to be down for too long.” Tibby liked the greaser.

That assessment of Tibby’s mood is unnoticed but while he studies her, her felines study him and she gets the waves of emotions they are feeling towards the man. They accept him, the one in the crook of her neck especially, “That one’s Nes, keep her.” Tibby thinks Nes might have found a new home. “She’s a peach,” And there’s a loud laugh as Logan talks about the brothers and she nods her head, “Not so bright. At all. I’m not too worried about them.” They wanted information about the guns but Logan was nicer. And also prettier. The blonde reaches out to take the white business card and examine it. “Okay I’m gonna be bothering you soon.”

She pockets the white card.

Logan raises an eyebrow when he is given a cat, and looks at this one in his arms. Well, if she uses it to keep eyes on him, so be it — there are plenty of fucking cats already crawling around the dumpster outside his street, what's one more that likes him? And she matches his coat.

"Please do," he says, attention veered back to Tibby. It's tempting to do more, perhaps invite her for a drink, teach the fickle chemicals of her mind that she wouldn't wish to flipflop right back to the Arrow brothers should they look at her the wrong way, but as far as risks go, consorting over long on the banks of Staten Island is its own kind of danger, and at a certain point, one must put faith in honour between thieves. He's going to have to train Sasha into being nice to this one, too, but for now—

Cat flung over shoulder, Logan sidles around her, adding, "I look forward to it," as he goes, headed down the stairs, and back to where his own boat awaits.

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