Participants:
| Scene Title | Pretty Shit |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Some people don't like to see it go to waste. |
| Date | February 2, 2011 |
On Two Cell Phones
It's cold, miserable, and generally gross outside. It's not snowing, thank the Lord, but it's still cold as hell frozen over, as far as Keira is concerned. Her face is healing from Walsh's onslaught, but she's still got a bit of a black eye, as well as a bruise along her cheek and jawline, which has settled into a nice greenish hue, save for a red blotch under her eye. At least it doesn't hurt any more.
She's dressed for warmth today, and as a result, the myriad of tattoos that covers her frame is hidden from the world. Flaunting is for summertime. A lot of black, though she's not bundled up enough to hide the remains of the shiner on her face.
The phone given to her by Walsh is in her hand, the pictures folder pulled up as she examines the faces. Eileen, and Raith. The two people she's supposed to find and send to Walsh's warehouse. Easily done. After a moment, she dials one of the two numbers. Eileen's number has been unavailable; so, she's trying Raith's. After a moment, she raises the phone to her ear, pressing 'send'.
It's probably no surprise that several rings go by before the phone is answered. But it is answered by a person rather than a voice mailbox. The response is flat and carefully measured, the same sort of response someone might give to a relative they would rather not speak to, but feel obligated to regardless, delivered without flourish or fanfare or even much emotion other than simple curiosity. "Yes?" comes a voice that belongs ostensibly to Jensen Raith.
Oh. Oh. He answered. She was just expecting another voice mail. And Keira hates leaving voice mails, she always feels dumb, and bumbles through them, no matter how well she's rehearsed what she's said. Silence answers Raith's question, the woman raising her brows and swallowing. Go time. "Ah, Mister Jensen Raith?" Her voice is a bit on the tight side. With her free hand, she fetches a cigarette.
"My name is Key." Not really, she actually hates it when people call her that. All the better for a nickname. "I've got some information that you might be interested in."
"Information, huh? Well, I think that's great, but I want to make sure you understand that if you have information, that's all you'd better tell me. I ain't got the time or patience for no jibber jabber." If nothing else, Raith is too the point. At least, until he decides that he's not finished talking. "And speaking of time and patience, here's something else that I need to know before this conversation goes any further. How did you get this number? I'm not in the habit of handing out business cards or buying classified space."
"Stole it. From the Irishman." One can almost hear the frown in her voice. "I got some information pertainin' to him, but I'd really rather d'liver it in person, y'know? I'm not too big on phones. They can be tapped, and all that stuff." There's perhaps a tinge of nervousness in her voice. "It's really important…" She lights up her cigarette, the click of a zippo evident in the background, followed by a soft exhale. "Name a place, an' I'll meet you there." If they don't even need to see her face, she's SO going to give Walsh a double black eye.
There is a brief period of silence that follows Keira's request. Frown in her voice or not, it seems, and in fact becomes immediately apparent that Raith is a bit bigger on phones than she is. "Key, let me ask you something," he begins. Another brief pause as he audibly inhales a deep breath, and then, he continues. "If you received a phone call you weren't expecting, from someone you didn't know, asking you to meet in a place of your choosing so they could tell you something really important, what would be your course of action? Would you set a place to meet, and then rush out to meet them, or would you make them tell you at least a summary over the phone until you know you can trust them? You said yourself that phones can be tapped.
"If this phone is tapped, then what's going to stop whoever has it tapped from going to the location I specify, and then using a directional microphone to listen to what we're going to talk about anyway?"
A sigh. "I dunno. I'm…pretty clueless about technology, to be honest." She tilts her head, taking a drag off of the cigarette. "I used to work for him. Th'Irishman. Heard that shit about him on the news, and I ran. He sent some boys after me. I got out of it, somehow." Her voice cracks a little, perhaps a faintly emotional response to what she's telling him.
"He tried to fuck me over. He was going to fuck you over. Was going to call you an' this Eileen chick into a trap. Well, I want to fuck him over." Her voice suddenly gains an almost venomous tone at that last line. Seems she isn't too fond of this Irishman chap. Either that, or she's just a very angry lady.
"Hey, that's great, glad to hear it," is Raith immediate reply. But, as has been the usual for the conversation that Keira has found herself in, he's not done talking just yet. "It does kind of beg the question of why you think I'll be able to help you, though. I mean, you said it yourself, you were lucky to even get away."
"Pff. I don't want your help. I'm jus' fine getting away from 'im myself." She scoffs at his suggestion of help. "I just want to fuck him over. His pansy-ass thugs mighta caught me off guard, but I'm no wimp." She shakes her head. "No, I want to fuck him over in ways that he will feel for the rest of his short, miserable life. I know that you were a customer of his. And I know where his warehouse is."
"So, again, why tell me any of this? Why not tell the police? Or the FBI?" In Raith's mind, these are perhaps the best questions of all. "They'll make a deal with you for information. Especially if they get to nail him and some of his other clients at the same time."
"Y'know, I would, but…I hate to see all of that pretty shit go to waste. I'm all about the good business, and if the FBI and the police get their hands on that shit, it ain't gonna go to any good use." Keira shrugs. "You used t'buy shit from him. You're his biggest clients, or somethin', for as much as he chattered about you. You gotta have some better use for it than some jackasses who already got shiny toys of their own." She sounds like she's smirking. "Plus, if he hated you enough t'want to lure you into a trap with your next order, I think I'd rather see them go t'you."
Once again, the pause on the other end of the phone is brief, and once again, the answer that Raith gives to Keira is carefully measured and thought-out. Ultimately, however, it's also the kind of answer she was hoping to hear: "You make a convincing argument." Touchdown. "You know where his warehouse is, right?" the man continues, "Why don't we meet over there? Not, you know, in it, but nearby, discuss a plan, take his shit and then set fire to the stuff we don't want?"
Keira can't help but smile faintly, the cigarette resting between her lips as she hears this comment. Oh yes, that's it. Come to momma Key, she'll take good care of yo. She manages to contain her enthusiasm, however, instead taking a long draw off of her cigarette. "Sounds like a good plan t'me. How d'ya like pizza? Pepperoni okay?" A pause. "Meet me at Panucci's Pizza place in…hour and a half okay with you?"
"His warehouse is a pizzeria?" The question is short, to the point, and sounds suitably perplexed.
"We're not goin' straight there. His warehouse is out in Jamaica Bay. Th'pizzaria's just…neutral ground." Keira sounds nonchalant.
Another brief pause, although it is measurably shorter than previous pauses. Less someone considering their and more someone getting their mind back on track. "I don't see why the warehouse wouldn't be neutral ground, since neither of us will be welcome there, but that, don't worry about that right now. An hour and a half is not a lot of time, and I'm in the middle of trying to find something I lost. It doesn't matter how convincing your argument is, I can't just stop looking for them."
"A'ight," comes the nonchalant response, "then we'll meet at th'old airfield in Jamaica Bay. Let me know a time, day, whatever, and I'll be there." In the back of her mind, she grumbles. If you don't want a time named, you should say as much beforehand. But that doesn't come to the front. Nowhere close. She puffs at her cigarette for a moment.
"You got the man's phone," is Raith's reply regarding a time, day, of whatever, "Don't lose it, because that's how I can get ahold of you when I know a time, day, whatever. Like I said, I can't just stop looking for them. I have to find them. At least have to find out if… don't worry about that.
"I'm talking too long. You've got his phone, I've got the number. When I know, I'll contact you. That's all." The end of the call is abrupt. Raith doesn't leave enough time for a good bye or even an acknowledgment, trying to assert control over a situation he has limited control over, at best. But it served its purpose: It landed Keira a meeting with Jensen Raith, as undetermined as the details may be, and that means she's one step closer to getting exactly what she wants.
A smile forms on Keira's face as Jensen Raith ends the call, pulling the phone away from her ear and smiling at it as she draws smoke in from the cigarette, letting it crawl out of her mouth at a lazy pace, before promptly blowing a few celebratory puffs of smoke and steam. "Mmm-mmm, they make this shit easy." She grins to the phone, before tucking it into her pants.
Once all of this shit is over, she is so going to punch the Irishman on a white sandy beach.
