Participants:
| Scene Title | Moving Day |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Lola drops by the clinic with a present, and finds Constantine packing his things. |
| Date | November 16, 2009 |
The largest, most obvious feature of Dr. Filatov's clinic is that one wall, an entire wall has been almost completely with what appear to be tall hardwood china cabinets, or possibly some other form of storage furniture from a bar, or kitchen or apothecary that have been nailed to the wall and cobbled together into some kind of uniformity. The last one may be the most likely, because every row of shelves that no run the length of the wall are covered with jars and bottles containing all manner of drugs, medicines, tonics, ointments and tinctures. The drawers below the shelves doubtlessly contain more supplies necessary for the operation of the clinic, so perhaps it's best not to question exactly what can be found in them. Besides that, the room is dominated by two large examination tables, which are really just old, well-worn wooden dining tables, with some of the matching chairs resting against the wall opposite the medicines, the closest to a waiting room the clinic has. A simple wooden screen in one corner serves as a dressing area. The unadorned wood paneling and scuffed hardwood floor are not the doctor's doing; he freely admits that whoever occupied this place last had both a thing for wood, and poor taste. The only other seemingly permanent fixture of the clinic is Ranger, Dr. Filatov's absolutely ancient bulldog, who spends most of his days lounging by the dressing screen, or wherever the sunbeams happen to pass through the steel window shutters. Besides a short hallway leading to the rest of the building (most of the space of which is taken up by the enormous examination/emergency/operating room), an unobtrusive door with far too many latches takes up a portion of an inside wall. 'Employees only' couldn't be spelled any more clearly.
The situation on the island hasn't gotten any worse, but that doesn't mean that Constantine hasn't been busy, although not with patients or even much with his research. Instead, he's been preoccupied with logistics. Business on the island hasn't been the same since the cages were shut down, it's true, and if what he's heard is correct, the FRONTLINE will be standing on his front lawn before much longer. The time to move his operations is upon him, and with it, the headaches and nightmares of arranging the best way to move everything.
With the sun dipped below the horizon, the clinic is officially opened only to emergencies, but the blindingly bright lights shining through the thin slits in the steel shutters covering the front windows indicate that the doctor is still in and still very much awake. And, very possibly, still accepting visitors. At least he won't be otherwise distracted by the infirm.
Bangbangbang. "Hey, anybody home!?"
Oh god.
Outside the door stands Lola Mayeux, AKA Mary-Lou Winston, wearing a thick old coat, some jeans, and carrying a bag over her arm. She's pounding at the door to the clinic, very much enjoying her range of motion and movement that's only possible after the healer living hearin worked his magic. "Hey come on, Ah'm freezin' mah ass off out here!"
Only a few moments pass before the sound of locks turning is heard, and a moment after that, the door opens to reveal Doctor Filatov greeting Lola with the business end of an AK-47. He must recognize her however, because a moment later, he moves the rifle away from his shoulder and angles the muzzle upward in a direction that doesn't put the woman immediately at risk. Perhaps curiously, he doesn't hold his weapon at all like a medical doctor might, and more like a soldier might. Coincidence, surely.
"A rather inconvenient time to need surgery, don't you think?" he asks. But he moves his rifle further in a safe direction, releasing the grip and trigger and toting it with one hand. "What brings you hear this evening?" He moves aside so that, should Lola please, she can come in out of the cold.
The gun does make Lola's eyes go wide - she's not ready to get shot again - but soon enough, that danger is passed. "What, seein' mah cute face ain' 'nuff of a reason ta visit ya?" she asks, giving the man a playful wink as she walks in. "Naw sug, came ta pay mah respects an all a that. Done toldja, mah maman was a healer like you, 'cept less creepy, but there ain' nothin' Ah respect more'n this world than a healer. An where's yer dog at?" She reaches into her bag, withdrawing a rubber bone. She squeezes. It squeaks. Twice.
"Ranger, come." As Constantine shut the door, only latching one of the two deadbolts, the old bulldog appears from around the back of the wooden screen in the corner, snorting as he is wont to do as he comes out to investigate. As is perhaps expected, he doesn't bark at his master's visitor, perhaps because she doesn't appear to be intruder into their space. Whereas Constaintine seems indiffierent to the situation, Ranger seems expectant. Is that for me?
The rest of the room is in partial disarray, with one table half covered in short, wide cardboard boxes that have been reinforced with duct tape. About one-third of the cabinets that line the far wall are empty and devoid of any medicines. The doctor, apparently, is taking Cardinal's advice and preparing to move.
"Hi puppy!" Lola says, bending over and squeeking the toy in front of the dog. "Good doggie, good doggie!" She gives the dog the bone, quite literally. It's a double-edged sword, that bone. The dog will like it, one hopes, and Constantine seems to like when his dog is happy. But the more his dog likes it, the more it will squeak. Just the sort of present Lola would give. Taht finished, Lola finally stands and sets her hands on her hips to look around. "Goin' someplace, sugar?"
"Eventually, yes," Constantine replies. Already, he looks a little unsure about that bone that Ranger is squeaking experimentally. Fortunately, the dog quickly takes it out of the room and down the hall, although that doesn't completely quiet the squeaking. "Business is down, and I'm not sure how much longer the island will have business at all. It's a good time to move, before it's too late to do it without sneaking past government agents."
"Ah yeah, keep fergettin' bout that." Lola turns and slides onto a chair, kicking her feet up with only minimal pain. After 3 gun shots, there will be some pain for almost the entirety of her life. "Where ya gonna go? Ah mean, the crime thing's sorta dryin' up a late, as Ah hear it. Lots opportunities, but lotsa problems too. Ain' no Shangri-La fer crimminals no more. An that means no more Shangri-La fer crimminals wif holes in 'em, neither."
"That doesn't matter. As long as there's someone who wants to keep a secret, someone who can't go to the hospital, can't afford a hospital," Constantine begins, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and returning to the table to resume packing and organizing. "As long as we have those people in the world, there will be rippers. And as long as the world has rippers, I'll never run out of work."
"Even if ya gotta make some a yer own?" She asks, nudging her nose gently toward the rifle. "An ain' that piece kinda dated? Actually that reminds me. Dicky Cardinal's been a little busy a late, an Ah'm lookin' ta aquire some pieces a my own. Small handgun, FBI standard issue types. Ya wouldn' know nothin' bout where a girl coudl get somethin' like that, wouldja?"
"Flint Deckard," Constantine replies without looking away from his work, "If, that is, you can find him. He's been scarce lately, hard to find. I haven't seen him for some number of months, myself. But if you can find him, he can get you what you want. Anything you want."
"Yeah Ah done heard bout him, seems he was the fucker what was supposed ta be healin' me." She shrugs, reaching into the bag and pulling out a very old bottle of scotch, which she props up on the table, letting the light glint off the glass like it does her mischevious smile. "An speakin' a which, this is fer ya. Normally Ah ain' the one ta be goin' round sayin' thank ya, sugar, but like Ah done said. Got the most obese respect in the world fer traiteurs."
The sound of glass coming to rest on wood draws Constantine's attention away from his work, and for a change, his face lights up with… well, he doesn't smile or grin, but his expression does change, and it changes in a good way. "Well, that's not necessary," he says, "But thank you, all the same. Alcohol, typically doesn't find its way into my budget, you see."
"Why's that? Ya one a them recoverin' folks?" She doesn't say it with a lack of respect - indeed, she seems to have a soft reverence for the phrase, but there's no way to pinpoint it. It just seems to float there, like an apparition. "Wouldn' wanna be the girl ta push you off. But if ya ain', well movin' parties usually require some cut a booze, don't they?"
For a few moments, Constantine considers this possibility, and finally gives a single nod in agreement. "I would say so," he replies, pausing for another moment in thought. "But, I would prefer to save it for after, when everything is settled and I don't have to worry about government agents breaking down my door…."
For another second or two, the doctor is plainly lost in thought. But his reverie lasts for only that long before he comes back to reality. "Sorry," he says, "Old memories."
"It's yers ta do with what ya wish, darlin. An Ah been meanin' ta tell ya, too. Ah ain'…got much of nowhere to go." And she's already spoken about her reverence to healers. "If ya need movin' brute strength, well mah brother's as strong as a horse so Ah'm sure there's some muscle somewhere in all a mah skin an bone."
"I'll be here for several days more, at least," Constantine replies, "A final few days of doctoring, just to make sure everything won't fall apart the instant I leave. And to get my own affairs in order. I don't even have travel arrangements made. No date set, no boat to use, no place to move everything. It's not much of a plan at the moment, you can see. But, again, thank you, although I'm not sure how much there'll be to help with. Much of my equipment and materials are of a, sensitive nature, and I'll be moving them on my own. Some habits, never quite go away." Whatever kind of doctor Constantine was in the past, it must have been more than just a family practitioner or even hospital surgeon. 'Old memories.'
"Well pick a date, sugar." Lola swings to her feet, as if preparing to go. "An leave the boat ta me. S'my thank ya, at any rate." She gives him a little wave with her fingers, moving toward the door. "Least Ah kin do an all of that."
"It's far more than the 'least' you can do," Constantine replies. He follows after Lola, likely because he needs to latch the door after her, "The least you could have done would have been to pay me for your treatment. Help beyond that is all the more appreciated." And also a good reason not to inform her that calling him a 'healer' isn't exactly correct.
At all.