Three Men and a Garbage Bag
| Three Men and a Garbage Bag | |
|---|---|
"Garbage is good for finding out about people. At least. It says so. In detective novels." | |
| Players |
Ethan and Solomon cross paths in front of a decaying Chatham brownstone where they get into a social struggle over...some guy's garbage? |
This is not a neighborhood where people pay a lot of attention, and so most people wouldn’t notice all the incongruities. The fellow in the coverall is tall and wearing a nondescript baseball cap that’s pulled low, over his eyes. A toolbelt is around his waist, and the black truck nearby has one of those stick-on magnet signs on it that tells anyone who gives a care that Mark’s Handyman Service is here to help someone or another. A little sort of yellow comic book bang symbol in the corner declares that Mark’s repairs are “Cheap!” There’s a number on the side. Anyone who Googles that number could find out it’s just a cell phone number, unlisted, no telling. And there is no Mark’s Handyman Service on the Google My Business Listing, but that probably doesn’t mean much. Not in this neighborhood. He walks with confidence, and a sort of predatory grace. It’s garbage day, and he’s approaching a particular house. Anyone who saw him near the garbage might assume he’s maybe cleaning up after himself on a repair or has been paid to haul something off. Or maybe, here in Chatham, most would neither care or question. He’s chosen an hour that the employed day shifters mostly have to be at work and the unemployed mostly have no reason to be out of bed yet, a time when children are already at school and the streets are pretty empty. Walk up, yoink garbage, throw it in the back of truck, drive off before anyone thinks to question. It’s a simple plan. The fellow probably expects zero-point-zero complications. Complications are one of those things that creep up behind you when you least expect. Like, say, a native of the neighborhood who is watching a single decaying brownstone from a shadowed alcove, and has been there before. One whose mind isn't dulled by poverty or drugs, and in fact is taking a very _pointed_ interest in the building that the 'repair man' is approaching, and has been for a while. Maybe this fellow wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but Solomon stirs from his little hidey hole. He doesn't look like a tough guy - approaching middle aged, receeding hairline, tall and skinny and spidery, dressed in clothing designed to blend in and draw no attention. But the blue-grey eyes stand out for a peculiar, predatory intensity. He tracks the man with them -- and when he realizes that, yep, that guy's going for the garbage, he pushes himself off the wall and starts approaching, angling to try and not be seen by the other man until he's close. Mind you, he's also trying not to be seen by anyone who might be looking out the windows of that building, so his work is cut out for him. The repair man might not be expecting complications…but that doesn’t mean he isn’t alert to them anyway. He has his hand on the bag and is hoisting it up when his hackles rise, and…spots Solomon. His own eyes are similar: blue, though with an icier tinge, and intense. Predator sizes up predator, his body language and the hard set of his jaw and shoulders all but screaming: *back off buddy, you want none of this.* He hauls the garbage bag right out like he owns it. If he can’t get away with not being noticed, this dude is going to cow the one person who has noticed. It probably won’t be that easy. But hope springs eternal in Garbage Guy’s heart. Solomon cocks his head to one side, coming to a halt with a bit of a _huff_ as he's made. He sidles just a couple more feet...to the side, so someone looking out the windows won't casually see him. His eyes, though, remain fixed on the repair man. He smiles back at the hard set of the man's jaw. Well. His teeth are showing, anyway. He doesn't seem to be carrying a weapon; his clothing is loose, but not quite enough to conceal a pistol without leaving a tell. His gaze flicks over the uniform, likely trying to assess for weaponry on the other man. When he speaks, his voice is actually low and soft; if it weren't for the eyes and the way he's clearly _seen_ the back off signs, but is choosing to ignore them, he might just be an innocent, concerned citizen. Even in this neighborhood, they exist. Probably. Either way, he tilts his chin towards the bag. "Don't think that's yours, friend. Maybe you got the wrong house for pick up?" It's very dry. The guy is doing the same weapons assessment. He’s not packing either. That coverall wouldn’t hide much. Indeed, it seems chosen to allow him to pick an entirely different tactic, if, say, a bored housewife came out to challenge him instead. It’s just a little tighter than it has to be. The look in his eye flickers between irritation and something rueful, but his own voice is low and firm. It has a hint of an accent that says he’s not native to Chicago, but the local cadences have woven their way into his speech too, which means he’s been here awhile. “Yeah, buddy? What’s it to you?” Solomon's accent is pure Chicago, but it's also light enough that suggests maybe he's worked to tamp it down, or lived somewhere else for long enough to dull the edges. "Neighborhood Watch." The only saving grace of that blatant lie is that he clearly doesn't expect the guy in the coverall to believe it, and doesn't even try to sell it. Instead, his gaze flicks back to the bag. "What are you expecting to find in there, exactly? These identities aren't worth stealing; you'll only make a bad situation worse for them. Try three doors down to the south if you're that hard up for it." The skeptical eyebrow is already rising, but then Solomon takes the questions in a refreshingly frank and unexpected direction. A flicker of surprise at ‘stealing identities’ as if that was the furthest from his mind. “My interest,” he says carefully, “is making a bad situation better. You a PI? You’re not a cop, you’d have had my ass on the ground by now if you were.” The hostility and attempt to intimidate Solomon away has been wiped away by…simple curiosity really. A tilt of his head, a furrow of his brow. Now Solomon is someone to figure out. Solomon makes a noise. It's brief, wordless, and thoughtful. Like the response wasn't what he expected, either, and now he's also a bit confused. It doesn't stop him from resorting to gentle sarcasm, of course. "Ah, yes. Garbage thieves are known for their altruism and positive intentions. However could I have misunderstood?" It almost seems reflexive, though, as the rest of him chews over the problem the man presents. "And you're not a PI, either, which was my second guess." His eyes flicked to the truck, then back. There's the thinnest of smiles. "Most PIs can't afford to trick out a van like that, anyway. And no, I'm not a PI and I'm definitely not a cop." He folds his arms over his skinny chest, posture a bit more casual, although there's still something of predatory alertness to it. "What 'bad situation' are you trying to address, Mister...?" He leaves the fill-in-the-blank with a hopeful little silence. “Baby,” Ethan says with sudden, huffy, dignity, “is a *truck.* Tricked out? That sign’s twenty one dollars at Vistaprint, man.” Though the 2016 F-150 is in pretty good shape and is way too shiny clean for this neighborhood. He catches himself. None of that is stuff he should be admitting, but it comes out of his mouth anyway. As of it’s even *relevant.* He half-shakes his head at himself, like he’s calling himself nine types of moron and is aware that those words probably stole any intimidation value he ever had in this conversation ever. But maybe that’s fine. He lets go of the garbage, letting it fwump back in the can. He feels like an idiot holding it. He scrubs his hand absently along the side of his coverall, as if maybe trying to wash off garbage that probably did not power-leap through tons of black plastic. He stares at the fellow, as if trying to decide whether to give out his real name. He’s on his back foot in this conversation and he knows it, and finally lets out a flustered sigh. “Bastard’s beating his wife.” As if that explains what his involvement is in the slightest, or why he cares. “Garbage is good for finding out about people. It says so.” Grumbly, he mutter-admits: “At least. It says so. In detective novels. About PIs. Which I like.” "You named the truck. You named the truck _Baby_." The worst part is that he's not trying to be deliberately mocking; when he laughs (and he _does_ laugh) it's out of genuine, unrestrained amusement. The rest of it just makes him laugh more. He doesn't try to approach; he's still staying out of easy reach of the other man, but it's clear that the guy has fallen...about half way down the Ladder of Threat in this guy's head. Solomon rubs at his face, eyes glittering. "That's certainly one way to go about it, I suppose. Probably would have gotten away with it, too, if not for the meddling kid." A flash of a real smile, and his gaze shifts to the garbage. Now that it's back where it belongs, he seems more at ease. "Downside, you'd have to spend time looking through it to find anything useful. They've got a baby, you know. Smeared baby food from one end, smeared shit from the other. What's worth spending your time doing that?" It’s clear Ethan thinks he’s slid down the threat ladder *too,* because he looks really embarrassed and sort of ducks his head and flushes and rubs the back of his neck. Solomon’s *vivid* description has him wincing and pulling a face like no, no it’s *not* worth it. But then he sighs. Closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Mutters something that’s hard to catch…not in English. Steels himself. Steels his expression. It’s earnest but it’s determined even as he looks at that bag like he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. And then he says something…odd. Crazy, even. In tones so resigned you’d think he was a man staring at a flogging post with his name on it but with no way to avoid it. “I have to.” Solomon was enjoying this until that last phrase. He was smiling, and watching the younger man duck his head and flush like this was his idea of a good time. But then the smile cuts off. He takes a casual look around, for anyone paying too much attention to the two white guys talking around the garbage can of all places. But Ethan chose a good time of day to pull his heist, and so far, no one has shown any unusual interest. So when he turns back, Sol gives Ethan his full attention. "Have is a strong word to use. Somebody holding something over your head? You afraid of something?" This man has an expressive face no matter how much he tries *not* to have an expressive face. He tries for this fixed sort of stoicism and ends up broadcasting a dozen other things. In this case, the microexpressions broadcast that he was not prepared for this conversation, doesn’t know how to get out of it. A square of his shoulders that’s all ‘ok, I can do this.’ “No. Not fear. Look man, you wouldn’t understand. It’s…a…duty. Any explanation I could give you would just sound crazy. You obviously know these people. I…need…to investigate them. I don’t want to go through baby shit to investigate them and…” He mutters, looking up at the sky, then nods. Something about ‘exact wording’, this time. A resolute nod. “Maybe there’s another way to do it. I buy you a coffee. We do the whole name thing. You tell me about this guy. I got the address and the wifebeating thing. I don’t even know his name. You obviously have an interest, I have an interest, maybe they coincide. I leave the garbage alone, and unless you’re trying to protect…Elmer McFuckbag in there and not the lady, then maybe it works out all around, you know?” There's a _grunt_ and a sudden flash of cold, nigh-murderous fury at the mention of _wifebeating_. Solomon's got better control over his expressions than Ethan, maybe, but clearly not good enough to hide that. What he says, though, is, "All right. I'm willing to hear what you have to say. And I do like coffee. You leave the garbage alone, and you leave Deb--the lady and the kid alone, and we can talk." A look around. "I don't know where the fuck there's a coffee place around here, these days. I think Clyde's is still open. It's a diner. Food is vile, but I don't remember the coffee killing anybody." Ethan doesn’t step back from that murderous fury. He studies it. He narrows his eyes thoughtfully and studies *Solomon.* “Ethan Weaver. I’ll meet you at Clyde’s or you can ride with me, either way.” He heads for his truck without a backward glance. There’s no sense of calculated insult or anything; he’s not, say, turning his back on Solomon because he has ruled him not a threat. That loping glide just speaks to practicality…he needs his truck now, that’s where it is, so he’s going. And with the decision made, he just sees no need to push the point any further. "Solomon Jessup." Because one good (or at least non-murderous) turn deserves another. "I'll meet you there. Three blocks over to the west, look for the sign." Clearly, they are not yet in 'get in my disguised truck and trust I'm not gonna dump your body in the lake later' terms in Solomon's mind. Although he doesn't seem to have a car of his own. He watches Ethan make his way to Baby, then fades into the alleyways like a guy who knows his way around the neighborhood. At least he doesn't disappear. He makes his way quite quickly to the diner, taking advantage of shortcuts to keep his time of arrival close to what could be managed in a car. Clyde's is a tiny brick building with bars over the windows and a neon sign showing a very fat man shoveling neon food into his ginormous mouth. Ancient paint declares 'best pasta in Chicago', and if nothing else, the food appears to be popular with the roaches, because there are at least two visible on tables from the dirty window. When the truck pulls up at Clyde’s it is missing one magnetic Mark’s Handyman Service (Cheap!) sign. That’s probably been tossed into the back or something. He squints at the state of the place. Initial reaction: “Jesus Clooney Frog.” Second reaction: A low mutter of: “My own fucking fault for uttering the word ‘coffee’ in this neighborhood.” He’s ditched the hat, too, by the time he gets out of the truck and meets up with Solomon. Solomon may not have heard the remarks, but as he wanders around the corner, he proves he can read body language _just_ fine. He grins. Glances at the truck, then at Ethan. "Ah, now you look sixty percent less likely to be heading to one of those porn movies where someone purrs about getting their pipes cleaned." Hello to you, too. He does volunteer to go first, though. The little skittering vermin scatter at the sound of the tiny bell, and he walks to...what may be the cleanest table in the room, but that's a very _relational_ designation. "Don't order anything they have to cook," he mutters back to Ethan. "I am doing you a favor here." The man behind the counter is probably about eighty, with cataracts on both eyes, and only about half his teeth on a good day (bad days he probably loses a denture). He looks at them both like they're in the wrong place, but says, with a deep-seated enmity for all mankind, "Whadyawant?" Ethan flushes. It. Might not. Be the first time. Someone has made that comparison in his hearing. *Or maybe said a similar line.* Muttered beneath his breath, exasperated. “God damn it, Mrs. Haggerty.” Muttered again, something about Solomon and “maybe psychic.” So. You know. Lots of self-awareness in the Weaver corner of reality. He sits down at the Least Dubious of All Dubious tables and eyes the napkin box as if considering doing a clean-up of his own, only to discover there’s not a single goddamn napkin to be found. He blows out his cheeks and furrows his brow for a moment in response to Whadyawant, as if trying to discern if whadhewants is cooked. “Coffee?” he asks, cautious, slow, as if really not sure. “Black, hotter n’ the devil’s day off. And whatever he’s having.” Solomon can't help it. He _snickers_ at the mutters. He adds, in so pleasant a tone it probably doesn't help _anything_, "Hey, no judgement. If I were that lucky, I'd run around shirtless most of the time. Just flashing my abs at people." He very definitely said _abs_ and no other part of anatomy. Probably. To the guy behind the counter, he echoes, "Coffee. And," a quick check of the table, "sugar and cream packets. Sealed packets. And don't say you're out. I know you're not." The old man looks like he's about to unleash hell on Solomon's head, and then he leans over the counter and squints. "...Sully? I'll be goddamned. It's you, ain't it? Sully Jessup. Well, shit. Thought you'd gotten too good for us." He makes a crackling sort of cackle as he turns. "Can't wait to tell the missus that Sully's back in town." "I'd rather you didn't--" Solomon doesn't bother to complete the sentence, because the old man is clearly ignoring him while he grabs a pot of coffee and two mugs that have probably been washed before. At least once in their history. Now it's Solomon's turn to sigh, and sink down in his seat like he wishes he could just sliiiiide across the floor and disappear. Ethan leans back, thoughtful. The entire interaction between Oldster and Sully here has given him a chance to regain some footing. At least a little bit. But he seems disinterested in pressing the advantage. His expression turns serious as he sort of splays his arm across the back of his chair, leaning back, his head tilting as he makes another study. “My apologies,” he says at last. “I seem to have stumbled into your story, and found a way to complicate it.” He says that unironically and without any hint of mockery, and in a way that elevates the word story rather than trivializes it. “It truly wasn’t my intent to make your life harder today. Or anyone’s life harder.” A slight emphasis on ‘anyone’. He won’t rub having caught part of Deb’s name in Solomon’s face. Solomon dismisses the apology with a flick of his long fingers. "Forget about it," he mutters, and he's knocked off his composure enough that the accent comes out a bit more strongly and makes the words run together into one. His smile is thin and sharp. "Kinda was hoping you were aiming to make at least _one_ person's life harder," he says. Then falls quiet as the old man approaches the table with two filled mugs of coffee, and a cracked ceramic bowl that has been heaped with sugar and cream packets. The old guy reaches out and ruffles Solomon's hair, cackling when Sol makes an outraged noise and glares. The old guy walks away, laughing like a troll. Solomon makes an irritated noise and grabs packets. A distressing amount of sugar and cream go into the coffee...which is, thankfully, drinkable. It's clearly cheap, but not vile. As he stirs, Solomon assesses Ethan again. "But I appreciate the words. Still don't know what you want, but I'm guessing that asshole has gotten himself into the shit." “Well. That guy’s yeah, but he don’t count.” He considers for a long moment. “I want to scare the shit out of him and send him packing away from that lady before he does any more damage. Maybe dish out a little of what he likes dishing out.” He drums his fingers on the table. “It is,” he says at last, “something of a religious obligation, I guess. A guy like that, damage he does, it spreads. Dude was brought to my attention. I hope to run him out of town.” There’s a darker undercurrent there though. “Though if he slips and falls and never gets up again because he’s running a little too fast or meets someone in the dark that’s crueler than he is, that’s just the way it is.” And then, blunter: “Why haven’t you fucked him up yet? You want to. I can see that much in your eyes. You’re dangerous enough. Seems like this is your hunt, not mine, and the obligation to stay out of your way might outweigh the obligation to intervene.” "A religious obligation. That's a new one." Solomon...adds more cream and sugar. Until the cup is only prevented from spilling over by _surface tension_. He stares down at the dome of liquid for a while, thinking it over. "I'd love to rip the sonofabitch limb from limb and force feed him his genitalia," he remarks, pleasant and low. "But that's my sister. I _know_ her. If I chased him off, she'd chase after him. _Especially_ if _I_ chased him off. She's not...we're not..." he purses his lips together. "Family's fucking complicated." He takes a deep breath, looks up to study Ethan. "She needs to choose to leave him. If she makes that choice, I can protect her. Or fuck him up. But if she doesn't, then she's always gonna be...stuck. Right there. Even if he's dead, he'll always _be there_. You know?" He looks at Ethan like maybe he thinks the other guy _might_ know. Or maybe just hopes. There are a few ways that *he’ll always be there* can be taken, from the figurative to the literal, and Ethan nods in a way that suggests that he’s sort of encompassing all of them into his: “Yeah.” He sips his coffee, frowning thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling in the same way he did when he decided coffee, not garbage, was an acceptable way to meet the terms of whatever errand he was sent on today. He nods thoughtfully. Then decisively. “I can stay out of it,” he promises, though he was clearly *not sure* until this very moment. “But I’ve an interest now, so if you find you need something…” Ethan shrugs. “I was supposed to meet you, I think. So once coffee’s done, you’ll have my number, we’ll both do the inevitable checking up on each other, and maybe you call and maybe you don’t. A choice opened up that you didn’t have before, but one that is yours to make all the same.” Solomon thinks that over. Then he nods. Just once, a short and sharp gesture of agreement. "Very well." He carefully - oh so carefully - lifts the mug to sip the top and try not to spill coffee all over himself. Success! He puts it down just as carefully. "_Supposed_ to. Religious obligation." His eyebrows go up. "Mister Weaver, do tell me if you're in some sort of vengeance cult. Those never end well. Eventually someone finds an bloodstained ritual, and they decide 'oh, surely, _we_ can control this entity beyond space and time. We're righteous.' Then it's mostly over except for the screaming. You seem nice. I'd hate to see something nasty wearing you like a skin suit." He's probably joking; he's smiling and his tone is light. But the eyes aren't...quite as playful as the rest, and he continues to stare at Ethan like he's got some Real Concerns here. There’s almost wry humor at ‘are you in a cult.’ A facial expression that says ‘yes, basically, and I know it, but can’t do shit about shit so there you go…’ Until Solomon gets to the ‘something nasty wearing you like a skin suit’ part. Then his eyes flash. Hard. Furious. Murderous. There’s a soft growl at the back of his throat that he swallows back before he can stop it. He takes a deep breath. Exhales. Eases off the throttle with visible effort. Though finding an answer takes a minute. His jaw works. He’s sort of…slopped coffee all over his hand from clenching his fist hard. He shakes it a few times and blows out his cheeks. “I’d hate to see that too,” he says. He pulls out his wallet and pulls out a crumpled series of bills that ought to cover the coffee. He produces a pencil from his toolbelt and scrawls a number on the back of an old receipt. He slides that over. Solomon recoils, a totally involuntary and instinctive movement _away_ from the growl - an atavistic reaction to realizing that he's sort of trapped in a booth with someone who just fucking _growled_ and looks like he might be able to take that growl out of his throat and into someone else's. Like, say, Solomon. This, of course, knocks his own coffee to the side, and now the table is just a mess. "Motherfucker," Sol exclaims under his breath, trying to reclaim his Composure. Now there are hectic spots of color in his own cheeks; he's clearly not used to being the flincher rather than the opposite. His fingers do dart forward to claim the number before it can be drowned, though. So either he's not entirely opposed to the idea of calling, or he at least wants to do his research. Ethan looks sorry. Actually sorry. It flashes across his features, there and gone. When he moves to get up, he does it slowly, so as not to spook Solomon any further. That predator is closer to the surface, much like at the start of this meeting, but moreso, as if having been let that far off its leash its straining to get out again. It’s in the grace of his movements, the barely contained energy, the sudden sense that this is a man in *need* of a throat to rip out. But it’s a predator who is leaving the table. Solomon’s throat remains, for the moment, off the menu. “Good luck, Mr. Jessup.” Some of that apology leeches into his tone, too, but he leaves it be. He leaves Solomon to deal with the mess, too, but…under the circumstances that might be the kinder of the available actions. "Ran out of that years ago," mutters Solomon. He doesn't try to halt Ethan's leaving of the table, but he seems more irritated at himself and his reaction than blaming Ethan. He does _watch_ as he departs, and the spilled coffee can go where it will (except that he nudges the bills out of the splash radius); a little stain on his pants clearly isn't as important as keeping an eye on all that liquid, deadly grace and leashed hunger. His lips purse, thoughtfully. Once the other man has passed through the door, he glances down at the number, and tucks it away. "Isn't that a hell of a thing," he asks the air. "Goddamn, Sully, did you forget how to drink while you were off in college? Did they feed you in a trough?" That from the oldster, upon glimpsing the table. "Oh, god, Clyde, I'm _cleaning it up_." And nothing quite reduces a thirty-something guy to a whiny adolescent like coming home. | |