Participants:
| Scene Title | Results, Not Details |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Smedley tracks down Raith to work out an arrangement. The outcome are given priority over the method. |
| Date | November 13, 2010 |
Pollepel Island, Room
Trapped on an island with a score of other people in the middle of the Hudson River is not among the worst things that could happen to anyone, but it's not a great thing, either. Not for Jensen Raith, not for anyone, and it's only made worse by the absolute requirement of not being noticed and maintaining security for everyone present, Pollepel Island as a whole, and out onto the mainland. An operation that they may not be properly equipped for.
Determining whether or not they can handle it is what he's spent the better part of the day figuring out, having claimed one of the few unused rooms in Bannerman Castle as a makeshift office not for himself, but for Special Activities as a whole. Not that it functions as a place where any of them can leave things lying around, which almost defeats the purpose of claiming it, but whatever. An electric lantern, a map of the area, and several small paper cutouts are currently Raith's only companions, helping him along as he works out a general plan to present to Benjamin Ryans later so they aren't starting completely from scratch. But even with that, any plan they come up with will be rethought and reworked, likely several times.
It's going to be a long night.
In a way, it's a good thing that Wes Smedley is stranded on the island. He's been able to distract himself with manual labor, be it hauling supplies, minor carpentry, or general handyman tasks. Working with his hands is a way to keep his mind off of what may or may not be happening/have happened on the other side of the river. But he's taken a break from his assumed duties as an extra pair of hands to stop by the 'office' set up by Jensen Raith.
Carson rushes in ahead of his master, his tongue lolling and his tail waving like a flag in his wake. The island has seemingly taken years off the old dog's life, which apparently means he's lost some of his manners. Then again, he hasn't been on an island full of brand new smells in years. With his nose to the ground, Carson takes stock of the room. Smedley, on the other hand, soaks it all in from the doorway.
"You're Raith?" the cowboy asks with a slight lift of his eyebrows, his thumbs tucked into the wide leather belt of his tooled holster. He hadn't thought to pack a change of clothes, so the turtleneck he wears has picked up a bit of dirt. He has been getting his hands dirty over the last few days, after all.
The sudden appearance of a dog catches Raith's attention, but Carson holds it for just a moment. Words have higher priority. "Yeah, that's me," the ex-spy replies as his gaze shifts from the dog to the doorway. The planning laid out of the card table in front of him does not get hidden by anything: It's not anything worth hiding yet. As for Wes Smedley, Raith's seen him around. He can even put a name to the face, thanks to the census he's been maintaining. Or was it that name to this face? They blur together after a while. "What can I do for you?"
Smedley steps into the room, his own attention dropping from Raith to the dog that's nose is leading him toward the other man's legs. "Carson," the man all but barks, the call followed by a short, sharp whistle. The dog turns and looks over his shoulder to his master, his brown eyes pleading for a moment before he skulks back toward the smuggler and lies down at his feet.
"Need to talk a little business, if you got the time." He's slow to bring his gaze back to the Co-head of Special Activities, or whatever the petite young woman had called him, but when he does, his face is full of grim determination. "It ain't my intention to bleed y'all dry, but I got expenses. Thought I might be able to give y'all a hand makin' this rock more…sustainable."
The suspicion on Raith's face is evident. But at the same time, it's tempered with understanding. It wasn't too long ago he was accepting '$5,000 a head' to pay the bills. "Okay," he says, checking his watch, "I can give you a few minutes, but that's all, so make your sales pitch a good one. What exactly do you have in mind?"
"You're the man with the plan," Smedley says with a shrug and a stressed sort of chuckle. "All I can tell'yuh is that if you've got anythin' you can ship out, it'll make shippin' stuff in cheaper. Gotta make both ends'uh the run profitable. Makes us partners in a way, 'stead'uh just buyer 'n seller."
Smedley rolls his shoulders again, looking from Raith to the walls of the room, taking in the structure itself for the umpteenth time since he arrived. "Ain't my job t'do your thinkin' for you. You gotta better idea'uh who you got here. What they can do. What this rock's got. And if you're plannin' on bein' here awhile, it ain't a bad idea to see what she'll give'yuh."
"She'll give us shelter and not much else," is Raith's reply, "Officially, there's a restoration going on here, and that's the only cover we're getting. Limits our movement, our shipping schedules, and basically everything. That said, I'll be honest. The fact that we have you here is still good, because as far as I know, you still have some freedom to move around on the mainland. That mostly true?" The 'man with the plan' is, apparently, working one out in his mind as they speak.
"Got an in with a security firm," Smedley says at that, his grave smile turning somewhat smug. "And business partners who like me squeaky clean - so long as I can stay as few steps ahead of the ATF and the DEA, we're golden on that respect." Bored with his fate at Smedley's side, Carson lets out a sigh and rolls onto his side and adjusts the position of his head so that his chin is on the stone floor. "I know my game," Smedley adds, not taking his eyes off of the Ferrymen representative.
"Good," is Raith's take on it, if only because he then pauses for a moment to think. A few moments, really. Thinking's been more difficult lately, with the amount of work to do. "Not one hundred percent sure what exactly we need at this point," is the ex-spy's continuation from his previous thought, "Logistics haven't been terribly robust, you understand. Just like I'm sure you understand when I ask you if you're willing to run our errands while we figure out what we're doing with everyone here?" Maybe not what Smedley was looking to hear.
"And when I ask if you deal strictly in material goods, or if you can move people too? You follow me, hombre?"
In terms of moving people, Smedley's experience is more in line of being a wolf rather than a coyote, but all he does is nod to the other man, his smile becoming more and more like a knowing grin that's just shy of a leer by the minute. He nods, closing his eyes and letting his smile slip into a nonchalant frown. "I've done my fair share. Been awhile, but looks like the market's swingin' that way, don't it?"
"Sure does." Raith's replying is wholly flat and emotionless: A simple statement of fact. "And what exactly is the market's price? We're not moving anyone yet, but when we do, we have to move them quietly and get them to where they need to be, without them getting caught. I take it that's small beans for you? We send you out with ten people all bound for different locations, different states and different countries, and you can get all of them where they need to be? Or get people from different hide-y holes here and there and then move them here, if we need you to do that? Without getting caught, and without 'accidentally' telling anyone else about it?"
It's been a long time since Smedley's work took him off the east coast, but in the words of one of America's greatest philosophers, the times, they are a changin'.
The westerner furrows his brow, all emotion effectively draining from his face at the implications that ride along in the tone of the other man's words. Standing up a bit straighter, Smedley drops his hands from his belt, fingers flexing when he lets them hang at his sides. It's almost as if he would go for one of those revolvers, but Raith should know him better than that. Smedley isn't an idiot.
"Look," he says, leveling his own voice. "I didn't charge y'all for my run'n bringin' folks here. I ain't about t'charge'yuh for takin' where they need'tuh go next. Supplies's different. People…" Smedley looks away for a split second, shaking his head and letting out a small sigh. "Well, you're people. You keep whatever I'm movin' 'em in runnin', and I'll make sure they get there." He he pauses, narrowing his eyes and pressing his lips into a tight line, if only for a moment. "Quick. Quiet. Safe."
But he doesn't offer a reason for such a commitment. He doesn't explain himself, or even say why he didn't take the two grand Eileen Ruskin offered to get him and half a dozen of her people - Raith's people - here.
"Good to hear," Raith replies, not bothering to follow up on the statement of commitment. He doesn't need Smedley to explain himself: Raith job is to know these things. He'll find out soon enough. "Give me a couple days, take inventory talk to the people that need talking to. Extra help means we get this operation rolling that much faster, that much more smoothly. And hopefully, with fewer surprises than we'd have otherwise. I don't like surprises. You like surprises?"
"Like 'em as much as I'd like a hole in my head," Smedley says with a sneer as he turns a shoulder toward the door. "I'll pass. You let me know when you need me. Gonna try and pin down that man with the girlie mirror to see about gettin' those kids outta Jersey." Smedley nods, then whistles once again, bringing Carson to his feet. "Shouldn't take long, though."
"Good luck with that. Pinning him down, I mean. Things are so hectic right now that getting face time with anyone's like trying to herd cattle in a thunderstorm." Whether or not this endears Raith to Smedley or sours their new relationship is something the ex-spy seems largely disinterested in. Results are what matters, not details.