Participants:
| Scene Title | Mr Fagin, meet Oliver Twist. |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Ewan is going about trying to locate a certain canine, manages to find a Logan attempting to take a brief break from the noise of The Rookery. |
| Date | Sunday, Feb 8th, evening. |
Across the water that separates Staten Island from— well, civilisation to be frank, Manhattan and Brooklyn have never been so quiet. Curfew takes its toll. But not over here. Here, Staten Island would probably die a quick death if nighttime activities were cut off so harshly, but at least there is absolutely no one to enforce it. Night has definitely fallen, though the night is young, and gentle snow flakes spin to the ground in delicate spirals. Harsh neon lights make them glow.
It's an active night, nightlife and lowlife walking the mostly empty streets, only the occasional car making it necessary to skip to the sidewalk. The Happy Dagger is a bright spot on the strip, glass windows showing off glimpses of the garish interior, women roaming back and forth as they tend to those who have paid to get in the door. The brothel's owner, however, is apparently taking the night off, seated a few establishments down the street outside Shooters Bar and Bistro. They've left the tables out, it seems, under a cover to protect from the light haze of snow adding a bite of cold to the evening. He's currently alone, with a freshly opened bottle of wine that he's now pouring into a glass, very liberally, a coat worn over his suit and a scarf thrown around his neck.
It's a little unclear, even to Ewan himself, what a skinny, pale-faced boy does around this sort of neighborhood at this time of evening, and no less how he actually got here. But there's no lack of suckers born in the world, and along with his generally poor looks a hard-luck story got him across the waters without even paying a fee. The questionable morality in doing this, and any of the other activities happening here on Staten Island, doesn't seem to bother him much, though. Moving around, a palefaced shadow in black clothes, he keeps to the sides, the walls, wherever is mostly out of the way of people happening to demand their space more violently.
Ewan's attention is caught by something he finds a little odd, even for this place, especially since the nip of cold would deter most from sitting outside. He ends up trailing over towards the gathering of tables outside the bistro, an eye kept on the more lively spots of the street, until he reaches the covered area and actually can turn down the collar of his worn coat, snowflakes still spotted in dark locks and melting on his forehead. "…'scuse me, ya wouldn't happen t'know anythin' 'bout where's dere's dawgs to find, 'round 'ere?" His accent is… european, as far as it can be pinned down, a mix of many influences, but none of them posh. Perhaps by choice, tonight, seeing as this is far from a good place to display manners, breeding and supposed money.
The question as to why Logan is seated outside might answer itself as the door swings open from someone coming or going, and the raucousness of whatever is going on inside sounds out. Laughter, shouts - a typically Monday evening for the Rookery. No one here has a real day job to worry about. Logan is picking up his glass of red when he's approached, glancing past the teenager for whatever reason before looking up at the boy's youthful face. "Dogs?" Logan repeats, his own accent foriegn - unlike Ewan's, it's an upperclass brand of English, but perhaps like Ewan's, affectedly so. A pause as he considers this question, then tilts his wine glass towards the opposite empty chair, perhaps to avoid getting a crick in his neck. "I know plenty of bitches if that's what you mean. You may need to be more specific, Oliver Twist. A name, perhaps, or a description."
Ewan cants his head a little to the side, the din from inside certainly noted, and then he lifts a shoulder in half a shrug, stepping on over to turn the chair around and sit down, resting his arms on the back of it, shaking his head to the mention of 'bitches'. If he minds the accent, he's not going to say, but his own settles down somewhat from the outrageous 'Snatch' end of things and lands somewhere in between the ordinary and noticable. "It's an actual -dog- I'm looking for, matter of fact." He sits back a little, pulling up the front of his coat enough to reach in two fingers and take out a picture - a worn and torn polaroid with something written on the back of it.
Erm, yeah, no sudden movements or unexplained, wholehanded reaching into his coat here. He likes his life, where it's at right now, wouldn't want to end up dead over the matter of a misunderstanding. "Heard there's enough strays around here, maybe she'd found a pack to run with."
The photo itself shows a pitbull terrier, notorious for ill-temper, all over brown with a long ribbon and smear of white fur at the chest and a snout full of teeth, small, dark eyes, a blunt muzzle and round shoulders rooted down by a broad stance of paws, seemingly innately combative in the default posture of its anatomy.
"Oh," is what Logan has to say at the revelation that he's talking about a literal canine, not some new slang phrase for a hooker. There are quite a few and Logan has to make it his job to keep up with the times. He downs a good mouthful of dark red wine, before rather gamely leaning over to look at the photograph that's been pulled out, studying the dog for a moment. "I… I think it might be familiar." He— might sound genuine. Or he might be putting it on. Either way, he squints at the photograph and then leans back, looking thoughtful. "I swear I've seen it wandering around down this way…" And he turns his head, and points across the street to a restaurant. Sheung Wan Kitchen. "Last I saw it was wandering that way… and was never seen again." And now an unstoppable teasing smirk threatens to break the facade, hand dropping back down to collect up his wine glass.
Ewan allows himself just a brief breath of hope, even if he arches an eyebrow slightly, since real information rarely comes without a pricetag presented first, and yes, he's going to look the way that is pointed out… and then, there's a flicker of recognition as he senses a smirk, an emotion moving across his ow face, a touch of exasperation, but.. "Yeah, I walked straight into that one, didn't I?" he murmurs, offering up a brief tug of his lips, far from any kind of real smile, as the picture is magic'd back to where it came from, swift fingers making it appear to disappear as it goes up his sleeve.
He lingers in his seat, though, studying the man for perhaps a moment too long, longer than what is considered casual or polite, then he hessitates a moment before offering a calm, quiet "Could be well worth trying to remember where dogs that can survive a fight could go, around here, y'know."
The boy's reaction to his jest might not be firmly in the 'good humoured' category, but it's close enough that Logan's twist of a smirk breaks into a more definite smile, turning his wine glass between his hands. If he minds the moment of staring, it doesn't show, simply meeting the gaze with pale green eyes, bringing up his wine to sip, working through the full glass rather consistently. "For you," he says, once the kid says his piece, but then he shrugs a little, giving it some real thought this time. Kid can take a joke, so why not? "Knock on the doors to the right bars and you'll probably find some basement level dog-fighting rings," he suggests, blandly. "Otherwise, the Greenbelt these days is full of the wretched animals, strays running in packs, I swear to you. Might do you good to take something a little more deadly than big doe eyes to defend yourself if you go either route."
Ewan is actually quite happy, in a quiet, inside sort of way, that he actually managed to stumble across someone willing to share any information without favors or cash in return, tonight. He lays down his head on top of his arms on the back of the chair for a moment, giving Logan a look as close to innocence as he possibly can get it, doe eyes included from underneath his ruffled and still snow-flaked bangs. A near breathless, higher pitched voice than before, "Why, thank you, kind sir.. I will take that under most serious consideration." Blink, blink, goes long, dark lashes, before he can't keep a straight face no more, and cracks up a bit of a grin that actually makes some headway into his eyes. "I know I'm pushing my luck already, but you wouldn't happen to know anywhere hirin' dancers, that don't look too closely on papers and stuff, would ya?"
That gets an indulgent chuckle from the older man, placing his glass back down on the table as he fixes his scarf a little, tucking it a little neater into his jacket. The woolen coat he wears over the top is nothing fancy, but beneath that, there's the hint of more professional attire, expensive as well. "Yes," Logan says, in such a determined way that he has to be joking, or at least taking the piss in some other way. "But probably not the sort've dancing you've got in mind, Oliver, doe eyes aside. But whatever it is you want," he tilts his head a little as if to indicate this particular road in this particular neighbourhood, "rarely do they ask for papers of any kind."
There's a wry tug, perhaps just a play of shadows, at the corner of Ewan's lips, as he straightens back up a little, lifting a hand to rest his chin on it. "I know dances you've never seen, mister, that could set your world on fire.." he murmurs, his tone just a touch teasing for a moment. Far away from doe-eyes and innocence. But he does stop there, to think it through, the details noted. Expensive clothes underneath, enough brains to hide them in a place like this, an accent, the wine… the dots connecting neatly in his mind. So far, they're only forming a rough sketch, but the question is if he'd like to know that much more. The boy is going to bow his head a little for a moment, and then slowly rise from his seat, deciding that he's been playing with the firecrackers long enough, time to bow out while all his fingers still are left. "Thanks for the pointers, and… advice."
Christ. Logan isn't honestly sure if the world is simply waiting to snap this boy up and break him into pieces, or if perhaps he has just enough streetwise to skirt around that inevitable fate until he's actually old enough to handle it. At least the Rookery will be a good test to that, and Logan's smirk only deepens in amusement when the proclaimed 'Oliver' teases right back. Then, the kid is vacating his seat, which Logan approves of, hand reaching out to pick up the wine bottle and refill his not yet emptied glass. At the words that follow, he snorts. "Oh dear. Don't go saying that too loudly, people listening in might start thinking I'm charitable," Logan says with a slight sneer, as rich red fills the wine glass once more. "Good luck with your dog. Be sure to come looking again if you want to know about the kind that don't bite." Whatever that means.
Ewan offers a bit of a grin again, shaking his head as he again studies the man with a rather sincere look in his eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that… I'm sure you've done all you can to maintain a reputation. But for a price, I could just let it slip into the right ears, should there ever be an… opportune moment." You never know, one day it might be needed. As for the right thing needing doing right now, though, 'Oliver Twist' is going to stop pressing his luck before any possible bodyguards step out of the shadows, and simply get going, hopefully getting to make it down the street, in his search for the most valuable comodity of them all… information.
 February 8th: Trading Future Favours |
 February 8th: Dead Men Talking |