No Skin Off Your Conscience


leonard_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title No Skin Off Your Conscience
Synopsis Logan recruits an unlikely employee.
Date October 20, 2009

Behind Rapture

It's been a little time, now, since Logan's meeting with Ling Chao within the glitzy night club that sparkles in its Harlem setting. Late night stretches, though not into any dangerous zone according to curfew, as much as these two men might not care about such things, and Logan is a rather distinctive figure, waiting in the near empty parking lot in the alleyway behind Rapture. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, smoke in a stagnant haze around him, inspects the time on his wrist before taking a drag.

Blue patent leather shoes scuff and scrape in his slow pacing, the snow white of his suit almost dangerously ostentatious in this end of town, but then again, Logan tends towards the dangerously ostentatious end of the spectrum when it comes to wardrobe choices.

He'd called a meeting. A contact number the man he knows as Ghost had left him, some time ago. And now, he waits, with all the patience of a caged predator.

Leo, on the other hand, blends in -perfectly-. He's wearing faded fatigue pants, gray shirt, dark hoodie, worn boots, and his dogtags, of all things. They glint as he comes swinging in to the empty lot, though they have the plastic silencer on them - no jingle. His hood's up, and he's a dour little figure as he comes sauntering up to Logan. There's something like scorn in his face, but his muttered greeting is civil enough.

Logan stops as Leonard comes trundling out of the shadows, a look up and down as if what he sees is entirely expected. Which, it is. His free hand tucking into the pocket of his jacket, Logan takes a deep drag of his cigarette, giving Leo a chin up in greeting as he's muttered at. "Evening. Leonard, is it?" That South London drawl is plain, skimming over the t's and ending hard on the g's, not particularly fussed in leaning on received pronunciation when he's dealing with the hired thug brand of contacts.

The thug in question jerks his chin in assent, expression never shifting. He's just carrying that aura of barely restrained anger, eyeing Logan like he'd love to throw him under the bus. Literally, even, maybe.

Such a demeanor is hard not to miss, especially when someone is used to such being directed at him. Logan pauses a moment, narrowing his eyes at Leo until he can figure that no, he's never seen this one before. He flicks ash off the end of his burning cigarette. "Teo recommended you as someone who might be interested in something like what've got coming up. I'm curious as to why that might be."

"I like candlelight, chocolates, and long walks on the beach hand in hand. I assume you're about to offer me one of those things," Leo says, in a perfect deadpan, as he arches his brows enquiringly.

There's some silence as Logan matches an icier look across at Leo. Apparently, he does pay for them to be witty. Still, he takes a breath, thaws out that glare into a smile, and says, "I'm interested in whether you can hit hard, shoot straight, and anything else that might be valuable in such situations. We can talk about long walks on the beach hand in hand after you buy me a drink, my dear."

Leo's smile is positively filled with bonhomie. "I do all of those things, and I do them very well. Teo can vouch for me on that front. What sort of situation are we talking about?" He stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie, rocks his weight from heel to toes and back.

Logan simply nods, once. Teo can and has vouched for him, and so the strip club manager isn't looking for paperwork to verify, sucking in another lungful of smoke and easing it out in slow and gentle curls into the chilly air. "A raid. Violent, quick. Bit of looting involved, I wouldn't wonder."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Who's the target?" Leo wonders, pulling out his own pack of Camels. None of that fancy, snooty Dunhills crap for him.

Casting a look upwards to contemplate a cloud-filled nighttime sky, the hesitation that comes before his response is less uncertainty, more thought on phrasing, before Logan simply answers with, "It's called the Golden Luck Dragon Restaurant. The basement is something else entirely, though - a drug den run by a Triad group known as the Flying Dragons. Shouldn't be skin off your conscience, though I'd recommend not simply shooting the Asian ones - we've got support in the form of a rival gang of theirs."

Leonard nods to that, as he touches the little flame conjured from a worn Zippo to the end of the cigarette. "And what're you offering in return?" he wonders, quietly.

"Money," Logan states, simply, and a little blandly. Blue shoes make soft foot falls against the ground as he steps forward, closing up the wary distance between them although still remaining out of conversational range. "Is, I believe, the usual transaction. And perhaps if you perform well, there'll be other opportunities in the future. I generally offer 'round abouts eight 'undred for a thug with a gun."

His head tilts to the side a little, a flash of pale eyes as he adds, "Of course, that depends on you. I've had men deal in loyalty, favours, cocaine. What's your poison?"

A little private time, me and you. Leo doesn't say it, though. "Money's fine," he says, quietly. It'd be so tempting - just lift him up, let him dangle by the throat until that pretty face is purple with blood. "Sounds like the going rate," he adds, rolling his head on his neck, making the last few vertebrae pop.

"'Tis that," Logan says, before he pitches his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with the heel of his shoe. "This is looking to go down in a few days, I'll contact you so you know when to keep your evening free. Just be in the neighbourhood and bring your own weapon, 'less you need something from me." The offer is paused upon, an inquiring lift of his eyebrows.

His smile is….not really reassuring. "No, I'm good," Leo says, casually, as the cherry ebbs and flares with the tidal rhythym of his breath. "I'll have my cellphone on me, and keep my evening clear."

"Good man." This is where Logan would offer his hand. He does not, and Leo only has himself to thank. "I'll 'ave your wages for you on the night. You 'ave a good evening 'til then." And with that, Logan shows the telekine his white clad back, moving off towards where a haphazard portal has been torn into the wire fencing, seeing nothing undignified in skulking around the harsher edges of Harlem in his expensive shoes.

Leonard does not shake his fist or mouth threats. He just watches Logan go, patiently, dark eyes hooded. Revenge, served cold, etc. And New York's winter is coming on fast.

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