Participants:
| Scene Title | Street Info Squad - Mobilize! |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Cardinal, still with his eyes on the prize, asks Wes to do some sniffing around. |
| Date | February 17, 2009 |
A stone's throw away from the little makeshift harbor on the foreshore of the Arthur Kill river is this little even more makeshift bar. Little more than a shack, the interior barely fits more than its own stock of alcohol and kitchenware, and the seating spaces are outdoors under a rickety wooden cover decorated with fishing paraphernalia and nets. The chairs and tables are broken down cheap things that look like they've been scavenged from all over the place, mismatched but comfortable with some cushions or blankets thrown over them. The ground is sandy and dirty, as if the beach extends right under your feet, and despite being outdoors, the place is cluttered. Simple alcohol is provided - whiskeys, rums, and beers - without a chance of food, and you'll mostly find yourself in the company of thieves, considering the kinds of boats that dock here.
A motorcycle's engine rumbles a bit, coming to a halt just outside the dock-slash-bar called the Angry Pelican, and Cardinal swings a leg over it to hop down. There's no key in the ignition, frayed wires speaking of a hot-wire, and he leaves it carelessly behind him as he strolls along into the net-shadowed area with a duck of his head. "'Ey! Wes…"
Wes Smedley stands at the bar, but there is no sign that he's started to drink yet this evening. He lifts his head up rather sharply when he hears his name, and Carson goes so far as to step toward the door to sniff at Cardinal, tail wagging slowly. "Card'nal," Smedley greets with a slightly more somber nod and tone of voice. "Y'alright?"
"'Ey, Carson," Cardinal adds, reaching down to lightly scritch the hound's head with three fingers before walking past; a smile tugging up at one corner of his lips, head canting in a nod across the area to one of the broken-down tables off by itself. "Yeah, m'pretty fuckin' good, honestly. You got some time to talk business, my man?"
"For you, Rich? I got hours." Well, maybe that's not true, but Smedley follows the other man toward the table all the same, the dog jogging along slightly in front of them. Carson soon gets comfortable under the table, lying down with his head on his paws. Smedley, however, is on edge just the slightest little bit, but it could be easily deemed anticipation. "What'ya got cookin'?"
A chair's claimed, creaking dangerously under the man's weight as Cardinal settles down—leaning forward a bit with one arm bent on the table's scratched, sticky surface. "You've got your ear to the ground, man," he observes, his voice kept quiet, "You heard anything about those paintings?"
Smedley relaxes some at that, then shakes his head, playing it cool. "Only that they got pinched. Can't be an easy thing to fence though. Why? You got a buyer for one? Or are you still dealin' with middle-men?"
"I can find some interested parties," Cardinal replies with a shrug, keeping the subject of buyers a touch… vague, for the moment, one hand raising up to rub beneath his jawline, "Only problem is, nobody seems t'know who's got 'em right now. I figured, hey, you're into the import-export business, you might be able to find out a few things—maybe even heard already…"
Maybe it's the presence of the dog that makes people think that Smedley finds things, while he really runs his business on luck and bringing in or moving out what already exists. Still, none of this is exposed as he sits there. "You know better than to ask me somethin' like that without a deal on the table, Rich," he says with a smirk before he adds, nodding, "I can see what can be sniffed out, sure. Let you know when I got the goods." Now who's playing middle-man?
"That I do…" A low chuckle tumbles past Cardinal's lips as he leans back again, the chair creaking ever so slightly and the bottle tilted towards the other man, "…I figured it couldn't fuckin' hurt to ask, after all. I know it's not the usual shit that gets moved 'round here on Staten…"
"Don't you go worryin', Rich." Smedley's all smiles again, his arms folded across his chest as if he were some great sage, full of confidence and wisdom. "If there t'be found. I'll find 'em."
"Cocky sonuvabitch," Cardinal observes with a broad grin, his head shaking slowly, "Just get me a location, and I'll put a whole lot've cash in both our pockets, man. And some extra gravy trail in the dog bowl."
"
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