One Less Shark


eileen_icon.gif lexington_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title One Less Shark
Synopsis Logan, Lexington and Eileen meet to discuss Daniel Walsh and the involvement of other parties interested in his eventual demise.
Date February 1, 2011

Staten Island: Shooter's Bar and Bistro

Snow blurs past like white noise out the window of Shooter's Bar and Bistro, Logan selecting a venue with some cover to it, unlike the Angry Pelican in the dead of winter. A storm is hitting the east coast hard, one of ice and sleet instead of winds and gushing waters, but nothing like the previous year. They hope. This time, it's snow with a chance of dome, something Logan inevitably knows about with the Internet media flooded with it, and the strange technopathic interference is creates in the heart of the otherwise very telecommunicatively vocal metropolis.

He's reading right now, in fact, despite having no physical material on his person — or at least, sifting through the pictures of current affairs, ever more inclined for the more visual elements even now. Pupils blown wide enough to reduce his pale irises into skinny rings of faded colour, he sits with his chin in his hand, still wearing snow-speckled greatcoat over wools and denims.

A half-finished lager rests at his elbow, a half-finished cigarette between his fingers, and he's found them a table right at the back of the currently sparsely populated bar. The approach of anyone seems initially ignored, unseeing as he is.

A certain Irish woman enters the bar, stopping just inside to shake the snow off her coat, which she leaves on even indoors, before she moves along to order herself a Guinness. And it's with said drink in hand that she comes over to Logan's table, sitting herself down quietly and sort of eyeing him a little. Amused, maybe.

"I know they always say playing hard t'get is a surefire way've getting a girl's attention, but I don't think that's what they meant," she remarks suddenly, as she sits back in her chair with a crooked smile as she props her feet up on a nearby chair.

The less time Eileen spends in Logan's presence, the happier she'll be — this is, at least, the theory she's been operating under for the past few years, but the woman who had been waiting on the other side of the bar for the third party to arrive doesn't look like happiness is something she's capable of. Dark hair left loose clings in unkempt curls to a haggard face pale everywhere except for the circles under her eyes, which are rimmed with pink and swollen from an obvious lack of sleep.

Her clothes, at least, appear better put together than she is. A wool coat, lambskin gloves and a pale cashmere scarf in gray pulled into an elegant loop at the hollow of her throat provide her with adequate protection against the weather.

The grackle pressed against the side of her neck, the top of its head snug beneath the soft underside of her chin, has to make do with the warmth of her body but nevertheless seems to be in better spirits than the woman it accompanies, its black eyes bright where her gray-green ones have gone painfully dull.

She sits down at the table.

New York City's landscape is changing. Population density, geography, climate. You're familiar with Summer Meadows on Roosevelt Island. The DoEA does good work.

It's a thought that's been niggling at Logan's consciousness for the past week, resurfaced in light of recent events, Heller's words striking more literal suddenly and making more than just his cigarette taste like ashes. But Logan is not so introspective and immersed in his research as to miss when Lexington speaks up, startling a fraction out of his reverie. Pupils visibly constrict as he notices there are two more people here than when he last checked. He fingers twitch, letting ash patter down.

"I'm rarely hard to get," he denies, automatically. His smile is automatic too. "You didn't bring your other half." No matter. "Ruskin, Lexington. Lexington, Ruskin. She's the one buying guns off've you," he adds, to the Irishwoman, "with me playing hook up."

"I did. When he heard we weren't going t'the strip club, I had to leave him there, crying int'his pillow," Lexi says, before she looks over at Eileen. She doesn't hold a hand out, or any such traditional greeting, but lifts her glass to the woman instead. "Good t'meet ya, Ruskin. Always nice t'have a face t'go on. I'm sure I have what ya need, once we get all this ironed out, I'll just need t'know where ya want to pick up. Unless ya want t'go through our dashing business associate here, 've course."

There's a fractional tilt of Eileen's head at Lexington's offer that can be measured in cat whiskers it's so slight, almost undetectable if the grackle didn't respond with twitching feathers and a throat puffed out around a harsh, metallic sound. She sniffs, feline, and reaches into her coat for a package of cigarettes, taken out and thumbed open in the same, well-practiced motion.

"He is, isn't he," sounds like it should be a question but isn't. Both her tone and delivery are flat. "Dashing."

She selects a cigarette between her fingers and slides it stiffly from the package, which she tosses onto the table instead of slipping back into her coat. It's empty. "Have you got a light, John?"

"Easy, now." The light, as requested, is set down on the table with a distinctive click, palmed, and pushed across the table to her. His eyebrows lift in a what can you do? kind of expression for Lexington's benefit rather than Eileen's. Logan lets out a breath that seems more smoke than oxygen, settling back in his chair and picking up his tall glass of lager. "We can discuss the particulars later." We. Like a team, as far as middle-men ever get to be a part of it. "F'now, I'm playing match maker for a common problem. Walsh is seeking arms business with Ruskin, but Ruskin knows he's very potentially a backstabbing cunt.

"So she's still in the market, as you know, and has the power to get Walsh where you might like him best to do what you will in the manner that best befits you. I think all three of us can benefit from one less shark in the waters."

"Quite," Lexington says in response to Eileen's flat words, "And it's pretty much blasphemy f'r me t'say so, but Englishmen always are." As Eileen gets out her vice of choice, Lexi picks hers up for a drink, glancing over the rim toward Logan. "Backstabbing seems t'be the lesser've his evils, if you're asking me."

But Logan's suggestion is intriguing, to say the least, and she looks over in Eileen's direction. She seems to take a moment to look the woman over before she turns back to Logan. "I'd like t'blow him up, if you two can arrange a place you don't mind losing… Seamus would be so disappointed if he didn't get t'cook something fun up."

The only indication of Logan's response to this is a minor twitch of his mouth, which is mostly obscured by the time he's bringing his lager up to sip from. Pale eyes dart off to roll that question Eileen's way, to both allow her to field how much of a risk she's willing to take, as well as read her reaction.

If Staten Island wasn't a labyrinth of abandoned properties, Eileen would be less quick to answer, "Certainly." She picks up the lighter, cigarette hanging from the corner of her chapped mouth, and curves a protective hand around the flame when it flickers to life. Her head angles, and a moment later the lighter flicks off again, but rather than slide it back across the table to Logan, she idly turns it between her fingers.

The metal is still hot. "I have people caught on Roosevelt Island, or I'd offer you more manpower in the event it comes down to that. Walsh isn't stupid — he may want to choose the venue himself."

"Don't worry about manpower. I've got a little group've people. 've course, if anyone you've got wants to help take him down, I love a party." Lexington sets her mug down on the table, and she looks over at Eileen. "I'm nothing if not flexible, luv. I could live with shooting him a lot, too. Could be fun."

Lexington pauses a moment, finger running along the rim of her mug as if she were expecting it to ring out like fine crystal. It doesn't. "There's this woman. Name's Lola? From New Orleans. She says she knows Walsh, but something about her just… didn't sit right. either've you know've her?"

"Know of," is muttered around wisps of smoke hissing between teeth as Logan takes a nearly finishing inhale of his cigarette, ashing it onto the ruined table top. "There was a New Orleans Lola that the Group put out a hit for — she was a traitor, though she never really had bad blood with me. She shows her face here and there, mostly to her detriment. I dunno much more than that, but it wouldn't be hard to find out, I wouldn't wonder."

"One of my contacts mentioned a Southern bird who's got a bone of her own to pick. She goes by Daisy, but it's possible that she's the same person. I've not had the pleasure of speaking with her myself." Eileen removes the cigarette from her mouth to wet it. Behind her upper lip, she drags her tongue over her teeth, tasting tobacco. "I believe you're acquainted with Nicky York," she tells Logan, no way a question. Her eyes lift to his face and there is nothing but coldness in them. "Walsh tried to do to Nicky what Miss Lexington is proposing we do to him. He'll be seeing you shortly to discuss his own involvement."

"If you could find out, I'd appreciate it. The last thing I want is t'bring someone in who's going t'turncoat. 'r something along those lines." Lexington grins crookedly over at Eileen, "If you do get the pleasure, she's got dark hair and bitchiness. Can't miss it."

Lexi folds her arms on the table when this other fellow is brought up, and she watches Eileen, sort of curiously. "Well, sounds like we'll have a nice party by the end've this. I hope we all don't just end up tripping o'er each other's feet."

"We don't need him."

This comes short and sharp from Logan after spending the last few moments eyeing Eileen across the table during Lexington's words. He darts his stare away, his expression gone somewhat severe, grinding out the last of his cigarette and eyeing that rather than the two ladies at the table. "Between Lexington's people and yours, and this Lola character, we're going to start worrying about someone talking too loud and giving the game away, now won't we? Nicky's a liability."

"Then I suppose that's what the two of you will discuss when he comes knocking," says Eileen. Smoke leaks from her nose and mouth. Her tone is not as smug as it could be, but instead as chilly as her stare and edged with ice. She knows something now that she didn't know the last time she and Logan spoke. He can see it in the hard shape of her mouth and the tension in her knit fingers.

"As far as foot-tripping is concerned," she adds, "I'm confident that we can come to some sort of arrangement that minimizes the risk of friendly fire. Is there anything else?"

Logan's reaction gets an amused smile out of Lexington, and she takes her beer and sits back, watching them discuss like a little mini tennis game. At Eileen's volley, she chuckles into her mug. "Sounds like it'll be a lively chat. You sure you don't need a little arms dealing yourself, luv?" She asks toward Logan, her tone teasing.

"That's all I've got for now," Lexi says to Eileen. "Let Logan know where you want t'meet f'r the guns, and let me know where Walsh'll be out and about. I suppose that's our next step."

Bristle bristle. Logan's lip even curls a little at Eileen's dismissal and rebuttel both, but he allows the topic to language, picking up his lager to finish in a few brisk gulps, throat working before plunking the glass back down. He twists what should by rights be a smile at Lexington in response to her quip — it has all the mechanics of a smile, but somehow manages not to be anyway in sentiment. He glances towards the blizzarding outdoors, and exhale a fumey sigh.

Better than overstaying his welcome, even if the walk back to the docks is destined to be bitter. "Pleasure doing business."

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