Participants:
| Scene Title | To The Dogs |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan goes skulking and meets the better half of Gideon d'Sarthe. |
| Date | July 30, 2010 |
The original property in being turned into d'Sarthe's has not changed much from its days as Tavern on the Green. New interior and new decor are all in the process of being added to and renovated, while the outside is in a considerable state of repair, with scaffolding covering the walls and construction crews working on remodeling. Around the far back perimeter is a new fence, a tall and sturdy arbor that does well with the trees in hiding the skeletal view of midtown in the distance. This fence surrounds new, colorful gardens, some of which are still being planted and installed. Stacks of red bricks surround an unfinished pond in the process of completion.
On the inside of the building, the restaurant is home to several different large dining rooms and a few respective bar areas. Most of the dining rooms are unfurnished as of yet, with blue plastic tarps covering the floor, ladders raised to the ceiling to allow electricians to work on the lighting and the smell of freshly drying paint clinging in the air.
The only finished section of this remodeled Tavern on the Green seems to be the kitchen, with its modern appliances of brushed steel facade and spacious prep areas. It even looks as though this kitchen has been used on occasion, despite the restaurant itself having not been completed.
Many of the dining rooms have yet to be properly furnished, though there are a few private rooms which by now, have been finished and shut off until someone may need inside. As for the larger of the public rooms, it has yet to have its final paint and its light fixtures shined, and there is only a thin carpet in place beforehand. The chandeliers hang above until they get a turn at a polish, and the expanse of the giant room is empty save for some spaces along the sides where there are some tables covered, one uncovered. Perhaps seeing which fits best in the light.
On the uncovered table is a speaker for an iPod, the one perched inside doling out Edith Piaf to the entire chamber.
There is only one person here, as the construction crews have either been working elsewhere or simply have gone home after long hours. She is a slender figure amongst the chairs at the empty table, long brown hair falling over her shoulders and green eyes watching her only company very closely. There's a bird on the table- a yellow-crested cockatoo. One of the smaller species. Though she watches the creature pad around the table with a slight haze in her eyes, her hands are actively fiddling with a wooden link puzzle. The bird is interested only partly; the twinkle of the lights momentarily distract him from chewing the puzzle she has for him.
"Sur le pont d'Avignon, On y danse, on y danse-" Marie d'Sarthe has a smooth voice, murmuring a song to the bird. After a moment he seems to register it- and begins to turn a circle- and when he finishes, he does the same in the opposite direction. Yes sir, she taught the bird to dance. "-Sur le pont d'Avignon, On y danse tout en rond…"
She's being listened to, but not just by obedient bird.
It's not breaking and entering when there's little to break, and a sense of ownership and authority in John Logan's wander through the converted restaurant is one to discourage being stopped, for all that he hasn't encountered much of anyone — and upon hearing the woman's fine voice echo through the space, he'd quieted his steps to a curious creep. In the dwindled light of a late afternoon, he's apparently dressed, already, for a lengthy evening — not necessarily suit and tie, although his slacks and jacket match in black. The mohair grey beneath it is slightly more casual if stupidly expensive still, peaking at his cuffs and loose over his waist hem.
He cuts a lanky kind of figure to compensate for all that he's not very tall, sunglasses slid down to the end of long nose and a silver ring wrapped around a thumb. On slightly dusty, unfinished flaw, patent leather shoes are still as he listens from the adjacent room, hand placing against the wall to lean. About when he's moving to step into view, gravity makes that decision ahead of him.
Stalks of rebar go sliding down from their precarious lean against the wall, triggered to fall by god knows what — fate, maybe, or Logan's mere presence, but they come down with a clatter that has him hastily stepping out with, "fuckit!" hissed between teeth.
For all the more peaceful that Marie can be, she does not startle easily. In this case, she does cringe, throwing her forearms over the bird preemptively, ticking her head around to find the source of the sudden crashing, rolling, clinging, clanking- the mess- that has essentially broken all forms of quiet. Pierre, still holding the toy between beak and foot, just peers out from between the young woman's arms as if this were a regular occurrence in his life. Perhaps not this, but noise.
The girl doesn't leap to yelling, or to questions, she only narrows her eyes over at the stranger, considering him from afar.
"Hello. Can I help you with something?" Though she was born here in America, being second generation still lends her a flaky sort of accent- some sounds more than others, but largely it is only a sheet of gauze to a neutral American accent.
The clatter of warped steel is quick to die out, especially in the wake of the woman's voice echoing out her lightly accented query. Logan looks up from where he'd been checking to see if dust or the like had gotten on anything, eyes pale and innocently round above his sunglasses — these of which he drags off his face, closing up in his palm before stepping over scattered rebar and into the dining room. His glance goes from the bird to the girl, study and faint recognition filtering in.
Not that he recognises her, but he can put pieces together on a good day. "That's very possible," he settles on, back straightening as he wanders in further, tucking the purple-tinted glass into his breastpocket. "Mind you, I didn't expect to run into anyone — this place isn't exactly open for business, innit."
The brunette only gives him the slightest of nods, slender hands moving to help the cockatoo onto her wrist. "Venir, Pierre." She says directly to the bird, who clicks his beak, drops the toy, and climbs up onto her arm, then to her shoulder. He tugs at the sleeve of her t-shirt next, black eyes roving off to study Logan from his new perch. "You've made quite a mess."
"We are not open, no. Not until autumn, generally." In that Marie answers as a We, it is clear that she does belong here- and knows exactly what is going on. "Are you looking for someone? Or just looking to snoop around? I've never seen you around before." She is as astute as she is honest.
Pierre turns his head from watching Logan to preen at the feathers below his left wing, balancing expertly on the young woman's narrow shoulder.
"I'm looking for my cat. Big ginger thing. Answers to Sasha."
It's at least one talent that Logan has in his arsenal — a distinct inability to blush, for all that he's not impossible to fluster, and he may or may not expect such an excuse to work. His smile is relatively feline, as is his mincing approach which halts within a respectable distance, and from there, she can probably note a little bit of tension beneath the lines of his suit. "Sorry to disturb. But by we, I presume that to mean that you must be Marie d'Sarthe."
With only a wary glance towards the large bird straddling the woman's shoulder, he steps forward enough to offer out a hand. "My name's John Logan."
Pierre could 1) leap out and attach himself to John's face or 2) sit idly by while his girl is touched. He opts, thankfully, for the latter. Marie is unabashed at taking a stranger's hand in greeting; her handshake is firm, oddly enough. She doesn't seem the type. It also seems as if she is searching him for something when he says his name, her paler green eyes lighting up in her face.
"You came looking for your pussycat, yet you know my name the first time you meet me?" Her tone is dry, features unsurprised as she pokes a tabby-sized hole in his explanation. At least she appears good humored about being quote-unquote, 'deceived'.
"If you're here checking for my father or because of him, just say so. I'm educated enough in what he does, no need to mince words."
His handshake is matched, in that his grip is softer and more of a suggestion of a handshake than the true thing. The good mood warmth that comes with it is fleeting, removed from emotional and intelligent reactions as it is simply a chemical reaction that should be in response to what is not necessarily there. It lingers for the time it takes for him to tuck hand back into pocket, waning in the same way his eyes go back to their paler shade of ice-green. Maybe a change of lighting.
Something something. "My cat has fantastic taste," Logan excuses, a shoulder lifting, falling again. "And might have heard a little bird about your dad's arrival and business endeavors in the city, that much is true. As far as what he does— I don't suppose we're talking about fine cuisine. If not that, what's he doing in New York?"
"I am sure you can figure that out on your own." Marie gives him a smile, though it is a weak expression even with any such vibes between them. Pierre goes from his own feathers to preening the hair at the curve of Marie's cheek. "Oh, make no mistake. He is very serious about his restaurants."
"And he is just as serious about other certain things. Certain people. Certain things he wants to do to certain people." She lifts her brows a little, tucking in her lower lip at the same time. Mmm.
Logan's hand sort of waves a little in the air as if in rhythm with her words, stepping around to lean a hip against a nearby covered table, and upon extracting his hand from a pocket, he brings with it a silver cigarette case, thumbing it open. "Now there's some mincing words if I ever did hear them," is mock-scolding, bringing the case up to pick a cigarette out by the filter with pearly white teeth, a flash of a smile in the gesture. "But I suppose it's only fair.
"Want?" In the interest of sharing, the nestled row of bone white cancer sticks is offered out towards here, his own still trapped between teeth and weaving along with syllables. "I'll work on why he's in New York, then. What about you, love? What brings you?"
Marie lifts a hand, to pass on the tobacco. Pierre is probably glad. "He is her for his business, I am here for him." Her fingers lift the rest of the way to find the bird's feathery neck, tickling. "…Someone has to keep an eye on him, after all." For his own good, she seems to imply.
Click, goes the case, curtly snapped shut and exchanged for a light, Logan going through the ritual of touching flame to tip in practiced motions. Hopefully this will be the soon to be smoking section. "That sounds like something of a task. Especially after he's gone and put so much money into a place with particularly fierce competition. Worried?"
"Of course I am." Marie folds her hands down into her lap, chin lifting and eyes looking outward to the empty dining room. When the girl looks back to Logan, her lips have thinned together, and for a split second she exudes nothing but pride.
"But he has beaten the same old dog before. What is once more?" And before her expression sticks, it dissipates.
"A dog fight. That's interesting." Taking his weight off the table, Logan strolls forward a step, a glance dealt to the bird who, might like daughter to restaurant owner, might be a kind of guardian, but it doesn't have him backing up all the same. "You know, New York's a bit different since your old man saw the place, or so I can fathom. Bit rougher round the edges but not for anything that a certain Daniel Linderman's gone and done."
A flick of cigarette has ash and ember rather rudely floating to the thin carpeting. "Used to be that the streets were fought over — people die in the crossfire've that kind of thing. Since then, some individuals have been put in their place, and things are running nicely. 'bout as nice as it can get, anyway. If he's not careful, Gideon's going to be made to step back in line too.
"Doesn't have to be that way, 've course," he adds, bringing filtertip back to his mouth.
"My father is not one to back down." Marie sounds sad about this, if anything. "He says he wants to fix something else that's been ruined. Though I believe him, only to an extent." This time, as Logan gets closer, Pierre picks up his head from his activity and perks his yellow crest into the air, beak open somewhat.
"He won't say it, but they taught each other everything either of them know. They were brothers, once. I don't see this ending as uneventfully as you sound like you want it to." She also sounds sad about this part, looking up to John with a sigh, fingers picking up the wooden toy from the table.
"It doesn't have to be that way either, but alpha dogs are alpha dogs."
A shrug seems more like a shiver, but certainly a definite gesture, only understated. "Alpha dogs should stick to their own territory, or people tend to get hurt," Logan points out, and his voice is kept at a deliberate softness, for all that hardcut lines of a tailored suit at, what, 4 PM, an icy kind of stare and tresspassing might not lend themselves as indicators towards altruistic motives. The bird's show of aggression gets a raised eyebrow. What? "Dogs included.
"Would you mind awfully if I gave you my number?" There's that same flush, again, dictated behind green eyes, and a slighter push without the use of skin contact — but there. Cigarette clasped between teeth, a business card is extracted from a flipped open wallet — a glossy black think with pink font reading 'Burlesque', smaller, white fine print with his contact details.
It's offered out, other hand plucking cigarette back from between his teeth. "I don't suspect you're very new in town, but…"
Marie lifts her hand to put it onto the bird's shoulder, the creature huddling into her fingers defensively. She reaches out to take the card from him, her eyes hooded and her posture impeccable even in such casual conversation. She looks over the card once- twice- three times before she gets around to commenting again.
"You're not the first sharp-dressed man to do this." She looks at him sidelong, then to Pierre's beak in her periphery. "Don't let him catch you so much as talking to me, John Logan. I'm not overstating when I say he would rip your arms off. He almost took off mister Zarek's head, a few weeks back." The young woman does pause though, looking him over again, more knowingly this time for some unknown reason.
"But what?"
It could be masochism that has his smile spreading wide at her warning, but probably not. It doesn't dim when she adds that last example, but it's a clear diversion, interest sparking behind Logan's pale eyes as he compulsively follows that with, "Oh did he? Well. Even our side's been tempted to take off Mister Zarek's head now and again." Card delivered, Logan gives her space, rounding a few steps back towards where he came. "And you won't be the first pretty girl I've given my number to.
"But I think you might be the most interesting." This week, at least. "But, it can't hurt to show you round the place— you should give me a ring sometime. A good time aside, you might find it useful to have something of a lifeline should shit hit the fan. As for Gideon, I can take care of myself."
"If you say so." Marie smiles softly back at him; what she is putting her answer to context with is not clear- it could be all of it, part of it. But the resounding fact is that Marie d'Sarthe is very self-assured. With good reason? Perhaps. Is she naive? Perhaps. Or, just maybe, she is confident out of intelligence gathered. Whatever the case may be, she does not seem all too wary of John Logan.
"I am sure I will see you again, mister Logan. I hope you find your pussycat."
It could be masochism that has his smile spreading wide at her warning, but probably not. It doesn't dim when she adds that last example, but it's a clear diversion, interest sparking behind Logan's pale eyes as he compulsively follows that with, "Oh did he? Well. Even our side's been tempted to take off Mister Zarek's head now and again." Card delivered, Logan gives her space, rounding a few steps back towards where he came. "And you won't be the first pretty girl I've given my number to.
"But I think you might be the most interesting." This week, at least. "But, it can't hurt to show you round the place— you should give me a ring sometime. A good time aside, you might find it useful to have something of a lifeline should shit hit the fan. As for Gideon, I can take care of myself."
"If you say so." Marie smiles softly back at him; what she is putting her answer to context with is not clear- it could be all of it, part of it. But the resounding fact is that Marie d'Sarthe is very self-assured. With good reason? Perhaps. Is she naive? Perhaps. Or, just maybe, she is confident out of intelligence gathered. Whatever the case may be, she does not seem all too wary of John Logan.
"I am sure I will see you again, mister Logan. I hope you find your pussycat."
Another smile, suppressed and small and almost young. "I'm sure it will find me first," Logan dismisses, before a wave of a hand gives her something of a parting gesture, cigarette smoke trailing after it, before he turns on a heel and heads for the door, smile swift to vanish. By the time he's rounded the corner, his pace is picked up, leaving only dusty footprints in his wake and a discarded cigarette butt tossed aside.