OOC Information: All information is considered Out-Of-Character until you learn it through In-Character means.
Content Warning: Descriptions of horrific crimes listed below - user discretion advised.
It's the Cubs at Pittsburgh, so the sound is off because no one is really going to admit to watching the Northie team, or at least caring about it. Deirdre is up behind the bar, keeping glasses filled and dropping orders for the regulars who are eating up at the bar rather than sitting at one of the booths or tables. Stan Rogers is currently on the sound system and the red head sings along with Northwest Passage without even realizing she's doing so as she works.
Having cleaned up better then he has been in weeks with a large hole being burned in his pocket, Townsend has found himself a nice looking bar where hopefully no one asks what he does for a living. A quiet table and two orders of cheese fries and cheap beer later... he could get used to life like this.
Through door walks local Chicago Police legend and man-about-town, Riley Haren, sergeant in the honorable service, and he looks like someone beat him half to death with his own puppy. A face hanging low, mood to match, he tosses his cigarette out before clearing the door, waving the smoke away with a vaguely apologetic look to Deirdre. "Sorry, sorry," he mutters, then cozies up to the bar for a moment, wincing before he shakes his head. "Ah, fuck it, can't do it. Hip's givin' me six kinds of Hell again." He sighs, then dismounts, heading for a table.. right next to Townsend's own.
"Deirdre, darlin', love of my shattered life," he calls out, his tone morose and faux-jubilant, "Put a man outta his mercy, bring him a pitcher of the cool stuff an' a tray-a pretzels, darlin', please?" He smiles, and looks ever the part of the forgotten hero. It seems it hasn't been a great week for him, after all.
"Tracing one warm line, through a land so wide and sav-" Deirdre gets cut off mid idle singing, flushing a bit as she realizes she's been doing it again. "Has no one warned you, Riley, not to say such things round here? My brother might hear you and get ideas. Or worse, my father." she says with a merry tease that fades a bit as she starts the pour and the order. "You should be going back to the physical therapist." she advises seriously and with a deal of concern before making her way over with the pint. There's a small 'good customer service' smile for the other patron nearby, but since the server already helped him the red-head's attention passes back to Riley. "No good news?" She asks, sotto voce as she looks at the papers and then back to the cop.
Townsend makes very fake looking yawn and props his head on his left arm in a very pathetic attempt to cover his gang tats. He makes a point to find a great deal of interest in the finer aspects of his cheese fries. The voice in his head is nearly screaming, "Play it cool, he ain't here for you yet," so loud he thinks that the nice bartender can probably hear it.
"He. Said. WHAT?!" Deirdre drops the tray on the table with a bit of a bang, eyes sparking and her hands coming to her hips. "What an absolute load. He's just pissed that he didn't catch it and you know EXACTLY what he's goin' to do, he's going to bring it up as if it was his own idea first chance he can slide it in to look his best what an UTTER bastard move." and then she reaches down and pulls up the pictures he's put down. "Gimme." she says, squinting at them with such ire in her gaze such that one might wonder how they don't go up in flames. All of which gives another reason not to disturb 'our Deirdre'.
Happily accepting the pitcher and glass, Riley nods to Deirdre. "Aye, he's a ratfuck of old, that one," he says coolly, then he raises his eyebrows at her sudden fury. "Easy now, no sense laying into a poor, wounded-dove of a flatfoot, hmm?" He flashes a quick, pained grin, then he pushes more of the photo gallery towards Deirdre. "I've looked over these photos and all that I can see is the face of six devils escaped from Hell itself." Then he looks to Townsend with renewed interest suddenly. "You there, sailor. Come, sit with me. Else I chase you, we both come to regret it." He doesn't smile; and like a lot of Chicago locals, isn't fucking around when he makes a sentiment like that aloud, not in this bar.
Deirdre apparently has a lightning temper. Quick to strike, but then gone with a distant rumble once it's over. "Nah, don't make monsters out of them, Riley. They're people. We shouldn't make monsters or saints out of them, because then we forget we could be 'em too." she points out and then she gestures to Townsend to take the seat across from Riley. "You heard him, and it's in your best interest, or else you won't be getting that bread pudding with whiskey glaze." She throws down the pictures she saw Townsend react to most, Noboru Takiwa and Papa Lanmou.
Finishing the beer he was drinking all at once, Townsend grabs the other beer and the fresh basket of fries and slides over to where he was directed to. He places the basket of fries directly over Noboru's picture saying, "That motherfucker IS a fucking demon. Sickest fuck north of I80. And his picture ruins my appetite." Taking another pull off the new beer he looks at the cop with poorly disguised hate for a moment before relaxing.
Townsend raises his chin in a nod toward the departing police officer and says, "That pig going to pull me in on some trumped up shit I ain't do?"
Deirdre watches Riley go and then turns back to her new companion, upnodding to one of the servers to take over for her as she's stuck here for the moment. "Riley? Nah. He's a good 'un." she pauses and then "As they go. I've no illusions, but he really means to have this solved and is open to any sort of real help... why're you so nervous about a dead man?" she asks, poking her hair behind her ears and gazing thoughtfully.
He looks around nervously as if anyone else could hear and care what he says, "Look, you ain't dumb, I know you know what I've done... its literally tattooed on my neck. That guy makes ME look like a fucking saint. He caged a girl in his basement and made her..." he stops talking and turns green at the memory of it "Fuck that guy." He drinks again quietly and doesn't offer more.
The bathroom door swings open slowly and Riley emerges, his hands damp and drying them on his pants. Ever the gentleman-scholar, he limps to the table and settles in, glancing to Deirdre then to Townsend. "The two of you look like you've taken turns trying to shit out Legos," he says, clearly an erudite man, as well. "So, stranger - your name, and how you know any of these wretched souls?" Then he gestures to the photo gallery. "Come what may, a man who works, be it on either side of the law, and minds himself accordingly, it's a living being done, and if you so choose to chase dope, well.." He raises his pint glass to Townsend. "To that I say: your grave's awaiting sooner than mine." He then takes a drink, never looking away from Townsend.
Sneering at the cop's obvious enjoyment, Townsend straightens his back a bit, trying to recover himself. "I ain't no fuckin snitch, you got me? But I don't think it counts if you ain't human. The black dude with the pussy accent is just your run-of-the-mill like me as far as I know. Its Noboru that that that....you guys ever see that whackjob in Silence of the Lambs? The fuckin wierdo, uhh, uhhh, Bill. Yeah, Noboru could give Bill some tips on being fucking psycho evil." He looks again at Dierdre as if to prove he is only willing to trust so far.
Townsend quickly adds, "Townsend is my name."
Deirdre ahems softly to Riley, and there's a bit of her mother in her even now because what comes out next is "Language." even though she was spurting some choice words of her own just a few moments ago... but that was in anger. And then she looks to Townsend, her gaze knowing but patient since he's told her something but she's not going to speak up for him.. at least not yet. He's given his own chance to speak up. She does add "I don't think it counts if he's dead, either?"
Holding his hands up, Riley puts on an apologetic face, shrugging his shoulders to her. "Mea culpa, sweetness," he says, then he cuts his eyes back to Townsend. "Townsend, then. Good on ya. No shame for rattin' on the dead, an' unlike our Deirdre, myself - I *do* believe in devils who wear the flesh of men." He angles his head, then slides three of the photos in front of him, furrowing his brow, then selects the eldest gentleman from the array.
"This one," he says, tapping it with his index finger. "The 'pussy accent'.." He then glances to Deirdre. "His words, not mine!" he adds with a brief, impassioned tone, then glances back to Townsend. "It's Haitian. Our man-slash-demon, he ran a death squad like a white boy runs a Kinko's. A one-man war crime trial, waitin' t' happen, and thanks to the Heads-and-Hands Man, never will." Then he gestures between Deirdre and Townsend. "So, this isn't some run-of-the-mill street gossip, Townsend, and our Deirdre, she wouldn't lie to an honest flatfoot. Plan to tell the tale of how you have dirt on him, or shall I ask her, and see if ol' Tommy wants to go for a bit of a terrifying-the-Townsend sort of jog tonight?" His smile spreads like oil across his face.
Looking at Deirdre as if not at all convinced that dead is far enough away Townsend sighs and says, "Look, I promised her I would tell anyone who she was and I don't plan on welshing that." He looks apologetically and adds, "But, dude, he caged her in the basement and made her eat her dead boy... the guy next to her. It was all at his house, I was just looking for, you know.. what happened to him." Again, the terrible liar that he is makes his omission quite pointless. "I don't know him if that's what you were thinking, I took a few jobs from him and you know... he paid well. I was looking for more cash when he got it."
Deirdre swallows thickly, because the grossest thing she see's on a yearly basis is the bathrooms on St. Patty's Day. And sure she listens to the true crime podcasts, but they're never a guy who knew a guy /right there/. "The girl got away?" she asks, green-gilled and incredulous.
"His illnesses ran deeper than even I could have guessed," Riley says, then drinks about half of his beer in a single swallow, belching quietly into his fist before continuing. "So, Townsend, then. You come callin' on this.. this man-unlike-we-men, and you.. jus' happen across a girl in a cage, age unknown, an' she's dined poorly.. all at his guidance, insistence, necessity?" He furrows his brow, not quite at the accusation stage - although it is likely close at hand. "Tell me about the work you did, as well. That may save your wretched soul and your narrow ass, Townsend, so feel liberal with the details. Each is worth time away from the jailer's lament."
"Fuck you, man, I just played cover him; I didn't know shit at the time." He frowns and mutters an apology before continuing, "I mean, people who don't pay up get bad deals, okay? I was just there to make sure no one bothered them." The implied 'no one, LIKE YOU' being obvious. "How could I have known it was like that? Like seriously, he made home movies and jerked off to them. He did whack shi-...he was like torturing people and stuff and was droppin' first kids into tissues just replaying it. You gotta understand we all thought he was just, ya know, like it was business or something. Had I known what I know now I'd have probably killed him myself." He gives a sheepish look at that last comment. "I'm serious he, he had like a whole torture setup thing in his basement and she was the lucky one who was next on the chopping block but I think he got whacked before she got her turn."
Deirdre frowns a bit, blinking to Riley's lyricism in bogglement for a moment and then listening to the absolute firehose of horror coming from Townsend. She licks her lips then and then looks to the cop. "Specific revenge? Did the girl get out before, or after, he died?"
Riley stares at Townsend, then gives a soft, subtle nod to him; whatever comes next, it seems that the cop isn't interested in hooking-and-booking the man. "Someone like that," he says quietly, "He could no more stop himself from torturin' strangers than he could from waxing his dolphin in privacy." Then he glances to Deirdre. "I'm guessin' she got captured, then our man, he was taken to pieces, and she languished in whatever .. place.. he did his dirty business." The beer is then emptied and he pours out not one, but two pints, sliding one toward Townsend. "What junkies do to each other in the dark, it's none of my business, Townsend, and you'd be well to remind yourself of this. Even my little brother, Joseph Martell Halen, I've broken the jaw of, for he peddled weed too close to the schools." He smirks slightly. "And it's made every holiday dinner since all the more awkward, believe in that." He then sighs, closing his eyes, rubbing them with his thumb and index finger. "So. This.. woman. Girl. Lady. Tell me of how it worked - where she was kept, how long, things of that nature. There's blanks needin' filled in, y'see." He then looks to Deirdre. "Are you sure you want to hear such nightmares, Deirdre? Neither he nor I would think less of you for walkin' away, keepin' what purity you have." He sounds.. almost depressed saying those words.
Townsend nods in agreement with his last statement, "It doesn't get prettier from here." Looking at Deirdre, "She got away cause I think she'd been keeping herself alive on on the guy when I found her. I got her out and we both bailed on that place."
Deirdre pinches her lips together and then nods. "yeah... I know when to peace out.. but let me know if there's any figuring that might need done, Riley." she says as she gets up and makes her way back over to the bar, because there are some things she knows better than to be curious about. But later on, two bread puddings with whiskey sauce do show up unbidden to the table. In to go containers, just in case there's no appetite at the moment. Because life needs to have /some/ sweetness.
At seeing Deirdre depart, Riley turns to watch her, then cuts his gaze back to Townsend. "She's a good girl, our Deirdre," he says coolly, "And I'll not see her brought into harm's way, not by the likes of you nor I." There's a sage-like nod that follows this. "This girl, whomever she is, I'm sensing she's close to the fruits of your particular vine, Townsend, and that's a short list, indeed - some math homework on my side, then some asking-about, I'll know who she is, soon enough." He smirks slightly.
"Your name may not come up, though she may suss out who said what to whom." He offers a subtle shrug. "Yet, you've been most forthcomin', an' that, dear Townsend, is the coin of the realm. Decency and integrity, even through hate-clenched teeth, is enough for me." He rises to his feet, intercepting the delivery of the bread pudding before he slides a fiver to the waitress dropping it into his hot little hand. Turning to collect his photos, he nods down to Townsend. "Dwell on many thoughts, my young son, and know this - if you remain forthcoming and demonstrate integrity, I will see that the man behind the junkie survives longer than if he didn't have my good graces to count on for the time being." As he walks away, he adds airily, "My forgiveness, however, is a little lackin'. Do keep it in mind, Townsend." There's a short, harsh chuckle and he's hobbled off, destined for the outside world and the secrets it holds.
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