The Other Irishman


lexington_icon.gif logan_icon.gif seamus_icon.gif

Scene Title The Other Irishman
Synopsis After putting out a call for information, the Lanes get a visit from a technopath who wants to make a deal.
Date December 28, 2010

A Motel

Data transmits across the city with the erratic movement of eyes blinking, scrolling text across two cellphone screens.

walsh has a thing about gunns and


pissing peopl3 off and if he does that enough some1 is


to get hurt

reply if you want it to be him and i will find u

fr0m a friend. j.logan

I would really enjoy it if it was him, actually! And not us. We're too pretty. And luv… do you know -how- to use a cell phone? Just curious.

The cellphone currently belonging to one Lexington Lane sits on a small table made of pressed wood that rests between two uncomfortable looking beds, which are sitting against a wall with terrible, peeling, striped wallpaper. Against the wallpaper is a single lamp letting out an unflattering, yellowish glow to the room. And in this room, a so called brother and sister sit eating a meal of take out food and generic soda.

The whiskey, though, that's good stuff. It isn't the only thing with actual class in the room, but Lexington's few rescued (and beloved) paintings are tucked under one of the beds and quite out of sight. So they hardly count.

The curtains are worn and faded, and sit opened only enough for them to see if anyone's approaching the door, less for the few of the pothole-riddled parking lot. Although fascinating, either is drunk enough to start contemplating the urban landscape in a deep and meaningful way. More's the pity.

It isn't just inanimate objects that have class, in this room. How many people can survive an explosion and come out of it making dark humored jokes and chuckles around mouthfuls of Chinese food? Seamus sits forward, elbows on his knees in a polo shirt and cutoff jeans (yay Goodwill), muttering a joke to Lexi around a half mouthful of lo mein. It's one of those jokes you usually don't tell in mixed company.

The last few weeks have been rough, spent alternately in hiding, and moving 'assets' around whenever they get the chance. Establishing a new foundation under the city's radar is rough, but not impossible. Mostly just slow going.

The cellphone does its thing in the next moment, vibrating its alert that yet again, it's receiving a text message — maybe the same queerly broken apart communication it got before, with arbitrary number letters, text slang and full words both, from a number that wasn't so much as blocked as much as it never existed. The device rattles the surface of the little table, edging into a circle and blinking its screen inanely to the reply which reads:

you have N0 idddea

Rap rap rap. Almost polite, there's a demure knock of three upon the door. The man standing outside skipped the process of asking anyone where so-and-so is staying in what number room, hands in his pockets and looking a little tired but not unwell. Blonde grain of bare minimum shaving lines his jaw, a little string bean in physique save for some meat at the shoulders, all of which is masked by his heavy greatcoat with its brass buttons. John Logan, Lindergoon negotiator, drug dealer and pimp, is inviting himself over for dinner.

Is Logan armed? Of course he is armed. He isn't taking huge pains to conceal that much from anyone who knows how to look for it, but he also has no such weaponry in his hands.

The joke may not be for mixed company, but Lexington laughs anyway, and is still doing so as she picks up her phone to look over the text. And that makes her laugh a little more. But when there's a knock, she looks up as if surprised anyone could actually find them. And so fast.

"I guess that's our friend…" And she's up, trusting that Seamus'll have her back just in case. All in all, it isn't a bad idea to come to the Lane room armed. As a general rule.

But, Lexington isn't shy about opening the door, and seeing the man with the magic touch from a certain parking garage — who just may have been the only good thing about the 8th — she relaxes a bit, her smile crooked. "Really, luv. It's like you're typing with swollen thumbs'r somethin'," she greets, that chuckle hinted at in her voice.

Seamus is grinning like a madman as Lexi laughs, looking pleased as punch. His forkful of food raises halfway to his mouth…and stops at the knock to the door. The mirth is gone now, and the Irishman tenses up like a stretched spring. "Is it?" he mutters, putting the lo mein on a nightstand. As Lexi vacates her seat, Seamus leans past it to reach under a pillow tucked into the headboard, and pull out a Glock. Nothing terribly pretty, but you take what you can get.

When the door opens, Logan is greeted by Lexi's friendly smile, and the looming form of Seamus off to the side, a hand tucked behind his back and his eyes narrowed. Lexi's remark gets a small smirk from him though, and he nods to the newcomer. "So this is Mr. Lolspeak?"

Logan gets that joke now, which is why Seamus gets a hooked half-smile instead of blank bafflement, trading one pale eyed stare his way before settling his attention on Lexington, crawling that study over her somewhat familiar features from nearly two months ago. How time flies. "It's these new keypads they make," he says, tone bland, and like them, distinctly foreign — except he's a goddamn Englishman, on the raw southern underbelly of London. He also isn't holding a cellphone. "The 'qwerty' ones. Can't ever get the fucking hang of 'em.

"Logan," he introduces himself simply, taking an assumptive step forward to let himself in, shoulder rig of the holster under his coat gleaming with spit-shined leather and weighted with a pistol, but a turn of empty hand is meant to communicate no harm intended.

So an Englishman walked into a room with an armed Irishman and his sister… stop me if you've heard this one.

"They are a menace, aye," Lexington says as she steps back and graciously gestures him in. "I'm Lexi, that one's Seamus. Welcome t'our extremely humble abode." Business, as it were, can wait until after pleasantries and hospitalities. And, you know, until the door is shut. "Care f'r a swallow've somethin' good, luv?" she asks as she steps over to pluck up the bottle of whiskey.

"Oh god, he's a fuckin' fop??" Seamus drawls in his molasses-thick Irish accent, and his face wrinkles in a scowl of disgust, though that tilted smile of his only grows wider as he openly tucks his gun into the back of his waistband, though his eyes linger on the gun flashed from under Logan's coat. Well, at least everyone knows where they stand.

As Lexi goes about the pleasantries, Seamus folds his thick arms over his chest and takes up the extremely difficult duty of propping up the wall. He chews idly on his tongue, waiting for the meat of Logan's visit. "Or somethin' t' eat? Y'r stick thin, y' are. How'd y' get here without getting blown away?"

The door snks shut after nudged closed with the heel of Logan's patent leather shoe, casting one dull-eyed glance from whiskey to Seamus, mouth pulling in a sneer. "Be nice," is facetiously polite and carefully enunciated, tucking his hands into pockets as he moves to find a place to stand without making himself at home, apparently having no desire to do so. "I'm right, cheers," is dismissive of offer of a drink. "Motel's a sorry place to do business. You wouldn't be on the run from our man Walsh, or anything?"

A cigarette holder is taken out of a pocket, rattled in mute query of if he's allowed to light up or no, with the blithe expectation that he will be. "He's actually called the Irishman on the streets, you know," he adds, as he gets a lighter into his other hand, flicking its flame off and on in fidget.

The bottle is set back down, a light shrug of a shoulder from Lexi in the more for me variety of reactions. But as he goes on, she looks up, smirking at that question, "What? Us? On the run? No no no, see, after livin' in the nice, plush apartment f'r a few months… we just got tired've it, is all."

Lexi does, indeed, gesture him on toward the smoking. Too many nights in crappy bars to be bothered, really. "What? He is? I'm offended. Aren't ya offended by that, Seamus? What audacity! Now you've really got a bone t'pick with him."

Logan's request earns a darkly amused grin from Seamus, before he purses his lips and gives a mincing curtsey before going over to take Logan's offered share of whiskey for himself. "Yeh. See," he adds to Lexi's remarks, pouring out a few fingers of the amber nectar, "Th' place was just falling apart anyways." Down goes a gulp of drink.

And up it comes, in a small splutter, with Seamus coughing into his arm, looking at Logan with offended amazement. "The Irishman? Y're fuckin' A right I'm offended!" Seamus spreads his arms wide. "Bastards needs goofy birdpeople t' do his dirty laundry, and he's called the Irishman? I'm almost ashamed to share an ethnicity with 'im." The audacity, seriously! Back goes that shot of whiskey and he gulps. "So what do you know about 'im, an' 'ow c'n we use it t' blow 'im up?"

While the siblings are loud and Irish together, Logan takes his time lighting up, studying embered tip once he's inhaled smoke and held it in his lungs, patiently allowing conversation to roll back his way before breathing smoke out again in draconic plumes from the nostrils. "He's an armsdealer," he says, syllables clipped and casual in delivery. "Attacked a mate've mine, you might have heard've him— Kain Zarek. Word has it that this Walsh bloke is taking out the competition.

"What'd he do to you then, exactly? The fuck are birdpeople?" Logan brings cigarette back up, exhales a haze of white that acts as an intangible barrier between himself and the two he's talking to.

"He's an arms dealer, is he?" Lexi takes a moment to chew on that one. But Logan's question gets her attention again, "Oh… he sent some stupid underlings t'blow up my shop. Ironically, they missed the guns in the basement." And that does seem to amuse her some, as there's a laugh. "Ya know, Da always told me not t'get int'the gun trade. This Walsh, not moved by a pretty face, obviously."

She picks up her glass then, to finish off what's left in the glass before she looks back over Logan's way. "The underlings, see. They showed up in bird beaks and santa hats. And AK-47's. Now, I know my guns, and ya don't bring one've them unless ya mean t'be killin' everybody. And they brought more'n one. So we had a bit of a firefight through all my beautiful, antique, one've fuckin' kind vintage pieces. And then they threw in the bombs. Now, bombs I don't know much've so that's when I ran. But suffice t'say… we owe him a piece've payback. A big piece. The whole damn pie, if ya follow me."

"And didn't actually get the pleasure of blowing up th' shop." If anyone's going to blow up their home, it'd be Seamus. He made sure of it. "An' th' morons got all of themselves killed in the process, save for one smart guy who hung back. Walsh sure can pick 'em, I'll tell you that much."

As Lexi picks up her glass, Seamus holds his out to her for a quick clink. "This squirrely little one had C4. Already primed and ready to blow, which tells me it didn't know a damn lick about actually handling explosives. Others were tripping over their own feet, falling into stuff." Seamus looks to Lexi, a little saddened. "I'm ashamed they actually managed to get our place taken out. It's fuckin' embarrassing, is what it is."

A smirk, and Seamus waves away the cloud of smoke floating towards his face. "Yeah. There's only room for one "Irishman" in this city. And his hot ginger sidekick, of course." Wink to Lexi.

"Irish fucking justice aside, he's not an easy mark," Logan points out, looking from man to woman, one meticulously shaped eyebrow raising at the pair of them. "He's also a crooked homicide detective with friends in the ATF, and believe me when I say that it's a bitch to go after anyone with government connections. You won't be the first people he's pissed off, but you would be the first to do anything about it other than get killed. If you want to go in, guns blazing, then fuck— I'll enjoy the fireworks from afar."

He backs up a step towards the window, levering it open a fraction to let chilly air in and flick burning ash out. "But fortunately for you, I'm interested in doing business. I've an arms dealing contract with someone that don't want to go through Walsh and to be honest wiv you, I don't think he'd want to go through me either. If you've got business and're willing to cut me a deal, I can help with whatever it is you want to do about 'im. Information, warm bodies, money. To be honest with you, stirring up some attention with a big contract might help lure him out.

"If not, then I'll leave this information with you to do with as you will." He flicks a sharp look to Lexington, then, offers her a half smile. "Call it a favour."

"Excuse me, jackass," that is to Seamus, of course, "If anyone's the sidekick, it isn't me. Ya look better in tights anyway." That comes with a little, sweet smile from the woman. But as business is laid out on the table, she folds her arms a moment, considering the proposal. Usually, this girl is one to run in without thinking things through much beforehand. Which is why people like Logan are important, to remind her that sometimes that's a bad idea.

"T'put it short'n sweet, luv. I want him dead. And seein' how our signature move is goin' t'be gettin' us on the cold slab… yeah, I believe I can cut a deal. I never do like t'turn down the handsome ones, after all," she says, ending with a crooked grin there. "I've still got plenty've contacts who aren't so scared've gettin' blown up, so all you've got t'do is let me know just how armed you'd like t'be."

"You kiddin'? I've seen Robin's outfit, and th' viewers out there in TV land would vote for you in those short shorts over my beefy ass, hands down." Seamus grins, and reaches out to chuck Lexi's chin lightly with the side of his glass.

Logan's warning is taken with a wince, the regretful truth cooling Seamus' jets as he goes for another bottle of whiskey. He takes a long drink, faltering at the beginning to peer at Lexi when she uses the word "handsome", before shaking his head and swallowing quickly. "There'll at least be fireworks, when all's said and done. You scratch our back, we'll scratch yours, eh? Plus, we could use the money right now." But the final decision is left up to the former owner of the shop, and Seamus grins as a deal is cut. He claps a heavy hand on Logan's shoulder. "Glad t' be doin' business with y'."

Whud goes hand to wool-clad shoulder, and Logan has palled around with enough thuggish spade-handed criminals, no matter their ethnicity, not to wince or otherwise wobble, steady enough to cast Seamus a thin smile once the touch drops away. "Then I'll be in touch, with numbers," Logan agrees, sidestepping Seamus and headed for the door he came through in only slightly uneven steps, as if his instinct were to favour and protect his right leg.

"Dead, we can do. I'll keep my ear to the ground about what he's doing, otherwise you can let me know what it is you might need to have that happen. You get your revenge, I get my investment for the future." Few-cha, a cockney-Caine twist on this last word. "You can reach me at Burlesque— Brooklyn strip joint, you— " and that's tossed to Seamus— "might've heard've it.

"Otherwise just text my name, and I'll hear it." And Lexington's cellphone buzzes merrily, with a blank message sent to her phone, with his name, as promised, as the sender.

Manly displays of manliness. No doubt they'll be fighting about it in about five minutes, but for now, Lexington just shakes her head at her brother before she looks down to that buzzing phone. "Convenient. I'll look forward t'hearing from ya next, Logan," she notes, giving him a lazy salute with phone still in hand and a crooked smile that's much less lazy.

She does look back to Seamus, though, to raaaaaaise her eyebrow on the topic of the strip joint.

Seamus stays out of the way of Logan, eager to see the stranger out of their sanctuary, even if he is a temporary(?) ally. "We'll have a lot o' plannin' t' do, f' sure. And plenty of preparation. Seems we may have t' dig into th' big guns for this. Hey, what…?"

When he's scrutinized about the strip club from two sides, Seamus spreads his hands apart and puts on the most "injured innocence" type look he can manage, mouthing words of disbelief at Logan as he disappears out the door.

Turning to Lexi, Seamus puts on an exaggerated pout. "Dunno what he's talkin' about. I'm pure as the goddamn driven snow."

House cats leave shed fur behind after slinking through the sanctuaries of strangers. In a similar manner, Logan leaves cigarette smoke and awkward conversational pieces, for all that there is probably little awkward about any interaction between these two.

His hands go up in a splay, cigarette caught between teeth, before bumping his way out the door as Seamus turns to Lexington, disappearing with a graceful turn and a click of portal closing again.

"I've driven on snow b'fore," Lexi comments with a crooked smile, "and there's nothin' pure about it. Gets all churned up. There's dirt and gravel all mixed in. Just pointin' that out, is all."

But, as she turns to pour herself a new glass of whiskey, she smirks as she notes, "When we go there t'discuss business? Ya get t'stay here and guard the art. I'm takin' Lucille."

As the front door closes, Seamus sidles over to the bathroom, kicking the door open with the side of his foot, and flipping on the noisy, rattling fan. As he comes out, Lexi's suggestion gets a loud snort. "Excuse me, lady? I am not a babysitter. As I recall that wasn't just your home that blew to heaven and back, anyways. Besides…" A sly grin that spreads over Seamus' face. "I should be there to make sure you behave yourself. 'Handsome', eh? Since when did y' develop a liking f'r chicken legs?"

"I can't take someone along who'll just be distracted all night. Plus, if he offers t'pay us in girls instead of money, Luce and I are so much less likely t'shout 'yes please!'" Lexington Lane, ever the practical business woman. "And don't be jealous just b'cause our new friend's face is prettier than yours. Besides, I know how t'behave myself. I'm not the one that got us run out've West Africa for flirtin' with the boss' mistress."

"But if he offers t' pay us in whiskey, Lucille won't be able to drag you away from th' bar all by herself, y' mincin' little lush," Seamus says with a smirk, eyeing the bottom of his glass as he falls down onto his butt on the bed, "So suck it up, Lexi. I'm goin' with you."

As she brings up that past transgression, Seamus laughs and turns on the redhead, folding his arms and glaring at her. "F'r the record, she came ont' me first. An' if I recall, if y' hadn't have kneed his first man in th' balls, he wouldn't 'a been inclined t' turn th' dogs on us."

"He's English! Like he's goin' t'have good Irish whiskey in any case. But here, how about this… when Luce gets back, we'll vote on it. Democracy in action. Can't argue there, now can ya?" Lexi smirks as he goes on, though, a chuckle for the memory. "Aww, now. He deserved it. He trampled my garden. Do ya know how hard it was t'learn t'grow anything in Africa? Damn hard! Plus, he grabbed my ass and his hands were far t'rough t'get away with that."

"Since when has th' quality of whiskey stopped you, hah? If I recall, y' just drink more, t' make up for the lack of quality." True or not, the good-natured ribbing is getting Seamus grinning from ear to ear. "Vote, nothin'. You jus' try an' keep me away. 'Specially considerin' what kinda leches might be hangin' out there." His brows lower, and he looks to his 'sister' for a moment, mood sobering as a protective urge comes over him.

The anecdote softens him, however, and he grins, shaking his head. "I know how hard it was f'r him t' grow his balls back after you with toe-first atwix his thighs. Oh, so y're lookin' f'r men with soft, unworked hands?" he teases, raising one of his own broad, rough mitts to waggle his fingers in the general direction of her ass.

"Desperate times call f'r desperate measures. But here, we're in the goddamned land've plenty. As far as alcohol's concerned." Lexington sits herself back down with her Chinese food and whiskey, a chuckle sounding through a bite. "Now, I didn't say that, but if ya run around grabbin' women randomly, I'm just a li'l more forgivin' when it's a pleasant experience f'r all," she says with a wave of her fork.

"Desperate? Is that y'r explanation f'r y'r taste in whiskey, or your taste in men?" Seamus gives Lexi a lascivious grin, and a wag of his eyebrows, letting his hand detour to snatch up his Chinese food again, and go back to eating. "With you, Lexi, th' lucky bastard that picks you up will have nothin' but pleasant experiences, I wager. Until you start waggin' your harpy tongue at him, that is."

Lexington looks at him for a moment, an eyebrow lifted, but amusement in her gaze as she quips, "Both, maybe." For whatever reason that's funny to her, it does get a laugh. Maybe she's had too much to drink. Of course, as he goes on, she flings a piece of chicken covered in some sort of sauce at his face. "Watch it, brother, 'r harpy talons might just be next."

Seamus flinches at the assault from the flying, foul fowl food, and he retaliates with a pinch of soggy noodles, flung in the general direction of her upper body. "Oh, pshaw! I know damn well when a cat's been declawed. All y' do is yowl anyways, kitten." Ohhh, the egging on.

Oh, housekeeping is just going to hate them. "Oh, is that right?! Better declawed than spayed, Seamus!" She's got a fork and a spoon, and she's not afraid to use them! Let the food fight begin!

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