Participants:
| Scene Title | Nothing For You |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Felix arrives at the doors of the Dagger, and he isn't looking to get laid. |
| Date | June 13, 2009 |
The glittering surface of the Dagger is a distracting, poisonous, colourful mask to distract from the flaws. The fact that the paint needs to be touched up, the waterstains near the ceilings in some rooms, such things you can't barely see thanks to all the lights of gold, orange, pink, the glitter and craft-store glamour. You also wouldn't be able to tell that enough men are dead that everyone is on double-shifts.
They took the girl and left bodies and now Logan has to actually try to make ends meet, to keep the staff he has, to keep things going. At least dead men can't receive paychecks.
The girls carry on as they normally do, however, so that's a blessing, and Logan has abandoned the solitude of his office to prowl around the lower level of the main room. The crowd could be thicker, overall, but not so bad that the damage is noticeable. Not yet. Right now, the king of this miniature kingdom is seated in a booth, nursing a gin and tonic and uncaring that he's alone, content in isolation as a woman in a veil and not much else curls against him.
He's watching the crowd with a world-weary predatory gaze, and is only half-drunk. The night is young yet.
Hail, Logan King. Guess what? Your own personal stormcrow has shown up at your door. Fel's impeccable, precisely groomed (despite his very plain clothing) in the way that only the intersection between closeted homosexuality and government service can leave you. He has his glasses on, and has left any attempt at amiable humanity at home. He doesn't flash his badge or his bitchy atttitude, however. The Russian's here as a supplicant, in his fashion, so he asks the bouncers politely if Bebe is available for the evening. The iron reek of John Law pierces even the heady perfume of this cote of soiled doves, and Logan will note his men shooting uneasy looks his way. Like collies waiting for the shepherd's whistle.
The red pinpoint dots of red lights indicate the bristling security cameras of a fairly thorough security system, a Muldoon-bought birthday present of kinds still running strong, but the Dagger has been functioning long enough that there's a level of intuition. Technology records everything, but sometimes something is more important.
It doesn't take long for Logan to peel off the arm of the woman from around his shoulders, deliver a kiss to her jaw and a whispered promise of his return, before leaving her bereft of the wiles of biochemical seduction with a half-emptied lowball glass to keep her company.
Logan is dressed as only one can expect of him, foregoing a tie for a silken red ascot, a black and narrow waistcoat over a shirt of similar crimson, plain black slacks and then Italian leather on his feet. His face is clear of injury, despite the blood that ran as red as it did not a few nights ago. Helps to have a healer. Rather than have what security he has tonight throw Felix out by the scruff of his neck— may as well tackle things directly. Things go so horribly wrong otherwise.
He walks on through towards the front door, an eyebrow raising when he recognises the face behind the glasses that hit some glare of neon lighting. "Why, I think I remember you," he says, cutting over the conversation the lawman is having with his bouncer.
That stark bone structure is distinctive. "Really? I'm hardly memorable," Felix says, gently, slanting a look over the tops of his lenses like a stern librarian. HE doesn't say anything more, other than, "I was wondering if Bebe was working tonight." His tone is mild as milk. Like all he really wants is just a session with the little cotton candy sister of mercy underneath him.
Coming to a stop in front of him, there's not much inviting about Logan's demeanor - though his lanky frame doesn't do much to block the corridor, he stands in the middle of it as he fixes his gaze on Felix's face, brow twitching downwards at the name he happens to mention. "She make an impression on you, officer?" The test is in the details, the title delivered as neutral as any other word.
All his body language is relaxed, offhand. He has his hands loose at his sides. "I'm not an officer," he says, smiling as if the idea were a little absurd. "Not for several years now. And yes, she has."
There's only a twitch of a nod of acknowledgment at the correction, a slow blink that passes for a nod and a smile detectable only in the corners of his mouth. "Then you'll be disappointed to know that Bebe no longer works for us," Logan states. "A little young for retirement, but the industry isn't for everyone."
Fel's got a hell of a pokerface. But there's a little disappointment clear in the lines of eyes and mouth. "Unfortunate. Are you still in contact with her - I could leave a message?" he suggests, with a hopeful cant to his brows.
"Don't you have better things to do than to chase little girls when they don't want to be found?" Logan says, the edges of his words caustic as sweet as his tone is delivered. "I could introduce you to even younger ones if you'd prefer. Unless you're not actually looking for a shag," he adds, an eyebrow raising.
"I am looking for her, specifically." Fel's tone remains matter of fact, unstung. "She has something of mine, and I'd like it back. No, I'm not here for sex, thank you."
There's a moment of judgmental silence and study, thoughtful, before Logan takes a step back. "Then I've got nothing for you," he says, and he almost sounds apologetic. "Haven't seen her in ages. Sorry." And somehow the word itself sounds less apologetic than his prior tone, more of a flippant gesture than anything else.
And abruptly, there's something wicked and puckish about the curve of Fel's mouth, the gleam in his eyes. He tilts his head at Logan for a moment, like they've just shared a tremendous joke. But whatever it is, he simply nods, and turns to go.
Hopefully, that's a struggling fishline cut and abandoned, sending the shark off to different targets. Maybe. Logan simply doesn't know enough. He watches Felix duck out of the front door, past the statue-guards of his hired muscle, a hand going to up scratch around where Mu-Qian had grown flesh back not so long ago.
But once the relative stranger has veered around a corner, Logan is headed back inside to continue his evening of general unease. But at least he has a new question to circle around, the same one Felix leaves with.