There's Always A Market


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Scene Title There's Always A Market
Synopsis You can't bring Eltingville Blocks to the girl, but you can bring the girl to Eltingville Blocks. For a fee.
Date April 29, 2011

Brooklyn Public Library

The smell of thousands of books housed upon shelves and shelves greets visitors of the Brooklyn Public Library, yet even amongst the numerous titles, through strategic lighting, the building manages to feel spacious, even in the late evening when the library heralds its largest crowd. But then the sun hasn't gone down yet, not entirely, anyways.

The general silence befitting a library doesn't actually work here. Whispered words between pockets of patrons concealed between groups of shelves transform indiscernibly into— quiet near-whistles like that of a summer breeze, determined to conceal Mother Nature's secrets, yielding nothing but white noise to unlistening ears.

Within endless rows upon rows of books a person could get lost; perhaps on purpose. Finding some semblance of private space within the public can, at times, be a point of security. Or, if living in a house full of children, a point of sanity.

Samara Dunham had come here hours ago, and she'd stayed longer than she'd intended. The exterior beauty of the building and drawn her to this place, but the quiet and collected nature of the library had kept her within it. Finding a hiding place had been relatively easy: the back corner, hidden amongst the stocks along the blue carpeted floor, she'd found an odd peace. Her legs curl tightly into her chest while her book— Harry Potter— sits open upon her knees. The position serves to make her feel small while her shirt— with it's empire waist that makes even the skinniest wearers appear pregnant— and jeans grant her that measure of ordinary and normalcy she'd longed for in this space.

Several other titles sit haphazardly around her— none of which classify as adult literature, and, at least one of which— Little Miss Sunshine— classifies excplicitly as a children's book, not even a novel.

Her lips purse together as her eyes flit up towards one of the high shelves which she'd attempted to contend with some time earlier. In Sam's opinion, being short has no advantages.

Harry Potter is laid beside her while her palms press into the floor, allowing her some balance in her stand. She wobbles some when it comes to her full height, but catches her balance against one of the shelves easily enough.

A single foot steps upon one of the shelves, testing it for sturdiness, while her eyes flit up to the top, and asmug smile of determination tugs at her lips.

It's a library. One is meant to be quiet. Logan is being quiet.

His suit isn't. It's the kind of white that reflects light, and upon the jacket are large, garish patterns — printed roses, in this case, of dark red and rich green, as large as fists. The shirt is black satin beneath it, a Mandarin collar laid open to a long, pale throat, it and the symmetrical swoop of jaw shaven clean just this morning. His shoes are handcrafted, Italian, all pointed toe and slightly raised heel, made of a patent, patterned leather that resembles scales, and as shiny as ink. It's all together too evening and too ostentatious for daylight, let alone Brooklyn Public Library, but Logan appears to not mind terribly.

He is, after all, only following the signal. He moves for it like a dog might follow a scent, trying to find the most direct path possible and moving passed obstacles — tables, shelving, people — with an irritated kind of neglect until he slows upon seeing a girl in the correct vicinity, reaching for a book.

Logan stops, pale eyes now glancing at the shelf edges to see if it has any give at all, then glancing around himself as if only just now fully taking in his surroundings. Never mind. "Samara?" he asks, his accent crisply London. Maybe he is a wizard. "Samara Dunham."

Wizardry certainly seems afoot.

It takes only the sound of her first name to alter Sam's positioning. A guilty blush drifts into her cheeks, drawing out the freckles that dust the tops like stars in the night sky, concealed, but always present, while her foot slides off the shelf.

She pivots on a single foot, leaving her back to the shelf she'd just been climbing. Her weight shifts to the front of her feet, allowing her to rock back and forth gently upon the balls of each, while her hands drift to her back, clasping tightly behind. The smile that plays on her lips loses some of its lustre while her head lolls to the side. "Most people call me Sam," she corrects with a one-armed shrug and a twitch of a smile— more hesitant than the first. Distinctly, her eyes narrow with uncertainty as she continues to rock on her feet, not quite certain. And so she asks, "Do I know you?" It seems unlikely given he called her Samara.

"No," Logan readily admits. No, they do not know each other. Swooping a look up and down her— for height— then more studious at her face— for bone structure— he lists a little closer, his shoes new enough to squeak on each step. "But my name's John Logan — just Logan, usually."

Glancing towards the debris of books she's already browsed through, he comes up beside her, hands out to dance fingertips over bared spines, picking through the titles with the vague curiousity of someone who doesn't actually do libraries. Or reading. And it brings him closer, too, mingling the papery scent of well loved books with more acrid smells of cigarette smoke and cologne. "I run some business in Eltingville, Staten Island, but today I'm here on behalf of your fiance.

"Which one were you after?" His chin tips up to indicate the upper most shelving she'd been working to.

Her smile eases as her finger points up to the top shelf to a black book with red writing along the spine. "The Hobbit. It's one of my favourites. My mom read it to me when I was little," Sam's tone contains newfound warmth at the semi-shared memory, like people use to describe their comfort food. In many ways, The Hobbit provides those same feelings for her. The rocking on her feet stops as she shifts her weight to her toes lending unconscious, and largely unhelpful, support to the man's efforts, becoming taller will, in no way, assist in the book's retrieval.

The name John Logan doesn't strike any immediate chords although the mention of Brian and Eltingville brings an undeniable ease. "Brian mentioned you, I think." One of her fingers taps gently at her chin while she tries to remember details, "So you have your own business?" And then, inappropriately with a wrinkle of her nose and a tilt of her head, she asks, "Does Eltingville actually have a good market?"

The book is slid out from the others once identified, Logan taking a moment to flip through the pages before limply offered to Samara to take. The question gets a thin smile, abrupt and swift. "There's always a market for pussy," he says. "And our lads in the army need something to pass the time besides murder and oppression. Here you go." Book released, Logan then rests an elbow on a gap in the shelving, hands linked together as he looks down his nose at her.

"Brian sent me, and mentioned that Disney princess mirror was a special enough fucking phrase to get your attention, but I imagine I've gotten it already. He does miss you."

Samara's hand tightens around the book and sacredly draws it to her chest. However, the coveted object easily becomes forgotten at the mention of pussy which is promptly met with a reddening of the woman's cheeks, followed by her nose, and then her ears. In fact, the blush becomes so widespread that likely even underneath her shirt, her shoulders are blushing. Awkwardly, in usual Samara form, the blush becomes laden with nervously incessant chatter, "Oh my. Well at least business is booming right? I mean there's a need and someone needs to satisfy it right? Men have needs. And women have needs too," her eyebrows knit together, "I mean assuming you satisfy women's needs— not you-you, but you as in the greater business community that— not that I would ever— " her free hand is held out defensively in a stop motion, a signal for herself rather than Logan. "Sorry. I'm.. I'm sorry." A nervous chuckle escapes the back of her throat.

Her eyes trail downwards as her free hand drops to her side. She sighs, "I miss him too. A lot. Everyday. More everyday." Eyes lifting to meet Logan's again, she finds herself asking, "Have you ever met anyone that makes your life make sense?"

Oh dear.

There is feline squint after babbling as if to try and detect what exactly spun her and how badly, as if Logan didn't already know, but apology is just smiled at before question is contemplated. If not for very long. "Not in the slightest," he says. "Met loads of people who made it make less sense."

But that's quite beside the point. "Brian's not getting out," he says, after a moment, husky voice going lower and quieter in private conversation amongst the dust and the pages, "and doing that for him would be putting my balls on the line in a way I do not fancy doing. However, I'd like to make a proposal. For an as yet undetermined fee, I can get you inside to see him, if that's something you'd be interested in doing. I know it's something he'd be keen for — it's why'm here."

Four words couldn't have deflated an already-nervous Sam more. Where she'd retained general spritely-ness in her movements, everything falls. Her arms, shoulders, and neck feel weighty, tugged down by some invisible force known only by her. Through pursed still pressed-together lips, she manages to emit a sound from the back of her throat, "Mmhmm," oddly deadened for a noise that could indicate playfulness.

Her head turns away from him, focusing on the shelf to her right while her teeth toy at her bottom lip. She turns back and, with the most serious mom-expression she can muster— the one that indicate to the kiddies of the Bay House that she means business— she replies, "I want inside." Arms cross over her chest defensively as she attempts to sustain his gaze, "What do you mean undetermined fee?"

Fingers curl and uncurl in fidgety, musical rhythm, but Logan holds her gaze just because she's making the effort. His smile goes crooked, wide enough to show canine teeth. "I mean that Brian and myself haven't gotten down to the brass tacks of the transaction just yet, although you're free to lighten the debt if you've cash to spend. But don't worry yourself, love — I'm nothing if not affordable.

"If you want in, then expect to stay in for such a time that I deem it safe for you to leave. If you make your own arrangements, then do me the courtesy of telling me what they are — they're not lighthanded on people breaking the rules, and that'll go for the pair've us, and probably your prince charming too. We'll do it my way, or no way at all, and you won't tell a single soul about what you're doing, least of all about me.

"That's the long and short of the offer."

Again, Sam's eyes trail away; her own wants become more evident at the notion of being stuck. All too aware of her own selfishness, Sami's cheeks flush again as she issues Logan a tight nod. "Mister Logan, I've dropped off the face of the planet before. There was a funeral. Everyone thought I died. I can manage lying to everyone. They'll probably just think I disappeared again. It happened once and judging by how things are going on now— " she doubts it would come as a terrible shock. "And even if I talk too much I also listen! I swear I'd follow it. Whatever your plan is…"

Her throat clears, "When would I get in? Soon?" Her eyebrows raise somewhat expectantly.

And so Logan puts out a hand, fingers together, palm upturned — the expectation is that she takes it to seal a deal, and that it mean something. "Soon," he confirms, gaze crawling to the ceiling in rolling eyed thought, before he adds, "Let's say around when the week is out. I'll contact you so you'll know to be ready, and where to go. And what to bring.

"My number's in your contacts."

Too easily Sam's smile returns, complete with two deep dimples. Knowing Brian can't leave is crushing, but being able to get in is satisfactory, if not ideal. "Good. I really appreciate it, even if you're just doing business." There's a pause. "It's not just business to me." He's shot a warmer smile, "Thank you." Again, her teeth play at her lip, knowing full well she'll have to get organized very quickly. But the inconvenience is more than worth the payout.

The hand is taken.

"It's a deal."

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