Some Pretty Nasty Business


logan_icon.gif peyton2_icon.gif

Scene Title Some Pretty Nasty Business
Synopsis Logan agrees to help Peyton in her mission to take down a nasty operation, though his reasons are different than her own.
Date September 6, 2010

Upper East Side

There are dogs on Park Avenue. Ones with a smallness and delicacy that has them fitting onto satin-lined handbags or trotting along on the ends of leashes so fine that they are leash in name only, while the obedient, twig-legged bundle of fur scampers obedient at tall heels. This may be a stereotype, one that isn't proven truthful right now — the street is practically empty, this close to the curfew. Logan is walking distance from his own apartment, however, currently seated on inward facing wrought iron bench with a cigarette in one hand, and the other hand not holding onto a leash.

Said leash trails independently behind the very large dog that is happily roaming the wide walkway, a long legged-beast of grey and black, with eyes are brightly green as her owner's a muscular brush of tail that sits at a lazy curve. Her fat paws hark to her wolfish heritage, as does her over long, narrow muzzle, and the thick ruff of dense fur.

Logan is watching her, through tinted sunglasses and distinct apathy. He's in his usual get up of threepiece suit, all grey save for the black of his shirt and the splash of red of his tie. Italian patent leather shoes reflect the gleam of the apartment building he sits near the front of, waiting with enough confidence that could imply a degree of stalking.

Anyone who knows Peyton Whitney (or even just knows her storied past) knows that the girl doesn't drive — not since her DUI landed her with a stint in rehab and a suspended license at the age of 17. Still, today, she is the unlikely driver behind the wheel of a copper-hued 2005 Mercedes that pulls perhaps just a touch too carefully into the parking garage on the corner.

Several moments later, striding out of the garage to walk toward her building, Peyton Whitney is the epitome of a young business woman in a cream linen sheath dress with spectator-style pumps in taupe and cream. She is an uptown girl, the kind that Logan probably expects to have a tiny dog in her large Prada bag, though in truth, her dog is upstairs in her apartment, and approaching 40 pounds at just half a year in age.

The staccato cadence of her heels on pavement slows as she sees him on that bench, recognizing his posture and attitude even from a distance, though the dog makes her pause a few feet away from him, outside of the reach of that leash.

"Coincidence?" she asks, her low voice carrying just loud enough to reach his ears as Peyton tips her head at him with curiosity.

The leash which is trailing uselessly on the ground, but fortunately, Cheza isn't paying a lot of attention to the approaching woman with her spotty nose wrinkled over an upshoot of weed in the pavement, gearing up to squat and pee on it any second now. Logan's attention, though, rests on Peyton once she appears within is periphery, and he gets up to stand, a hand smoothing down the lines of his suit as he goes. "It must be fate," he obliges, with a smile that shows teeth. At the sound of her owner, Cheza lifts her head to study Peyton with too intelligent eyes, large bat ears perked.

And with that, the halfwolf is rolling her lanky frame on over to investigate Peyton's shoes, and cast her a heartbreakingly sweet look upwards. There are rhinestones on her collar.

"Got a minute?" says the man, who isn't wearing rhinestones (today~) and with his gaze hidden behind shades, despite the hour.

The dog's upward gaze makes Peyton smile, who has her own bat-eared dog upstairs in the building, though hers is much smaller and redder and deafer than Cheza. She holds a hand out for the half-wolf to smell, and hopefully not to eat.

"Sure," she says, glancing at the bench, and arching a brow upwards. "Here, or …?" He obviously knows where she lives, so she glances at the building and back with a tilt of her head. Her own sunglasses, Jackie O style, are perched on top of her head; her dark eyes hint at recent tears, the mascara and eyeliner smudged in a manner that doesn't fit the rest of her attire. "I'm surprised you remember talking to me," Peyton adds, a slight smirk tipping the corners of her mouth upward.

Smoke trailing from mouth and cigarette, Logan tips his head a little in response, other hand resting relaxed in a pocket as he considers the near empty street. "I don't remember how I left and how I got home," he concedes, a gesture of point A to point B articulated with the arc of cigarette tip. A couple of steps forward to seal up a decent amount of conversational distance between them. "And I dunno where my last 42 went to, although I have two— no, three suspicions on that one.

"But I do remember, you and I had something to talk about." He reaches down, now, to delicately pick up the end of Cheza's chain, and wrap it around a wrist. "I just don't know what."

Another glance at Cheza helps Peyton determine that she won't invite the two up to her apartment — Von is still a puppy and Cheza maybe sweet, but she doesn't want to see those teeth in action on Von's red fur. Peyton smirks a little. Her eyes take in the empty street and she decides it's safe enough to talk.

"Apparently we have some friends in common. Some people you owe a favor to," she says softly, using that little bit of leverage earlier on this time. "McRae over on Staten Island, along with Jericho? They're friends of mine. And they're looking for a way in to some exclusive club that's involved in some pretty nasty business, something they'd like to put an end to. They can't get in, but figured you or one of your guys might be able to use your …" she pauses, looking for the right word, "clout. You or your guy getting in, we can figure out who it is we're looking for on the inside of this place."

"Right." Logan might well remember mention of McRae from the other night, maybe even Jericho, although it's the mention of the older of the two that has recognition sparking now in the slices of eyes that Peyton can see peering at her over the silver rim of the glasses. There's some resentment in his bony features, the twist of his mouth, but it's gone in a next, businesslike moment of thought. Colette hadn't mentioned a fee, he'd told McRae.

Sharply sober, at least, only smoke and cologne rather than the acrid reek of wine binges. "They figured not wrong, though I suppose there might be some establishments even I can't wriggle through. Do you know the place? What sort've business they run?" As opposed to just nasty, says the sharply prodding query, looking to cut through vagueness in the same way his lit cigarette jabs a gesture through drifting smoke.

Cheza leans a heavy head against Peyton's thigh.

Her jaw sets with anger at the kind of business, and she glances away — Peyton Whitney is about as much as a lady as John Logan is a gentleman, but some things are too depraved for even her to give voice too. Those thickly-lashed eyes then drop down, and she smiles at the dog, a pleasant distraction. Her hand strokes through Cheza's fur, and she gazes into those green eyes, before looking into Logan's instead.

"Kids," she says tersely, her low voice bitter and angry. "I don't know where the club itself is — I can see if I can get the name from Jericho now, if you like, but apparently they're prostituting kids." She swallows hard, and her eyes narrow. "I've heard enough about you, John, that I know you're not a good Samaritan, but I also know that you are a good person at times, and this could be your chance to prove it to yourself. There are people who think I'm a selfish brat, too, and I'm looking at this as a chance to remind myself that I'm capable of doing a few good things in this world before I die."

The righteous comments are softened by a glimmer of tears behind those thick lashes and she looks away again. "If not because it's the right thing to do — then because you owe them a favor."

Perhaps encouragingly, there's a wrinkle of distaste that lines across Logan's long nose, in response to being informed about the product being peddled. Maybe because, unlike women and Refrain, he can't see the appeal. Maybe because there is such a thing as stupidity when it comes to selecting your niche in the blackmarket. There is a compulsive glance over his shoulder that follows, less about being paranoid about something coming down on him and more about buying himself time to consider.

"Cutting loose things like this isn't bad business for me. What might be is if you people get cold feet and bring in the cops on this, because that's a fucking crossfire I don't want to get in the middle of. You've heard enough about me to know that much, I imagine."

He taps ash onto the sidewalk with a distracted flick of finger and wrist, other hand playing with the silver links of Cheza's chain. "Heard some things. New players in the industry getting into things locally. I'd mostly chalked it up to rumour and hadn't looked much further, but I can probably get you in the door — if anything, I wouldn't mind knowing who's behind it."

The socialite shakes a head at the mention of the cops. "Trust me, the boys on Staten aren't looking to bring the cops in. They know it's too hard to get evidence and they don't want to wait for the length of time it takes to build a case. Not in that kind of situation. If those kids are going to have a chance at anything in life, they need out now and you know that isn't going to happen, not with the way things work here," she says coldly, her voice not quite matching the threat of falling tears in her liquid eyes.

"It should be safe for you — the club isn't probably putting that business on display. We just need someone inside to try to match some names to numbers, or at least faces to numbers, that we have. We just need someone inside that I've met, and then we'll do the rest," she says, earnestly, reaching to touch his arm, in a pleading sort of motion. "Not if we do it right. It should be safe for you. You're literally just going to be sitting in the club and looking around," Peyton explains. "Piece of cake."

"Now, now," Logan says, trading chain into cigarette bearing hand to better free the other and place over Peyton's knuckles. Despite Abby's warnings of his touch, nothing eventful happens here, no meddling of chemicals or enhancements of mood, and behind tinted glass, his irises remain as two pale discs of grey and green. "Don't sap out all the sense of adventure, or I might stop being interested. I've shut down criminal operations before, almost as much as I've run them."

If we're being free and frank, anyway. His hand clasps tighter around Peyton's, pushing it off his arm to clinch her fingers in a hold before releasing altogether. "I just think the police are wankers. You let me know where and when, and we can figure things from there."

"Me, too," Peyton says with a wry chuckle at the mention of the police. "So let's keep them out of this and shut these assholes down without them. Besides, it's Staten so, you know, it's not like they really care."

She adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder with her newly freed hand. "I'll give Jerry and McRae a call and then be in touch, then," she offers. "Should I call you at Burlesque, or…?" She's back to business, no more tearful pleas, her eyes blinking hard over her own dark irises to clear them once and for all (or at least for the next few minutes). "And thank you. I appreciate it. And they will, too, even if they don't tell you. You know how boys are."

"Don't I ever," is sighed out maybe a little gayly, but that comes with the territory of being exasperated over boys on a more frequent basis over this past week. Cheza, maybe recognising the tones human voices make when a conversation is ending, tilts her head to stare up at Logan expectantly for more walking adventures. In unconscious response, Logan shortens the leash in preparation. "Ring Burlesque, it'll get to me one way or another. If you get Ina, she'll just suspect the worst."

And the worst is the best. Pinching cigarette between white teeth, Logan tugs at the chain to get Cheza moving, ignoring the soft growl that goes with the gesture.

"Got it," Peyton murmurs, heading for the doors that lead into the lobby of her building, her cell phone already being pulled from her purse to put the plan in action. Her fingers fly over the touchscreen keyboard, even as she murmurs thanks to Frank the doorman. The text to Jericho's cell reads: Logan's in. Give me a time and a place.

Her heel's clicks echo on the marble tile of the lobby floor before they are muffled by the carpeted elevator. It's been a long day, but the weary clairvoyant feels accomplished in at least this one small step in solving a very large, very onerous problem.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License