Participants:
| Scene Title | Jack The Ripper's Son |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Amadeus comes looking for a job, and gets one, along with a revelation of his own. |
| Date | August 22, 2010 |
Burlesque: Manager's Office
7PM!
There's been grumbling all day, and lots of pot smoking. While Delia being so judgemental, even if indirectly, may have sort of punched him in the gut, he's, oddly enough, completely missed the point and decided to make himself feel better by solidifying the life she says he can be better than. This involves walking through Burlesque, watching the strippers for about ten minutes, then finally walking to the back office and banging on Logan's door. "Yo! It's Amadeus Deckard, I want a fuckin' job. This better be John Logan." He's being ballsy today, because it's time to reclaim his manhood in his black AC/DC shirt, with his black MLB bat bag on his back.
There is a long and static pause from beyond the door, which doesn't bode well unless Amadeus is planning to break in. Most people aren't supposed to be allowed back here, but if you walk with enough authority, then you're bound to get most places in life. However, a girl with an overly painted face is peeking around the corner, and up the stairwell, there's the thudding sound of someone in pursuit — likely someone with shoulders the size of small children, squeezed into pinstripe and not armed because he might not need to be.
But the door does open, swinging wide and welcoming save for that the man that answers it isn't admitting entry. Logan stands with a cherry red cellphone clutched in one hand, the handle of the door positioned in the other. Black, oil-shined leather pants, with a shirt of unabashed leopard print untucked over it, buttoned about halfway with the sleeves left loose around his wrist. A cigarette is pinned at the corner of his mouth, talking around it like an expert.
"Amadeus who?"
While Amadeus may not have a cigarette, the smoke from his joint billows through his nostrils and into Logan's face. "Who the fuck wears leopard on anything other than a Spanish dude's car seat?" he asks as soon as he takes Logan's form in, then crosses his arms and squints. "I said my name's Amadeus Deckard. And you're John Logan. I've worked for half the dudes in this city, so I was wonderin' if you had anything I could do. Part time or whatever. I break legs, shut down rival businesses, cut off fingers if you like a Triad style, and I can get you free cable and a good deal on my own pot."
Cigarette pinched between his fingers, Logan waves away the billowing cloud of weed burn-off, a wrinkle of distaste showing at his brow as nicotine mingles in with it. "Well I wasn't dressing up for you, big boy," is said, glancing down the length of the corridor towards where the shape of a bouncer is apologetically filling his frame at the top of the stairwell. Logan dismisses him with a wave of his cigarette as he tucks his cellphone into one closely stitched pocket, before that hand reaches out, grips Amadeus' sleeve, and tugs the younger man inside.
It's a close quartered office, feeling more claustrophobic thanks to the decorative Iranian rug on the floor, the bulky antique desk and filing cabinet. An image of Marilyn Monroe hangs framed on the wall, and horizontal blinds conceal the streets from view. "Half the dudes? That sounds like you've been in New York City for a while."
"Yeah, I'm twenty-four, but I've been in the game since I was a teenager." Amadeus' own nose wrinkles at the smell of cigarette smoke, and he gets pulled in and looks around, boredly scratching his head as he explains. "I've been in jail for three years, possession. Got out and then the fuckin' storm hit. I heard about that shit you and Muldoon pulled with the cage fightin' stuff all the way from jail. What's the deal, Linderman ain't lettin' you pimp anymore?" He looks back to the door, then focuses on Logan again. "Can I get a job oilin' down the strippers?"
"Yes, but you might have to pay them." Allowing the door to remain open unless Amadeus is the one to shut it, Logan turns his back as he wanders back towards the desk. He doesn't sit himself down behind, just drags an ashtray forward enough to ash his cigarette into, turning to lean back on its edge as he regards the man up and down, as if looking for something. Or doing math in his head with regards to the number twenty-four.
He breaks that stare off, studies the embered tip of his cigarette instead. "I'm not in the prostitution trade anymore. Got my hands, instead, in the Refrain circuit, and the Triad are always looking for stupid white boys to do some drug running for them if you want something of any consistency. Plus side is they pay nicely. I've still got some business— "
Then, Logan hesitates, considers. "Actually, if you're not unkeen for a task, I have a delivery errand coming up. A quick earned hundred."
"Fuck the Triad, the Ghost Shadows tried to get me killed by sendin' me to collect the debt of some crazy fuckin' Chinese guy with a shotgun." Amadeus kicks the door shut without turning around, then leans against the wall next to it and watches Logan closely. "I'm up for a delivery. And if you wanna pay for information on Refrain raids and shit, my dad's Homeland, I might be able to pump the deadbeat fucker for information. Flint Deckard."
That inspires— mirth. Smoke siphons out nostrils with a choking chuckle, a grin splitting across Logan's face as he stares doubtfully across at the younger man. "Flint Deckard, is Homeland?" he repeats, carefully, before shaking his head as if to clear it, incomprehension now dimming his smile. "What you on about? The man's as crooked as— well. You and I put together."
"I know! Fuckin' right? How is he Homeland? This chick told me, straight-laced as a fuckin' hymen, no way she was lyin'. But I don't get how this fucker is Homeland, and has all these hot chicks pourin' over him, like this Abigail chick and the doctor." Amadeus sounds just as bewildered as Logan, shaking his head in disbelief at his own words. "But if he really is fuckin' Homeland, you can use that, right? I say fuck 'em, he abandoned me and then didn't wanna own up when I came wavin' around a paternity test, so I'll fuck him over too."
"Jesus." Both hands braced against either side of the desk, Logan studies Amadeus intently across the room. "Nah. Yeah. Fuckit. That would be fantastic, for as long as he don't find out that we've met or anything. I wonder if they know he's a murderer."
This is better than daytime telly, abruptly, Logan contemplatively setting his teeth against the cigarette filter as he thinks, tip of his tongue tasting the vaguely sweet adhesive of it, before he takes an inhale, nods to the other man. "For now, there's the delivery. Basically dropping off a bit of money for someone who I've got a feeling might make it her business to ask for more. Course I'll send someone to watch you, but consider it a test of trust otherwise. If you're not doing anything late this week, I can give you the cash and the meeting place and see how you go."
"Who'd he kill? And that's cool, I've got a date with Peyton Fuckin' Whitney, but I can plan around the delivery." Amadeus removes the joint from his mouth, offering it over from his spot against the wall. "Want a hit? Was nice doin' business an' all. Oh yeah, can we fuck the strippers or is this a legit place?"
There's considering hesitation, before Logan sets his cigarette down into the ashtray, blowing out the lingering smoke from his lungs in an angled off stream before he's pushing himself off the edge of the desk and moving on closer to take the joint. He's a bit like a whiter, taller Toru, isn't he? Straighter, okay. "Hookers. He killed some hookers. For fun, instead of money." That he doesn't single out Hokuto from that might be short term memory loss or an insult.
An inhale of the pot, expert enough for it to be a finely honed hobby since teenagehood, Logan nods his thanks before passing the joint back, fingernails primly cut. "Legit, sorry, but I know a few places that aren't so if you're that keen. Pleasure back at you and my, give Peyton my best."
"Nah I ain't a hooker guy, I just saw some lookers out there on stage." Amadeus slips the joint back inbetween his lips, shaking his head at Logan's answer. "Fuck, dude, I'm the son of Jack the fuckin' Ripper. Fuckin' insane. I don't even know what to fuckin' do now…"
"Hookers and homeless." Logan steps back, with a quick smile, turning away to drift further into his office to collect back up his cigarette, back to Amadeus. "If it's worth anything, it was probably just a phase. He's also valiantly rescued people, knows his place in the world, loyal in some obscure way. But as for what you do, I suggest you avoiding pissing him off."
"Fuck 'em, I could take that bastard. But I don't wanna piss 'em off, I might be able to get somethin' out of 'im." Amadeus turns to the door, grabbing the knob. "I'm gonna watch some chicks bend in impossible ways, then I'm gonna try an' find somewhere to sleep tonight. And I ain't sleepin' at your place, I don't like the eyes you're given me. Or maybe you're just fuckin' British, I can't tell the difference."
That gets Logan sharply turning around to deal a look Amadeus' way — and there's nothing confusing or ambiguous in the chilly, narrowed glare he gets dealt his way. "In your case? Yeah. I'm just fuckin' British. Get out of my office. And leave your number with the bartender so I know how to get in touch 'bout the delivery."
Amadeus just shakes his head, opening the door, but then something hits him and he looks back in. "You a fan of Peyton's too? Fuck yeah. I'm totally gonna bang 'er." Then he closes the door behind him and heads back down to the bar.