In Time For Christmas


lola_icon.gif walsh_icon.gif

Scene Title In Time For Christmas
Synopsis Lola Mayeux brings a shopping list to the largest arms dealer in the New York Area…
Date In Time For Christmas

Fresh Kills Harbor

A crooked street sign halfway sunken into overflowing marshlands says that this used to be called Muldoon Ave. The irony of that name is lost on most people, save for those who remember the hey days of the Rookery on Staten Island's opposite coast from this one. Here, it just marks the entrance to an abandoned canning factory that has since been repurposed.

Most of the decaying old facility looks to have fallen in on itself, metal roof collapsed down and brick walls blown out. Trucks with deflated tires rust in the dirt parking lot beneath the irregular and flickering glow of a handful of street lights that still work out here. What does still stand of the old cannery has been taken over by arms smugglers operating out of the Arthur Kill, running guns across the river into New Jersey and smuggling them up into Staten Island.

Head among this network of gun runners is a man who goes most frequently by the nickname the Irishman, or to those who know him better, Mr.Walsh.

Conducting business here is always a tense affair, so close to one storehouse, nestled in the heart of the operation's distribution end. Out in the freezing cold parking lot, under the glow of a box truck's headlights, Lola Mayeux's first impression of the Irishman is little more than a dark silhouette backlit by those head lamps.

Patent leather shoes crunch over the frozen dirt underfoot, and with the night sky clouded up, the heavens look particularly bleak in his presence. He's not a particularly frightening looking fellow, up close and personal. A head of curly red hair that's lost most of its luster, round head with a receeding hairline and much of his thick frame swathed in the black wool of his long overcoat.

Beyond the headlights, other men are waiting, Walsh's backup, just ensuring that business goes smoothly. "So I hear you're a buddy with old Nicky," is Walsh's informal greeting, called out across the parking lot, "how's the old boy doing these days?" Sometimes the answer to a question posed knowingly can be more beneficial than a night of good business. Walsh is hoping for a little of both.

Lola is dressed in black. It fit the occasion, and it seems to be her color of choice since the riots. Not in some strange mourning fashion, no. More of a blending technique. She's been 'on call' ever since the 8th to protect a certain police officer and White Queen. The black? Well, that just makes that easier. So it's black on black, with Black cargo pants and boots and a fitting sports tank top covered by a heavy black jacket, which is zipped up to the neckline. Lola's hair has been pulled up, spikey stars hang from her ears as she smokes a cigarette. The cancer stick rests between her gloved index and middle fingers as she walks, swaying her hips in Mr. Walsh's general direction.

"Ya'd know better'n ah would, sugar. Boy an me's just business, Ah don' go askin' bout his personal life. Ah'm sure a big strong fellah like yerself knows how it goes." She's wearing that mischevious smirk on her lips, the one Ash would have called 'scampish'. She liked it, being called a scamp. But finding what happened to Ash is another matter. The thought is pushed away for the present. Stopping a street lamp away from Walsh, Lola leans to the left to peer around him at the flanking goons. She waves, a cutsie little finger wave. "Howdy boys."

"Can't say I know you much," it's clear from just a few sentences that Walsh's nickname of the Irishman isn't just a monicker, but a clear generalization of his accent as well, he's one box of cereal short of a Lucky Charms commercial. "Can't say that I trust you much, either, but that's more Nicky's fault than your own. So, let's say you're startin' in the hole on trust levels. Why don't we do some constructive conversing, an' try t'get you back up t'zero?"

Moving into comfortable conversational range, Walsh tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "What is it that brings you up here t'see me? I've got me'self a pretty specialized line of work, so I figure you're either buyin', sellin', or both." One faded red brow arches on his high forehead. "Which'f those is it?"

Somehow, in the intervening weeks, Lola Mayeux has exchanged one gun runner with an accent for another. Admittedly, Walsh is lacking in the looks and youth category in comparison to one Kain Zarek.

Cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. With the same hand, Lola gestures vaguely. "Buyin'. Clearly dear 'ol Nicky dun didn' tell ya Ah already bought a load off ya once. Far as Ah'm concerned, Ah'm a returnin' satisfied customer. Ya been doin' great work so far sugar, ain' much of a reason ta change it from the consumer side a thangs." God, she's dripping southern. It seems like she's picked more of it up in her time in New York, just to spite people.

"But Ah'll bite, if it tickles ya. Shame we didn' go noplace where Ah could buy ya a nice latte, chum up that way," She inhales again, her eyes dancing as she watches him. There's something mischevious about her very…existance. "None the less, what kin Ah do ta alleviate yer nerves, darlin? Mmm? Ah'm at yer service, 'cept in a sexual way. Ah ain' that kinda girl."

Both of Walsh's brows rise slowly at that notion, and he looks over his shoulder towards the muffled sound of laughter from one of his distant thugs. A warning look quiets the laughter, and Walsh clears his throat, glancing down to the ground before back up to Lola. "Direct shipments can be made through one'f my associates here, I don't handle th' business directly unless you're lookin' for somethin' outta' the ordinary that I gotta' put on special call for."

Walsh looks Lola up and down, then shifts his weight to one foot. "I'll give you a deal," seems sudden, "I mark off what I usually mark up for regular clients, cut you a bargain on whatever it is you're looking t'pick up, if you run me a small favor regarding our mutual aquaintance Nicholas."

One brow quirks up. "Soun' fair?"

"Ain' nothin terribly special, unless ya count IDs as bein' special," Lola points out. "But Ah got ya a nice lil grocery list fer whenever yer ready ta do some business." And this? This sounds like business. And yet there's something odd about it. These people - these are really bad people. Lola never doubted that they were. But is she really bad people? Suddenly she doesn't know, she doesn't know what he's about to ask of her. Would she kill that boy Nick if he asked her for some IDs? Is it really worth it? Nick hasn't done anything wrong, and that's always been a line of criteria for her..

"Well Ah suppose that all depends on the discount," Lola mentions vaguely, flicking the ash from her cigarette as though she were more interested in that than anything else. "Ah mean if ya want me ta shake his hand an tell 'em he's a daddy, can' imagine that's much of a discount. If ya want his balls cut off, on t'other hand, Ah kin imagine that'd be real worth mah while ta take time outta mah busy day ta track 'im down."

"Is that…" Walsh narrows one eye, "on the table for negotiatin'? The ball cuttin'? 'Cause if that's so than I think you might be gettin' a free box a' cracker jacks or somethin' with your purchase." Lifting up a hand to rub at one ear, reddened by the cold, Walsh glances at the warehouse, then back to Lola.

"You want state IDs made that ain't no problem, I got a guy what does that. You want Registry cards made, that's outside'f my line a work, but I can recommend a feller who lives out on Staten, but he charges a fucking arm and a leg an' it ain't fast either. Anything that stands up t'background checks'd be harder, but like I said it ain't my specialty. If it doesn't blow up, catch on fire or shoot bullets you're better served with somebody else. I ain't a criminal Wal Mart or nothin'."

That said, Walsh furrows his brows and scuffs one foot on the frozen dirt. "Nicholas has made a rather unfortunate departure and suspicious departure from m'business as of late, an' what I'd like t'know is where the little pig fucker is. If you're amenable to it, puttin' a beat-down on his ass that doesn't kill the dumb prick would go a ways t'earnin' yerself some cred with me too."

Lola shrugs a single shoulder in response to the man, smirking a little bit. "Ah do like me some cracker jacks," Lola assures him. "Ah'll see what Ah kin do about yer hot fellah, balls or no. Really, ya know, ya gotta be in the mood ta slice a fellah's testies. Otherwise it just sounds all…wrong." She shivers, shaking her head and flicking the cigarette off into oblivian.

"Well Ah know ya ain' much of an ID fellah. If ya kin recommend a fellah, that'd be mightily appreciated. As fer the rest of it? One or two things a note, otherwise a pretty standard order fer yer sweet self." Lola whips a wrinkled peice of paper from her pocket. It's from a reporter's notebook, long and thin. She holds it up, toward the Irishman, and it rattles in the wind a little bit. And there's her pretty smiling face beside it. "Just business, sugar, s'all Ah want."

"Jus' make sure he knows who the beating's from," Walsh informs as he gives Lola a speculative glance, then down to the proffered scrip of paper. His eyes narrow, warily, and when he reaches out for the paper it's with a marked note of uncertainty not too terribly different from the way a dog might sniff around at an offered meal before taking it.

"Rick Daselles," is the recommendation the Irishman makes as he takes the piece of paper with a crinkle from his gloved touch, "most'f the lowlifes in the Rookery know him as Tricky Ricky. He has deals with some people who do human trafficking up into Canada. Takes him a good month to process an ID, so's I hear, and he charges about twelve grand a pop for Registry cards, but the work's apparently pretty spotless. Dunno if he outsources or does it all himself, but he comes recommended…"

Blue eyes flick to the paper now, as if he'd been afraid to read what was written on it. He's gotten— and delivered— subpoenas this way.

Lola has all the guns that she could conceivibly hope for from the last exchange that was made through Nick, of all people. This list? This list won't have anything to shock the poor, concerned Irishman. No, this list is pretty standard. A few things that go 'boom.' A few small automatics. There is only one thing on the list that might be considered a speciality item.

It is a card scanner - sort of. Modern pickpockets use them. They use electronic signals to pick up information on credit cards and high-tech ID cards (mostly credit cards) just by swiping close enough. This reader allows a new card to be scanned over it and overwritten with the new information. Thus? Dummy credit card, which can be used or sold with delightfully expensive results.

"Tricky Ricky, huh? Criminals don' never change, do they? Always gotta have smartass names." Lola chuckles, shaking her head and allowing Walsh to look over the shopping list she's given him. "Lemme know if anythin' there's outta your league darlin."

"Card reader ain't something I have on hand, I know a feller out in Jersey that deals in that stuff, down in Atlantic City…" Walsh's eyes narrow as he scans the list, then tucks it into his coat pocket. "Everything else checks out. Normally I'd tell y'to handle it yerself, that last bit there, but seeing as you're doin' me a favor an' we're getting on good, we'll call it a deal. M'going t'need two large up front t'cover insurance, you can deliver it here t'any'f the boys workin'."

Walsh leans his weight to the side, eyes the men behind him, then looks back to Lola again. "It'll take three weeks t'get everything together, your shipment will come in a numbered shipping container in Red Hook. You'll get the number and address after we get the insurance. Payment fer' the remainder'll be up front in cash at point of delivery."

All very clear cut, all very simple business.

Lola slips her hands in her pockets, setting her hips to the side. Its' a cocky stance for a cocky girl who, let's face it, just made her first dirty deal. She's rather proud of herself. "Just in time fer Christmas, that'll be. Now that's service a girl kin get happy with. Ye'll get yer money next few days, fellahs, an then Ah say you an Ah slap a bow on this bitch an send her off ta make sweaters in a Chinese sweatshop." Her grin. Her grin is just like she knew something funny no one else knows. But it's always liek that.

"An don' get me wrong, sugar. Ah appreciate ya bein' so open in takin' on new business, 'specially in these crazy ass times. Ain' everyday ya find a fellah what's willin' ta do business so professional-like."

"I aim t'make the market professional," the Irishman informs with a mild smile, "an' t'those who want t'play otherwise, well, they'll soon t'be gettin' what's theirs." With that cold affirmation laid out for Lola, Walsh turns to offer her his profile, dipping his head into a nod of recognition before turning his back to her, lifting up a hand and waving one finger in a slow circle to imply that he'd like all of his boys to wrap shit up.

Walsh came here to get an answer to a nagging question and do some good business, and any day where he can successfully complete both of those things is a good one.

All in all, Walsh muses to himself as he walks into the headlights of the parked truck, today's been a good day.

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