Participants:
| Scene Title | Versatile |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Caliban gives Logan some more "side work". |
| Date | August 27, 2009 |
Burlesque — Manager's Office
Unmarked manila envelopes are something that Logan is rapidly becoming accustomed to. All of his business with Linderman is concealed behind dark brown paper and contained by a fold-back clasp fashioned from soft, malleable metal that bends easily between his fingers. The man sitting on the other side of his desk this Thursday evening has one such envelope in his hand, though he doesn't intend to keep it in his possession for much longer.
"Mr. Linderman would like to thank you for what you've done so far with Burlesque," Caliban is saying as he slides the envelope across the desk toward Logan with two fingers, "but there's some side work that needs doing, and after taking a look at the file I recommended you for the job. To be completely frank, it seemed like something that was right up your alley."
It won't be the first file and it certainly won't be the last, but they're no less vaguely intimidating. Logan doesn't outwardly hesitate when he goes to slide the envelope the rest of the way across the desk towards himself, just braces himself to see if there's another Niki Sanders inside, bending back the clasp and letting the pages whisper open with a flick of his thumb. And there certainly isn't, his eyes wandering over the photograph paperclipped to the pristine white pages, printed with intelligence that he doesn't bother skimming just yet.
"What's my alley, then?" he asks, with visible uncertainty, not looking back up at Caliban as he peruses. Music is filtering up through the floorboards, an ambience Logan is well used to. There's nothing particularly vaudeville about it, the kind of grinding techno designed for night clubs of this kind, and only makes itself known to them in the deepest of its baseline that is more vibration than music.
"Mr. Linderman used to employ a man named Mortimer Jack. I don't suppose you've heard of him, even out on the Island. Leader of the Locos, made the evening news a handful of times. Notoriously unstable individual, or at least he used to be. And that's the problem." Caliban taps those same two fingers against his temple. "We don't like it when he's all together up here," he says. "Peace of mind, insofar as Jack's concerned, makes him difficult to work with. Impossible, actually, given that he appears to have grown a conscience and dropped off the grid entirely."
Caliban leans back in his seat, watching Logan examine the file with the critical acumen of a large tomcat whose whiskers have begun to grow gray. "If you could bring him back to us, Mr. Linderman would be very appreciative."
Logan sits back in his comfortable office chair, bringing the file with him to angle against the edge of the antique desk he's secured for himself, legs crossing at the knees beneath it. "Dunno, sounds familiar." There's something said, there, that has the younger man look up with a vaguely guarded expression, gaze switching from the tap of Caliban's fingers to his temple and back towards the man's eyes, then down again to the file.
"Looks like you've got someone looking for 'im," he notes, after clearing his throat, his own fingers being used to scroll down the text in front of him as if scans, pausing beneath Miranda's name. "So— if he's impossible to work with, what with his new conscience and all, what's the use?"
"The nice thing about your ability, Mr. Logan, is that it's versatile." Caliban offers him a tight smile, no teeth, a slight tic at one corner of his upturned mouth. "I've included some reading material that you might find useful, if you feel so inclined. I would, were I in such a position to broaden my horizons."
It's either a threat or a very strong suggestion — Logan can't be entirely sure. Trying to read Caliban is one of those things that's trickier than puzzling out a Rubex Cube. His body language is always shifting, readjusting to organize itself into contrasting patterns. "To put it crudely, and you'll forgive me my language, I'd like you to see if you can't fuck him up."
Some ellipses go by, the silent punctuation underscored by the vibrating hum of a bass beat, before Logan is cautiously flipping over more pages to glance at the reading material Caliban's included. What he sees is something a lot like homework, and he takes a few seconds to pick up a few keywords, before he closes the file shut. There's a better time and place to interpret such information and process it, and not during a meeting.
The file is placed back down on the desk, a furrow in Logan's brow as he considers the other man. Eventually, he asks, "You think? I mean— " Fingertips drum against the edge of the desk - he'd like a drink or a cigarette to fidget and ponder over, but doesn't go about attaining either. "I've never really tried. Not like that."
"You ought to," says Caliban, and this time it is a suggestion. "I'm surprised it hadn't occured to you before, but I don't suppose your educational background really lends itself to— well. I don't mean to offend, of course. There's no shame in it, and I don't judge." Blue eyes flick between Logan's face, the file and the back again, scrutinizing. This is either exactly the reaction he'd been anticipating, or the complete opposite.
He rises from his seat, hands slid into the pockets of his pinstripe slacks, his movements slow and measured. Precise. "Can I trust you not to experiment on anyone but our friend Mr. Jack in the meantime? I don't expect this is something you'll get a handle on overnight, but I'd like to avoid complicating the situation any more than it already is. You wouldn't believe some of the messes I've had to clean up this week."
Hooking his fingers into the delicate brass drawer handle fixed into the rich oak desk, Logan levers it open and flips the file inside for a temporary hide away, casting Caliban a glance at the mention of an educational background. "Well. They had awfully big words in school," he affects, pushing himself up to stand as the other man does, moving to step around the desk and walk with his colleague towards the door. "And you can trust me - I've been on my best behaviour so far, haven't I?"
Placing his hand on the edge of the door, he pushes it open, but doesn't yet get out of Caliban's way, turning back to him with his other hand on his hip, a look of icy consideration being directed up towards the other man's face. But whatever question was on the younger man's tongue seems to dissolve like so much high content alcohol, so, speaking of which—
"C'mon, then, I'll buy you a drink before you're off."
There's a lot to think about, after all, and it's best done over a gin on the ice while watching a woman named Karamel swing herself around a pole.