Not Much Trouble


christine_icon.gif trask2_icon.gif ziadie_icon.gif

Scene Title Not Much Trouble
Synopsis Sometimes, where there is one cop, there's likely to be more, even if two are former and one is off-duty. And where there are knives, there are sometimes guns.
Date March 31, 2011

East Harlem

East Harlem was and is still referred to as 'Spanish Harlem' or 'El Barrio'; a majority of its population is of Hispanic descent, especially originating from Puerto Rico. It also includes immigrants from around the world. East Harlem is no longer quite the low-income neighborhood it once was, due to the increase in housing prices across the board, but it remains one of the neighborhoods where making ends meet is merely difficult instead of impossible — in an economic sense.

The neighborhood is plagued by other problems. Although mostly unaffected by the explosion, the influx of refugees to East Harlem has compounded the issues present previously. Fresh foods, produce and meats alike, are scarce and expensive. Crimes of all sorts, from theft assault, are frequent; drug trafficking and use is extremely widespread.

For once again, Ziadie's actually out and about with late evening coming, walking slowly from the precinct in Spanish Harlem towards Harlem proper, but the old man is in no particular hurry. The fact that actively having a job didn't suit him any more than retirement did has left the retired police officer — as could be guessed by the medals that are pinned to the left breast pocket of his jacket if nothing else, such as the not so recent newspaper article about the incident in the mall — not enough to do with his time.

Of course walking through Spanish Harlem with medals all over you does sometimes attract attention from the wrong sort of people too. Three young punks, none of them old enough to shave, are hanging out near one of the flickering street lamps. One punches his friend and the look over, seeing the retired police officer they begin to gravitate that way.

And of course where there is one retired police officer there are sometimes more then one. A man in a black leather jacket makes his way across the street heading the opposite direction from Ziadie, keeping his head down.

It's not like Ziadie's not used to it. There's not even a cane today, and one dark, weathered hand rests on his hip. "You kids go home," he says, the accent of his voice speaking of belonging, to some degree, in Spanish Harlem. And then, at the last of his words, Ziadie's brows furrow, as Trask passes enough that with the overall narrowness of the street, Ziadie is briefly in the negation field. And for a moment, his own words lose the auditory quality that define them as truth, the opposite of false, lose the associated twinge in his head, and then he mutters to himself, more testing whether it's lasted. It hasn't, and for the moment, Nocturne Ziadie is too busy watching the other former cop to pay attention to the youths, turning mid-step to wait for an opportunity to cross the street.

The youths don't look like they are all that impressed. The move to flank the old man laughing a bit, "Hey pappa….you lost?" "Where you get those shiney medals….maybe I want a medal too." Trask on the other hand, so far, just keeps walking, he does slow down though as he hears what is going on behind him.

Ziadie chuckles and shakes his head. He's easily a good foot taller than any of them, and still so far not that bothered. His pace quickens a bit, nothing that any of them can't keep up with, but three kids aren't enough to bother him very much yet. "Then that's your problem, and might become more of a problem soon." The old man's voice carries rather powerfully as he shoulders one of the kids out of the way, avoiding being flanked for more than a little at a time while he continues towards the negator.

Paco, Juan, and Jose look at each other, frowning and shaking there heads. "Hey Gramps….you deaf or something?" The seem to be rather annoyed at him not paying attention to them. One of them reaches out to grab at the old man's shoulder as he walks past. "Maybe we need to talk louder, yes Heffey?" Meanwhile the redhead stops and turns his head as if he can feel the old mans eyes on him.

Ziadie withdraws his hand from his pocket, snapping to grab the wrist of the one that grabs at him with a distinct shove backwards. There's a fair amount of strength, perhaps more than would be expected from someone his age, but even though he's starting to get old, he's still in shape. "I'm deaf if you're fuckin' stupid," comes the response as he keeps walking. "Like I said, run on home."

Jose takes a step back but Paco turns to Juan, "Did he just call us stupid? Who does this darkee think he is? Her man you can't talk to us like that." He reaches up and gives Ziadie another shove, though not all that effective given the older cop not being as frail as they assumed.

One might wonder what a young lady such as Christine would be doing walking around Spanish Harlem. Truth of the matter is, she's just been doing a lot of walking lately. Doesn't matter what neighbourhood it brings her to. She doesn't frankly care. Since the incident which caused the death of a partner of hers, Aude, she hasn't given all too much care in regard to how dangerous a neighbourhood is.

Bundling up her coat and readjusting the strap of her purse, neither of which are really all that fancy looking, Christine makes her way through the area, eyes lazily gazing about. Her cop instincts tell her to keep an eye open for trouble, no matter the area she's in. Something could pop up on every corner and in every alley.

They're nearing a corner, and Ziadie's words are still spoken out loudly and deliberately. If anything, the old man is rather amused at the circumstance. "I think that I'm going about my business an' you're goin' to stop botherin' me before y' get yerselves in real trouble, because none of yez want that." Really, his attention's still on the negator, especially now that Ziadie's back inside Trask's sphere of effect, but his voice is enough to carry nonetheless.

Trask is still paused as he sees the man approaching with his new friends. He still hasn't noticed the other young lady approaching. But suddenly he moves foward, like a striking cobra he closes the less then three yards to the older ex cop and his leg strikes out taking Jose in the chest. The third punk had worked his way around Ziadie and the long thin knife blade that was about to sink into the older man's kidneys goes spinning through the night glinting in the light of the yellowish flickering streetlamps.

As the scene unfolds, Christine walks closer and closer. As she steadily approaches, her pace slows and she watches the scene unfold. Does she even dare call it in, or does she wait to see what all happens before she takes any actions? While her cop instincts tell her to take action, her attention is taken by the glint of a flying object. The knife falls close to her feet and as it slowly clanks on the ground, she stomps her foot down on it to bring it to a final stop. "Aww. Someone lost his knife." But, where there are knives, there are sometimes guns. She starts to make an even quicker approach.

There's a nod of thanks to Trask, and at the moment, the first gun out is the older former cop's, a nearly antique handgun that's loaded, held easily at his side as he moves so that none of the youths can actually flank him again. "You kids should get lost," he says. There's a furrow of his brow, though, as once again the words he's hearing lose that distinctive quality that tells him whether or not they're true, sounding distant even though Christine isn't very far off, even his own words. The furrow of a brow turns into a smile.

Paco looks at Juan and Juan looks back, then the two of them have watched a bit of those old french 3 musketeer shows to know the phrase all for one and one for all, but they are much more of a fan of jack sparrow, "Whoever falls behind…falls behind" And the two of them break in opposite directions heading for the hills when the gun comes out. Jose looks up from the ground, where Trask's kick knocked him on his Ass he suddenly looks to his friends for help and then lets out a string of Spanish that would make a nun blush when he realizes just how good of friends they are. Trask meanwhile keeps an eye on the three kids while still nodding to the older man, "Not a problem amigo." Despite his looks his voice is definitely touched with a rather thick Latino accent.

With a loud 'Ahem', Christine approaches as the two guys run off, leaving their 'friend' still on the ground. With her eyes on everyone present, as best she can, she raises an eyebrow. "Should I even be askin' what's goin' on here?" She asks, her accent giving her away as being from the Bronx, if one is inclined to recognize such a thing. "And do I need to ask you about that gun?"

There's a click of the safety, the gun held up, now harmlessly, on one of Ziadie's hands. His other hand runs over the medals on his jacket, a bit of a grimace. "Nothin' goin' on here," he says, watching he woman. Recognition is slow to set in, but he's sure he's seen her before, met her before, talked to her before; even if he has cleaned up so much as to be less than recognisable than as they first met aside from the same collection of medals pinned to his jacket. "An' y' can ask, I don' mind. I don' think you'd get an'thin' useful from asking."

Jose may be impulsive, he may have just missed being a murderer by a few inches just now, but one thing he isn't. He isn't stupid. So when all three plain clothes cops turn to look at each other and the gun safety clicks on he decides he needs to follow his friends example. He bolts for the nearest alley.

Trask looks like he considers chasing the kid a moment, but changes his mind. He smiles at the young woman who approaches. "Nothing going on here senorita. Just boys being boys…you know how it is."

Christine crosses her arms at Ziadie. She may not quite recognize him for the moment, she tilts her head. "Now, I ain't even gonna ask if you got a permit to be carryin' that. Right now, I don't wanna know. I mean…seriously." Her general thoughts? Could be safer in the long run to not know for the time being. Too many questions are never approved of. Her eyes shift to stare at Trask. "Boys being boys? Is that why that boy was on his ass and why a knife just happened to land near where I was standing? Well, I guess that settles it, don't it?" Muttering under her breath she says, "Boys will be boys. Hah!" She shakes her head. She grew up with brothers. She knows about boys. Regardless, she doesn't even know why she's bothering right now. She's not even on duty!

Ziadie chuckles. "Your time ye'd waste, na mine." He's got the papers, and the badge, and nothing better to do with his evening anyway, but. Nonetheless, and it actually isn't intentional on the older man's fault, but the badge that today is on the inside of his jacket from his brief visit to the precinct, where it still comes in handy at times, flashes visible, after he unloads the gun, putting it into the holster of the gun belt and the ammunition into a pocket for the moment. The fact that there's another gun on the gun belt is also visible. Then he turns to Trask. "I appreciate it, friend."

Trask smiles and offers his hand, "Not a problem" He does catch sight of the badge, and nods toward it, "Though you could probably have taken care of yourself mi-amigo." He smiles softly, as he looks at Christine. "Surly you have heard that before, yes? My mom always use to say it about me and my brothers."

The badge isn't completely lost on Christine, nor previously were the commendations. But she still went ahead and talked away anyhow. "I don't even know why I'm botherin'! Not like it's any of my business to be askin'. Not right now. Ain't even workin'! Just trying to get from point A to point B." Wherever that ends up. "But when there's trouble, good samaritans must be of service and…stuff." She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I ain't even gonna ask about the guns. But if I get wind about this happenin'? I better not hear that there was a random black woman trying to ask around about stuff." She says with a firm nod. Toward Trask, she says, "Never said I ain't heard that before. But 'boys will be boys' don't exactly answer my question, do it?"

"So yer off-duty, an' I'm retired, an' there's no word of nothin'," Ziadie affirms, the black leather jacket falling shut although it no longer zips closed. "I do appreciate th' concern, an' all." He squints a bit. "Jackson, was it?" There's only so long it was going to be before it came to him, the old man's had a mind enough for names when he's not drunk. Then he reaches to rub at his head, briefly. "'s odd," he murmurs. "It all sound odd." There's a glance leveled at Trask. "Na that I am complainin' or no."

Trask grins a little, "Your question, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch it…Officer Jackson is it?" He grins at the old man. "I am sure nothing untoward was going on here. and I promise that no random smoking hot off duty police officers will be mentioned in any official statements." He winks.

"Yeah…Jackson." Christine eyes Ziadie. "And you're that homeless guy. The ex-cop who tried to comfort me after my partner died." She just says 'died', because she likes that better than saying that the other woman was killed. "My question was about what was going on here. You can't trip me up that easily, you know." She states simply. "And flattery ain't gonna work neither." She says, giving him a matter-of-fact look. Though inside, she does feel pleased about being called hot. Let's face it, everyone like to feel like they look good. Even if just a little bit.

There's a nod of affirmation. "Yeah. Actually, been living with a buddy of mine now," Ziadie says, though it might be obvious that he's biting back whatever other comment about the young woman not having dealt with it any better in favour of correcting her about whether or not he's homeless. "Bu' really, boys will be boys. They thought they'd bother me, because 'f the medals." There's a low chuckle. "One of these days they remember that the reason I have those is because I earned every one of them."

Trask nods, "Well not all kids can read those medals these days, not like when I was a kid around here." He shakes his head then smiles at the officer, "Miss Jackson, if flattery didn't work, people would stop trying to use it on police officers. Besides I'm an honest man, so if I say something you know I mean it." He nods to Ziadie, "Just some punks trying to get something shiney to hock, nothing different then any other night on the beat."

"Been livin' with a buddy. Good. Last thing we need are people on the streets. Causes more problems for them then it does for anybody else." Christine murmurs. "You know, I think I'm gonna continue to let boys be boys and let the lot of ya continue on. I got places to be, and pretending I ain't a cop to do. See you boys around." Or not. It's a big city. You never really know, though. Stranger things have happened.

Trask's words cause a faint furrow in Ziadie's brows, though there's a nod of parting to Christine. "Take care of yourself, or somethin'," he says to her. "And learn to pretend better. You're a good cop, but most good cops don't pretend that they ain't very well." And then Ziadie's attention is turned back to Trask, an interested, curious look leveled on the man. "You're an interestin' man, if nothin' else." There's half a snort. "Can't tell if you're honest. Guess for once I'll just have to take yer word." Not that he suspects the other of lying, but the lack of access to his ability is, in fact, rather strange. "It's a neat trick you got, though. Like I said before, I na gon' complain about it."

Trask nods and smiles softly, "Yeah not exactly under control. I just kinda…bring this little umbrella with me wherever I go. I know it freaks a lot of people out."

Now that the excitement's over, the ammunition that'd been put in his pocket is pulled out, along with the box for the bullets to go back into, and Ziadie busies his hands with the task, before putting the small box of ammunition back to where it came from, also on his belt. There's a nod offered. "Unnervin' a bit, because I'm used to hearin' the difference," he says, "but I have t' say it's almost a nice change." Maybe he'll actually look into going on the negation drugs, the concept that he and Ivanov have been mentioning. "It gets old, knowin' if people lie."

Trask nods, "All people lie, it just matters how often, and how important the lie is. And how many people are hurt by it..and how many people are saved by it." He smiles softly, "I guess I should get going."

There's another chuckle. "Probably," Ziadie says. "It was nice t' meet you." The older man adjusts his jacket once more, pulling it closed against the slightly biting chill of evening. "Maybe, some time I'll get to return the favor." He's nearly a block in the direction he'd been coming from now, and so Ziadie slowly turns on his heels, heading back towards where he'll catch the bus to Harlem.

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