Thanks For The Chat, Mother Superior


abby_icon.gif sable_icon.gif

Scene Title Thanks For The Chat, Mother Superior.
Synopsis Sable comes to play nice, and try to get permission for magnes to at least come in the bar proper so that he and her and their band can actually play in the place.
Date February 27, 2010

Old Lucy's

Bars are not generally open before 11 for customers. Old Lucy's doors are usually unlocked earlier for the convenience of those in the know and especially if the blonde is downstairs. Parents left to the mercy of Liz's mom and some take out for lunch, the blonde is sitting at the bar on the customer end of things so that she can flip through the books and get the number down for the accountant. The world doesn't stop turning because of crazy psycho Russians.

The place empty is much different when it's open and filled. Smell of smoke hangs stale in the air, stacks of clean ashtrays ready to be put on the tables, there's no music save for what's leaking out of the earbuds in her ears attached to an blue ipod on the counter beside a cup of coke. It's erie, with the neon lights on, and the mirror behind the bar reflecting the desolace of a bar sans patrons. All easily seen through the tinted windows by the door.

Seeing as Sable's underaged (though not according to the several IDs she carts around), she's not a viable patron anyways, so her arrival at the doors is no real change from the trend of early customerlessness. Not to say she wouldn't want to patronize this fine establishment, given the chance. In fact, as she cups her hands around her eyes and peers past the full day sun's glare into the interior of the bar, there is a certain appreciation in her gaze as it moves across the rather classic set up, the saturated glow of neon, the bolted down stools that suggest it's a place one might get rowdy in - exactly the kind of place Sable can dig.

As she skirts around to the door and pushes her way inside, she is further comforted by the melange of smells only a bar can provide. She even takes a moment to close her eyes and inhale deeply, the smell of accumulated bacchanal. She loves it. But she isn't here as a patron, she's here as an envoy, and when her weird yellow eyes open, they fix on the proprietress. Blonde, check. Chick, check. Good looking enough to catch Magnes' insistent fancy, definitely check. Southern?

For final confirmation, Sable sidles up to the bar and scoots herself onto a seat just two down from Abby's perch on the bar. Her grin is broad and crooked, and her hand lifts up to scratch the back of her head. "'scuse me, but you wouldn't happen to be the owner of this fine establishment, would ya?" Letting her southern accents, coastal but definitely below Mason-Dixon, rise out of its usual storage space in her mind.

The door opens and sable is eye'd, the yellow eyes noted as well, marked off as either contacts or part of some evolved ability - one of the bartenders DOES have naturally freaky white eyes. "I am, but the bars not open right now. You'll have to come back in two hours and Brenda can serve you" Louisiana, far below that MD line and probably close to the big O. Abigail studies the other woman for a bit, a hint of wariness somewhere in the gaze, as if she might be worried about the woman.

Sable props an elbow up on the table an rests her chin on her fist, a posture not indicative of transience. Her smile turns down to a medium-low heat, more personable, conversational. She lifts her other hand in an abortive gesture, before letting it settle on her knee. "I ain't here to drink, particularly seeing as I've come here with specific purpose in mind, so to speak," the hand on her knee extends, offering a shake, "Sable," she says, by way of introduction, "You're Abigail Beauchamp, then?" A flash of her smile's previous intensity, "Whose reputation precedes her."

"Too bad that reputation you were told about didn't let you in on the fact that i'm not a hand shaker. No offense intended" Abigail's own hand remains around her pen, and the other flat on the counter on the books. 'But then, that begs the question of who told you my reputation and that I hope it's a good one"

"Aw, now you've gone and spoiled my whole play," Sable says, hand retreating, "After the handshake I was going to be all smooth and make a joke about /me/ pouring /you/ a drink or something. Bar banter. But y're obviously a pro, able to deflect clumsy advances of that kind," the young woman shakes her head, "Well, now that /that's/ out the window, I guess I gotta get more to the, like, point." Even as she speaks, her accent's color fades somewhat giving her voice the inbetween-accent quality it usually has, "I'm a musician, and a friend of young Mr. Varlane," immediately she lifts a finger, to stem the interruption she automatically assumes would be forthcoming, "But I'm not here on his, like, behalf. Honestly, while maybe curious like a town gossip about exactly what vague shit went down between you to lead to his being banned from this fine establishment, that's extremely not my fuckin' business. And I'm here for business," again, that grin, more wolfish now, but still just for a moment, "However tempted I may be contrary-wise."

She's right, Abigail's about to open her mouth and tell her that Magnes can come here himself and not send some yellow eye'd woman in the hopes of getting unbanned. But kindly, she just presses her lips together, blue eyes settled on yellow ones and regarding the other woman. "What went on between Magnes and I is between Magnes and I and if he discussed it with you, it's all the more reason to keep him on the persona non grata list here." She pops out her earbuds, turning in the seat to regard Sable fully. "And exactly what business is it that you think you have with me?"

"Persona non grata?" Sable echoes, sounding impressed, or maybe mock impressed, it's actually really hard to tell, "Damn, you're beautiful /and/ articulate?" The woman closes her eyes and rubs her brow, the whole sequence of words and actions tinged with a flair that is somewhere between theatrical and crazy. "Focus, girl, focus. Okay…" she looks back to Abby, expression mostly serious now, "I'm a musician. And a good one. Not saying great, not saying that I've got the luck and the fuckin' kismet to be big, but I've got the determination. And this, this is a fine place you've got running. Quality. Woman like yourself, woman of nerve and savvy, runs a certain kind of place I want to be able to play in. Only problem is, I'm not gonna try and start with a solo career. And Mr. Varlane is a co-worker of mine. A fellow bandmate. So, if I'm gonna get in through these doors to play, I'm gonna need him to come along with. And I wanna try and make that happen, despite his non grata'd persona."

"THis place is in a bad section of town and people get shot outside of it, it's also not my place really, someone just left it in a will for me. So you can stop with the buttering up, i'm not one for flattery okay. Your strike against you is that your hooked with Varlane. So" Abby inhales deeply. 'Give me a darn good reason as to why I should let your band, and Varlane, play in here. And try and say it without inserting a swear word?"

Sable's expression is momentarily, and rather dramatically, pained. "I'm to limit the full range of my expression?" she says, "For you, fair Miss Beauchamp, and only for you, I'll try." Maybe she missed the part about no flattery, or maybe Sable doesn't consider this flattery as such, or maybe she's just a pain in the ass, "Unnerstand that I'm serious. This sh-" a wince, a barely-in-time self censorship, "-sssshichuation right right, this bar, is precisely what I'm aiming for. Bad section of town and badass, reluctant proprietress and all that. My reasoning, therefore, is that it's true to the ffffriggin'" nice save there, "like, /ethos/ of this place. That it's meant to be, that I can talk to these folks, and that its these folks I wanna talk to."

Abigail presses her lips together, eyeing Sable before gesturing to the walls. "What do you see on them?"

Abigail presses her lips together, eyeing sable before gesturing to the walls and the wallpaper on them. "What kind of music do you play and what do you think of the walls?" Honest questions and she seems to let the 'fair miss beauchamp' pass on by.

"Anything that takes my fancy, though I've got a fondness for classic rock, 'n' especially the progressive stuff. The Who. Floyd. But I also like a bit of bluegrass and country, 's long as its quality. Hank Williams first and third, Cash, of course, and the Dead," Sable's teeth veritably gleam, "Dire Wolf is one of my favorite tunes." Having answered this question to her own personal satisfaction, she turns to peruse the wallpaper. She doesn't seem taken aback by the question, but sets herself entirely to the careful study of the pattern on the walls. She lifts a hand to indicate, 'one second', and toddles over to the wall to get a closer look, head tilting as she regards the little black figures wrapped up in tendrils and each other. She turns back to Abby and quirks her lips to the side. "Looks like the inside of a classy whorehouse," she says, at length. Her tone is mutedly positive. A /classy/ whorehouse.

"They don't take to country here. You might get away with the odd Johnny Cash. Magnes is allowed in the bar only. He even thinks of going in the back room, I will snap his neck" robably won't, maybe just verbally. "I don't have time for his ego and his immature emotional status" The books are clapped closed, headphones wound around the ipod. "Come in tomorrow, play a set for Brenda. She likes you, she'll give you a schedule." If Brenda likes you. "She'll set the pay for the gigs, you can negotiate with her"

Sable's grin is just as bright as when she entered, but its whole cast is different now, all beaming pleasure and gratitude inside of the ever so slightly predatory glint of the woman on a mission. "I'll keep him on a leash, no worries about that, Miss Beauchamp," she says, and actually cackles at Abby's critique of Magnes' character, "Well, hon, if I had to turn away every immature musician with ego problems, I'd be spending the next ten years of my life just trying to get a full band together." Sable extends her hands to either side of her, pinching the air, "I know now you're no hand shaker, but I hope you'll accept a curtsy," and a curtsy is exactly what Sable offers Abby, dipping in a fairly convincing ladylike gesture, marginally lifting an invisible dress, "I thank you for the opportunity."

"Yeah, Brenda's gonna love you" And that's not meant sarcastically. 'Get out of here, I need to finish my books and do stuff. I'ms erious about Magnes. Be nice to have some live music in this place again. I'm sure the customers will like it. Have a nice day Sable and just call me the Nun, or boss lady, or something other than miss Beauchamp"

"No handshakes, no Miss Beauchamps, no Varlanes running around without supervision," Sable says, counting the things she has to keep track of, the lessons learned, "I think I got it," she flicks a finger-pistol Lucy's way, makes a clicking noise with her tongue, "Thanks for the chat, Mother Superior. Pleasure like you don't even know. I'll get out of your hair, flaxen though it may be." And she's strolling out the door, a whistle on her lips. The tune: the chorus from 'Happiness is a Warm Gun' by the Beatles.

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