charlie_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Stupid
Synopsis In a continuation of Evasive Maneuvers, Charlie finds Deckard and Deckard finds Charlie. Impolite conversation and a brief struggle ensue. You can probably guess why it is brief.
Date February 9, 2009

The Angry Pelican

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.

That had been an invitation. Maybe Teo hadn't phrased it very well. Wouldn't be the first time. He ends up staring down at the old man, trying to determine what it is he should say next. Or, arguably more importantly given the style and theme of his pending dramatic exit, what he shouldn't. "Next time," he offers, finally, casting a hand up near his head before gravity drops it down on a lazy arc back to his side. "Watch yourself, eh? Vecchio.

"You're too old to be fucking up the same way twice." Glibe as a child is wont to be, he bends his mouth around a half grin. Stoops his shaven head, briefly, in salutation. He turns on a heel and lopes toward the door.

Charlie fills that door. In a big way. He pulls his cap off, displaying his shaved head, and looms there for a moment, expression grim, before lumbering slowly toward the bar.

No miscommunication. Disinterest, refusal, distraction. Something more like that, further imbued in the way Deckard keeps his eyes elsewhere. Right hand lifted back up over the table so that he can scuff it against the side of his head, he drops it down next to his empty glass with his sunglasses hooked along for the ride. The left hand takes over, pressing into the hollow shadows around his eyes with more force than is probably necessary while Teo's footsteps fade past his left side for the door.

"Hey, Charlie!" someone calls from off to the side. "You gonna buy the place a round?" This makes Charlie swing his head toward the speaker and rumble, "I'm not that drunk yet. Maybe in eight hours, asshole."

Charlie. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. The name sinks in through the solid wall of Deckard's skull whether he wants it to or not. He's alone at his table, some risidual tension lingering in his shoulders (as well as elsewhere in the scattered crowd) in Teo's wake. Slowly, and probably not all that subtly, the scruffy old man lowers his hand and turns enough to squint at 'Charlie.'

Small world, or maybe New York's just a small city. Ha. Charlie bellies up to the bar and gives his order, whiskey on the rocks, no, the bigger glass, you asshole. That done, Charlie turns and rests his elbows on the bar behind him, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Or scanning again, really, since he did when he came in. His attention settles on Deckard. "What?"

How much does Deckard hate himself? A lot, is the easy answer. A few lines draw themselves across his forehead in rapid parallel while he takes everything in. Charlie is a large man. His head is round, his neck is thick, his fists are meaty. "Charlie Riggs?"

Charlie eyes Deckard, brow furrowing. He is like a caveman. Is it time for a cliche like 'who wants to know'? No. No, it is not. Also, Charlie's an idiot that also welcomes trouble, so he says, "Yeah." After a moment, he tacks on, "Who the hell are you?"

"Who am I?" asks Deckard, like he's not sure why Charlie would care. There's a pause there, a hitch in the routine that takes the form of a near-flinching blink, then: "Just some guy in a bar who's wondering if you're half as stupid as you look."

"Seriously?" Charlie demands, straightening up and peering down toward Deckard. "You're seriously gonna pick a fight with me?" He sounds slightly indignant. Seriously? But there's always the possibility that Deckard has some awesome super powered kung fu, so he curls one mitt around his glass, drains it, and lumbers over toward Deckard's table. "I'm not the stupid one here, guy."

Deckard doesn't necessarily look thrilled about the idea, but he doesn't shrink down into his chair or cower. He keeps one hand lax over his face, intent on staying seated all the way up until Charlie is right there, and so pretty much unavoidable. Sparing himself the indignity of being dragged out of his rickety perch, he pushes to his feet and meets Charlie's eye. Being 6'2" himself, he's about on level, clear blue too sharply focused in the poor light to be inebriated despite the whiskey on his breath. "Maybe I'm not stupid. Maybe I get off on it."

"What? I think there's a BDSM place down the road. That might be more your speed. I can write the directions down for you," Charlie says, patting at his pockets. "I don't usually call people naughty boys when I punch them."

"Are you sure? I mean — if you have the directions memorized…" Deckard trails off, brows lifted after the ellipses as if inviting an explanation for his intimate knowledge of how to get there. "If you'd like to go together, I'll promise not to tell anyone. Can't say the same for them, though." Them, as in the other people sitting around. Currently, a couple of them are leering. Most of them are staring.

"Fine, fine," Charlie says with a sort of sad air. "I feel very confident about my sexuality, but you're just annoying." He clenches one beefy hand into a fist and drives it abruptly toward Deckard's gut. Hey, he picked a fight. Why the hell not?

Ever have a moment where you wonder why you bother with life at all? Deckard has those moments a lot. He has one in slow motion while there is a fist driving itself towards his guts, and his eyes roll to the ceiling.


Contact. He staggers off balance immediately, falling backwards over table when he tries to brace himself against it. His glass goes skating off onto the floor, where it shatters crisply amidst the scuffling feet of some third guy who's busy just trying to get out of the way. The sunglasses just get crunched.

Charlie stuffs his hands in his pockets glumly. "Are you happy now?" he asks Deckard. "Fucking weirdo. Not even a challenge. No cards up your sleeve, huh?" He's not offering Deckard a hand up or anything. "Gun maybe?" He seems curious. C'mon. You got a gun?

Charlie hits about as hard as he looks like he hits. Deckard has abs, but they are not made of steel. These observations and more accompany the sick, twisting knot of pain that rots up through his diaphragm while he stares at the ceiling and tries to wait it out. Once he has, Charlie gets his answer. Flint rocks himself up off the table, right hand swinging under his lapel past the distinct shadow of a gun grip for the knife on his belt. The press of his thumb over a small trigger encourages the punctual flick of the switchblade's mechanism. But, but, he makes no further advance. Just stands there with the knife. Either he isn't sure what to do, or he's interested in seeing what Charlie does first.

"This is just weird," Charlie rumbles, watching Flint and shaking his head slowly. "Fine. Go on. What's next, grandpa? Take a swing." There's a glint in his eyes that might be familiar to Deckard, if he ever got a chance to look in the mirror sometime when he's about to do something stupid. That little wild look that invites trouble, picks a fight with it, gets in its face and sees how hard it'll punch for some strange non-reason fed by some kind of hate.

It's a look Deckard's seen before. In other people, in himself. Everyone calls him grandpa. A slow breath meant to steady some twitching around the region of his knife hand allows a flicker of something — a leak, maybe, of earnest irritation hardening into what might have passed for stagnant, forced interest a minute or two ago. Eyes too pale to be healthy, he rolls his shoulder back, hardly blinking. He's nobody's fucking grandpa.

He lunges. All of him — not just the knife, weight thrown forward to absorb whatever blockage might occur ahead of of the switchblade's gleam.

Old guy with a knife. That's an invitation right there. The course is laid out and he doesn't even need an excuse. Charlie smiles ever so faintly and reaches for Deckard's wrist, the one attached to the hand with the knife. The blade skitters along the arm of his jacket, a tough old thing, bites in. Charlie just grits his teeth and twists Deckard's hand in a manner designed to make it much harder for him to continue to hold the knife. Or stand up straight. The human body has rules, which way it bends or turns, and tends to react automatically to avoid being broken by obeying those rules. Charlie's grip is practiced; training. Military, cop, something. Disarm first.

Deckard resists, at first, if not for nearly as long as he might like. Teeth bared around the snarled rasp of his breath, every muscle in his neck strung taut from jaw to collar, he maintains his hold for a few wild-eyed seconds. Maybe not even that long, while the knife tries to dig deeper just to dig and hhhhahhh arm bones aren't supposed to feel like that. His back twists first, shoulder wrenched over at an angle to try to relieve the pressure, but it's a battle he's lost before he even begins to try to fight back. The knife is released like it's on fire, still snagged in Charlie's sleeve, and Deckard is left at Charlie's mercy, about a sneeze away from having his wrist snapped.

Charlie grits his teeth as the blade bites, but in the end he's coming out on top. That's fine by him. Once the knife drops to the sand, Charlie balls his hand up into a fist and rams it into Deckard's face three times. Hard.

Black eye, blacker eye, bloody nose. Strings effectively cut, all the wiry, nasty tension in Deckard's six feet two inches goes slack in Charlie's grasp. Out cold, and probably soon to be out of a gun, wallet, and knife.

Charlie drops Deckard unceremoniously to the ground; he stoops, pats the guy down for a wallet, and flips it open to try to get a bead on who the cranky old guy was. The money's ignored for the moment.

Thump. There is nothing dignified about the overcoat-bound heap Deckard collapses into while black blood sets to glistening thick through the moustachio section of his stubble collection. There is no ID in his wallet. Zero. No credit cards. Just the cash, a couple of condoms, and a few business cards. One is blank and white. One is red and has Logan's contact information on it. The last has Muldoon's.

The expression that flits across Charlie's face is almost comical when he gets to Muldoon's card. He knows that card very well. Oops. Logan's gets squinted at. Try to remember the numbers? Fuck. Charlie takes both cards, pockets them, and stands up. The wallet is dropped on Deckard's chest as he steps over the unconscious guy to head back out.

February 9th: Evasive Maneuvers
February 9th: Three Spooks And Some Change
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