Participants:
| Scene Title | You'll Do Until I Find A Replacement |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Ina checks in to her new residence and place of employment. |
| Date | April 22, 2010 |
A flashy little strip club, its name advertised in bright neon pink above the door in swooping cursive, with the figure of a woman outlined in the same seeming to kick a leg with each flash of the light. Two bouncers stand by the door, which is a reflective chrome and stays closed unless opened by the security duo, with a red carpeting extending out onto the pavement. They will check you for I.D. before permitting you entrance. You'll be greeted by a woman in full burlesque regalia, with exaggerated makeup, a corset that barely keeps everything in, fishnets and feathers. Provided you can pay the cover charge, she will show you to a table, offer to get your first drink of the evening, and leave you alone to enjoy what Burlesque has to offer.
The main room's focal point is the generous stage, a circular platform with Broadway lights around the edges, and a catwalk that extends further out into the scattered round tables where patrons can sit and drink. The lights that shine down on it are never particularly clear, often shards of pink, green, blue, which hide as much as they reveal. There is almost always a dancer on the stage, even as even more girls move around the room to give more intimate shows on tabletops. There's a long bar that crawls along one side of the room, with a couple of bartenders behind it, a counter of black glass with rows and rows of liquor on display on glass shelves. Leather booths are tucked away towards the back, offering some privacy for whatever purpose.
Despite the proposed theme of the club, impressions of burlesque only factor in with the permanent staff and particular shows of featured dancers. Otherwise, the tunes are standard for any kind of strip club, and the girls will wear what they like. There are private lounges for more expensive, personal shows, and a darkly lit, obscured staircase leading up to both dressing rooms and the manager's office.
The yellow light of the office snaps on, flooding the tidily spacious strip club office with focused light to show off a neglected workspace. Antique furniture crowds in, all dark and solid woods, from the heavy oak desk to the old fashioned cabinets and their copper decorative handles, an Iranian rug stretched out on the hardwood floor and a black and white poster of one Marylin Monroe framed on the wall. Vertical blinds cover the window from the encroaching nighttime, and there's a trapped smell of stale cigarette smoke and cologne in the air.
Logan is contributing to it with a fresh cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth as he shuffles his way inside. After leading Ina through the dark and empty strip club, he doesn't invite her in nor ask her to stay outside as he moves on up to the desk, hands out to shuffle through the mess accumulated on the surface.
"Zarek did say we're closed for the winter, didn't he?" he asks gruffly without a glance back. He's had been days, weeks, whatevers. He's had worse ones too and probably dressed better — right now, he's in it for practicality. It's too cold for designers whose idea of winter wear means a cowl-necked mohair sweater. The building is not warm enough inside for Logan to shuck his arctic coat, though the fur-lined hood has since been tossed back and the scarf allowed to hang loose. The jewel-toned sweater beneath is only partially visible, and worn patches in jeans show a layer of black cotton beneath the denim.
Smoke hisses out from beneath his teeth as he briskly removes his cigarette from his mouth to accommodate a small fit of coughing. Not only does the winter seem ongoing, so does the illness.
"Zarek said as much. But what comes from on high, is never ignored. I think they're banking on the weather turning to spring soon, real soon, either way, I'm supposed to report to you and lend you my expertise and experience as a floor manager for however long it is that they need me shoved here"
Here being the club. Behind him she follows, red woolen coat, layers beneath, knee high lined boots to deal with the cold and there's a glance to the smoke then away. "Don't consider it an insult to the way you run things. I'm here on a paid vacation. For lack of a better place to stuff me apparently" Like maybe tossing her back to Las Vegas or sticking her in some other building or hotel in a room. It's not like there's other cities and countries that the Linderman Group has contacts and business's in.
"Mmhm." Distracted, Logan reclamps the cigarette between his teeth as he searches through his desk, pausing when he comes across a loose, single sheet of paper he apparently doesn't recognise from the way his brow tips in confusion, pale eyes darting to read it. Exhaling curls of smoke from nostrils, he kind of stops, glances around the place as if expecting to see something even more unusual, before hurriedly folding the page and slipping it into his back pocket.
It was addressed to 'Englishman'. More than likely, it's for him.
Moving to start rooting through his desk drawers, whatever he was searching for has turned into a venture of discovering if anything is missing. The gold-plated pistol he pulls out is still there, something he sets down on the desk in plain view, along with a half-finished bottle of vodka, a folding knife, and a lock box which is simply rattled before set back down into a drawer. "Been meaning to get rid of the floor manager anyway," he says, as if remembering her presence as he goes to sit down, clamping his cigarette back between fingers.
A judgmental glance up and down, before he gives a shrug that rustles the padded, fur-lined fabric of his coat. "You'll do while I find a replacement if the snow's even cleared by then. And you need a place to stay? Who on earth did you piss off?"
"If you tell me I can stay in your pants, you'll soon find your scrotum hightailing it up into your abdomen Logan, in a fear response" She smiles when she says it, taking up a seat, perching on the edge of his desk and poking fingers at the stuff he's pulling out and putting down. "You're guess is as good as mine but Manny and Dixon are supposed to be watching my back. It concerns Mister Linderman, and what he wants, he gets. Surely you know that by now. So, I go where he tells me and if he tells me to come work your floor, then I work your floor"
The gold plated pistol is glanced at, then up to him as one defined manicured brow is lifted. Who carries gold plated weapons. "On that note. I need your help, and there's money in it for you, five grand and a chance to pull one over on Mister Lindermans favorite Cajun. You interested?"
A hand defensively spiders over the golden 9 mil, collecting it back up with his fingers twisting around it appropriately, a light touch on the trigger though the safety remains on. There's no explanation forthcoming about who carries gold-plated weaponry and why he happens to be, simply leans forward so he can tuck it into his waistband, beneath his coat. Out of the other things he's set out, he doesn't protest the touching — with the letter and the gun secured, the rest is just stuff.
"I like money," he agrees, clearing his throat in a vain attempt to remove the scratch from his voice, setting back into his chair once more with a hand up to scratch his slightly unshaven jaw. "And I've probably done worse for less." Has done worse for less. "What's the help?"
"Zarek has bet that your best dancer can out earn me one night, on the stage by fifty percent." There's a little cocky grin on Ina's face, lips pressed primly together and the corners up. "I told him, I could out earn your best. Though I didn't list percentage. It won't happen until a the club is back open, but I've already secured the assistance of someone else, and an influx of customers to wit, they will tip nicely myself, and your best."
Forefinger and middle finger march across the front of his desk, to pick up a pen and twirl it between both hands. "But I like ensuring that any bet I make, will succeed. Five grand, is a nice penny, and half of the bet between Zarek and myself. What do you think you could do, to help ensure an outcome in my favor"
Logan's eyes are a little icy and narrowed as she explains, but his expression soon softens at the prospect of an influx of customers. From the dwindling flow of both clientele and girls willing to work in these conditions, a pick me up isn't such a bad prospect.
Fingers curled beneath his jaw and elbow resting on the arm of the luxe office chair. "Best I could suggest is stir a little competition among the girls," he says, after a moment's thought. "Get them trying to out earn each other during my best's set and they'll drain up what cash you've dragged in. Fair's fair, though — you'll have to do it on separate nights unless you think a coin toss will spare you a set of fingernail scratches across the face.
"It won't, by the way. You do realize that Zarek'll probably consider it a victory in a first place that he's got you wiggling around on stage, yeah?" There's a suggestion of a smile, before he goes to crush out his cigarette.
"Likely, and if so, it's a boost to my ego, to be considered worth ten grand just to flit around a stage. That and I'm a woman who won't back down from something she knows she can win" Separate nights though, interesting, doable. "And I know how to deal with other womens claws. You don't come out of Vegas and not have dealt with a vicious bitch or two. Besides, it's amazing how much money can soothe said women. Now, residence."
The pen is put down, hands resting on her thigh and twisting to look at him. "He spoke of rooms above here, but it's downright fucking cold. I don't do cold. Should I be going back to him and demanding a different place to stay? Or is there actual heat in this place and a place to stay? I don't mind paying him a visit again. No offense, but this isn't my kind of … place to stay long term."
"But if Mister Linderman says," Logan says, pitching his voice up in mimicry of her's, before shrugging, a hand up to rub tiredly around his eyesockets as if to try and quell the ache there from whatever fever makes his skin shine beneath the light. "If you don't do cold, I suggest you hightail it back to your desert out west, my dear, because I've got a feeling their telling you white lies about the snow clearing up soon. If you don't mind taking me with you, I can be your carry on."
Picking out the silvery set of keys he's located in his drawer (in between the gun and the booze), he dangles it from his finger like bait from a hook, holding it out to her. "There's an apartment. The wallpaper's ugly and it's a fucking shoebox of a space but there's a thermostat, so you're in luck. No way in from inside the business though, you'll have to take the fire escape, which you can do from the parking lot or just out the corridor."
"If only the planes were flying" She mourns, taking the keys from him. "I'll try to not shudder at the walls Logan. Maybe you can get that best girl in to have her teach me a few of her moves. Something to pass the time while we wait and to help me size up the competition." The metal key is turned over in her hand, shape traced by her scarlet fingernails. "Other than that, I think I can endure, for the sake of staying alive. Wouldn't be nice to have a painting come true after all the hard work and investment they put in me:
One shaped eyebrow goes up at that last statement, with a haughty cynicism that would look better on a man less sickly than he is. "Oh yes," Logan says, with slithery sarcasm that escapes his mouth likely before he can think about them, "goodness knows where Zarek and Linderman will get another pretty face in a tight skirt in this city, or Vegas. Such a rare breed, you are." He kicks up his feet to rest them on the edge of the desk, taking out the letter he's picked up before to peruse now.
"Oh" There's a pout thrown his way. "You wound me Logan. Straight for the heart" She slides off his desk, straightening her jacket, key's clutched in hand. "Same could be said for you. But then again, it seems like he is fond of employing those with accents. I'll get out of your hair so you can read your love notes" One eyelid closes in a slow wink as she turns on her heel to make her way to the office door.
"I always did like Marilyn. You just can't find a woman these days who can touch her classic beauty"
She doesn't get a response, but her legs get some appraisal as she goes, for all that shape is hard to detect beneath winter things, but Logan's imagination in this arena is not lacking. Before she can shut the door, she might hear, "The things I do for easy money," muttered quietly, and he's probably talking about her and her wagers. He could also be talking about the Russian, whose name is traced with a fingernail, before the written note is closed.