Charles, [ He purrs the name, every ounce of that considerable persuasion behind it; licking each consonant with the faintest drawl. He’s decided on the spot that he wants the man to work for him-- sees the seeds of opportunity. The slick shine of his gelled back hair is evident in the dimness, curling devilishly in the nape of his neck: everything unlawful, thieving and indisputably free. ] My car is waiting outside. I could use you, someone like you. Shaw’s a bad man, and he’s done me no favours. I’d pay you, and I’d pay you well, so are you going to stand here at this bar, or are you going to follow me and hear me out?
[ In the light of the bar, as he leans forward, the shine highlights a thin scar on the mobster’s jaw; following the line of his cheekbone. It’s disfiguring in a way, serving to sharpen the diagonals of his already angular face, harshening it and giving him a current of something alien. Behind them, the old jukebox croons miserably, bye bye, Blackbird. ] What do you say? [ Sliding back the hem of his overcoat, the Colt Pre-Woodsman .22 calibre automatic’s handle glints as dangerously as his slowly peeled back smile. ]
You're quite persuasive, what can I say. [ His lips pull into a bit of a frown but otherwise he tries to keep his coutenance as neutral as possible. He doesn't want to alarm Armando and cause anyone else in the bar to get hurt. ] Thanks for the drink. [ He slides back from the bar before turning toward the heavy front doors of the speakeasy. Hands tucked in his pockets and a hunch to his shoulders-- not that anyone else wouldn't be nervous, he had half a mind to believe the man was going to take him out back and have him shot. Pretty words hardly even meant much to mobsters and people of that ilk; though he supposed he should have expected it at some point considering where he worked, but usually he was better protected than that.]
I really don't know what you expect to gain from this. [ He mutters, sucking in a breath of cold air and not looking back, he had left his jacket inside but he didn't dare diverge to grab it-- he wasn't sure what would cause a commotion anymore. ]
You're welcome.[ Intimidation had not really been the intended angle; the reveal of the gun's expensively crafted handle had been an instinct, above everything else-- and Charles would be spared any dimly-lit interrogations for the time being. He liked what he could see of the man thus far (both figuratively and not) and though the tip-off had explicitly stated that there was a cop amongst Shaw's ranks, as well as a carefully placed staff member, Erik's not unreasonable and is willing to give the younger man a chance to either explain himself or to switch teams; the latter being the more heavily encouraged. Once they're outside, the wind howls down the New York street, and the ruffle of the pianist's hair catches his eye. The mobster's own coat is slung over his arm; and he shakes it out-- stepping disinterestedly over towards Charles and slipping it around the other man's shoulders with a sort of detached economy to his movements.
A new Ford V-8 has pulled up to the curb, the black paint-work gleaming in the light from the overhead lights. ] Get in, [ Erik's head tips towards the pianist, and he's standing close enough to remain innocuous, but retains that lingering threat. ]
[ He might have thanked him for the coat, his mouth even opens to do so, before he thinks better of it. Erik is the reason he's out in the cold to begin with; he hardly finds the momentary reprieve something to be thankful for. He nods, easing himself down and into the car and sliding across the seat with a simple sigh passing his lips-- he'd never thought he'd have much hassle as a piano player. Turning his attention toward Erik, watching the tall mobster ease himself into the car, taking a moment to observe him in an almost clinical sense. The sharp angles of his face, the dangerous looking scar, the tip of his hat and fit oc his clothes; all indicating what sort of man he was. ]
Where are we going? [ He's not entirely sure he'll get an answer, but he doesn't seem the harm in asking-- he hasn't been blindfolded or anything like that yet, which he supposes, is a good sign. ]
You'll find out, won't you? [ He says it with a smirk, and it's not cruel-- because he's looped an arm around the back of the car seat; the door slamming behind him as the driver gets in and starts the engine-- the car sputtering loudly to life. It's all very-- companionable on Erik's end, there's still that possibility for a sudden shift, because it had come easily enough; crossing his eyes with a learned aggression that stemmed from life as an outlaw. ] And you won't tell anyone, else you'll wind up dead as Dillinger. [ For a silent beat, his face remains passive. He cracks a wide smile. ] Or not. Don't look so worried, you're not going to find yourself six feet under tomorrow. [ Head tipped back, the scar is caught by every passing neon sign; lit by the primary tones of speakeasys and gentleman's clubs. ]
We're going to my apartment. Mob headquarters, secret lair. For questioning. [ He seems uproariously relaxed for someone about to initiate any kind of questioning-- arm draped nearly about the piano player's shoulders. ]
Excuse me if I'm not too keen on taking your word for that. [ Charles tugs at the knees of his slacks a little, flattening out his pants mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. Anxious still, he doesn't know what to expect of the mobster, his personality generally unpredictable to Charles. He doesn't pull away from under his arm, however, not sure if he'll find it rude and be upset by it-- instead he sinks more into the mob-man's jacket, smelling the light scent of him and whatever cologne he wore against the neck of it. A surprisingly warm scent to him, or perhaps it was only surprising because of his opinion of the scarred man. ]
I don't think I know anything that will appease you, [ He murmurs, thin leg crossing over the other and his hands folded primly in his lap. ]
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I'll be the judge of that. [ Head turning to look down at Charles, he's vaguely intrigued when the man doesn't throw him off entirely-- though it's not that much of a surprise, given the obvious threat lingering over the whole situation. Buying the man a drink and sauntering over to the piano had been premeditated in a sense; a surface level incentive because he had, on one hand, information pertaining to one of the men who worked at Shaw's club, and on the other he'd liked the look of him; a drink never really being just a drink. ]
Relax, I'm not Capone. [ Possibly worse, but regardless-- at least it's less publicized ]
Can we just get this over with? [ He murmurs as he looks away from Erik, and toward the window of the automobile, watching the nightscape as it passes by. As worried as he was for what was to come, he would rather get it over with and find out than sit waiting in anticipation for the worst. ]
I've got a good idea what sort of man you are, Lehnsherr. [ His lips purse in distaste, because Charles has always done his best to side with pacifism, something that doesn't mesh all that well with the Mobster sort of lifestyle. ]
Just take it easy. [ There's a hint of a snap beneath his tone; a little stronger than the one he'd been using earlier because while that had been engineered to charm, he was getting irked by the lack of cooperation-- after all, he had been perfectly civil, to a point (comparatively civil; shoving individuals into the backs of vehicles was rather commonplace, though they usually wound up face down in a dumpster around lower Brooklyn). The car draws to a stop outside a high-rise building, the thing tapering upwards in a faintly art deco finish to a high clock tower-- the hands dark against the window behind them; facing Manhattan and the Brooklyn bridge. ] We're here, anyway.
[ He vaults out the car and has an abrupt exchange with one of the men who had been slumped in the front seat; hat low. Returning, Erik pulls open Charles' door, standing expectantly, his fedora tilted backwards on his head-- enough to reduce the shadowing about his eyes. ] Out.
[ Charles inched to the edge of the seat, sitting there for a few brief moments; a quick glance down the road, there was an alley he could slip through, they weren't too close to his home but he was more than able to walk somewhere to hail a cab and-- His stomach tightened. He'd have to quit working at Shaw's place, and have someone look out at the book store for a while-- but there mob sorts weren't the kind who usually believed guys like him. Tortured them till they lied, said what they wanted to here-- he'd read it all in the papers, and he couldn't, couldn't , leave Raven to fend for herself. It was a risk he'd have to take.
Moving to the edge of the seat he offered a soft smile, like he was inclined to follow him with no protest, but instead kicked out, aiming right for the mans lower gut before dropping the jacket in the back seat and taking off toward the alleyway in a hard sprint. ]
[ The kick catches him off his guard and winds him; snarling in Charles' wake as he heads away from the pack of mobsters-- getting his breath back, Erik snaps at the men gathered around the car to wait, goddamn it, because they've just drawn their guns in retaliation, fully intending to shoot them man in the back as he retreated-- they've done it before, and to better men than Charles, not taking the risk of being found out, and of gaining the reputation that somehow they had managed to allow a man to escape. But Erik wants the piano player alive, wants to know now if by running, that implied that Charles was indeed an undercover-- so he snatches one of the tommy-guns from the closest man, Cassidy, and takes off after the other man himself, on foot-- because Brooklyn's back alleys were no place for a Ford, and he knows them well enough to make headway. Overhead the clock tower's minute hand moves slowly across the giant clock face-- staring out into the dark air and then the lights of the city.
Erik pauses at a street corner, listening for footsteps, and he ducks down another back route-- crossing through a street of brownstones, jumping a railing and crossing through a backyard, leaping the fence that took him to the main road. He reaches the Brooklyn Bridge efficiently, the only road that lead directly to New York from where they had been. The passenger walkway is deserted, and he stays out of sight, fedora pulled low over his eyes and gun tucked beneath his overcoat. ]
[ The sound of his footsteps are clear in the empty street-- he doesn't know the alleys, or even this side of town too well, but he does know enough to get him home; or so he hopes. By the time he reaches the bridge he's panting, having taken a longer route unbeknownst to him, in the hopes of avoiding the tail of the mobsters. Though he hadn't heard anything, not even shots behind him so he hoped for the best-- or as best as one could assume, knowing he'd have to leave his job at the speakeasy and find some other way to support his baby sister. Once he hit the bridge, he has to lean on the railing for a moment and pant-- sucking in large gasps of air and shooting a look behind him. ] It's alright Charles-- [ He mutters to himself, taking a few unsteady breaths, trying to calm the rabbiting of his heart. His chest hurt, as did his legs, but he knew he needed to get home still.
Stepping along quietly he slinks along the bridge, casting the occasional glance around, always wary of someone sneaking up behind him. Never could be too sure with the vultures. ]
[ The far end of the bridge is entirely dark-- lit now and then by an overhead light on the walkway, but other than that it is shrouded in shadows, allowing Erik to remain close enough to see the other man. He moves forward, pulling the tommy gun out from beneath his coat with an economical flourish, the wooden boards beneath his feet creaking as he steps towards Charles-- huskily snapping out, ] Still alright there, Charles? [ A cruel smile later, he's standing right beside the piano player, invading his space, gun barrel jammed into his ribcage. Erik's still quietly furious; there are very few people, both in and outside of the mob that would knowingly cross him, and he wonders at this man's sheer cheek-- pressing Charles up against the railing; behind him only the open air, and beneath that, black water. ]
They say it's not how you fall, it's how you land. [ He's closer, height used to his own advantage here; threatening, his breath clouding in the crisp air and highlighted by the dingy light hanging above them-- always with the most subtle hint of enjoyment, bemusement. ]
[ The cold press of a gun startled him more than the voice, sharp like a blade to his ears through the darkness. He leans back against the railing but he can feel the panic of vertigo rising when his back touches nothing and he can only feel a slim bar against his back. ] Please-- [ His breath catches, hands reaching out on instinct alone to grip Erik's jacket, not wanting to be tipped over the edge-- though he'd probably take that over getting shot. ] Please-- I have a a family-- I can't-- I need to get home! [ He's saying whatever he can a this point, hoping some sort of sympathy could be earned from it. They're not related by blood, but just as close. He won't say her name, wont give that much, if something happened to him he had money tucked away for her for a while-- but gods she was too little to be on her own. ]
Please-- I just wanted to get home to her-- she's too little to be alone this late-- Please--
[ Initially, Erik had no designs on Charles' life-- he had intended to recruit the man, knew he'd be useful if stationed in Shaw's vicinity; an extra pair of eyes and ears used to gain further knowledge of the rival gang and his old enemy. Any belief that the pianist had been an undercover dissolves at the helplessness in the other's pleas-- he knows cops to have begged before; has held the gun that caused it himself-- he's killed enough of them. But this isn't a cop; the man is a civilian, on the outskirts of the mobster's maybe, but neither a gang member nor impersonating one.
Erik doesn't back off, however-- the shorter man still pushed back up against the rail, the water roaring beneath the bridge, glinting. ] Charles-- [ He purrs it, leaning close to the other's ear. ] You're going to come along with me, back to headquarters-- and you're going to do it willingly, without putting up any more of a fight.
[ Continuing, he removes the gun from Charles' side-- his free hand winding in the other's shirt to keep him in place. ] If you plan on seeing her again, of course. [ Erik's breath ghosts against Charles' skin; and he's leaning in closer-- teeth bared in a smile. ]
[ His posture stiffens at having him so close, decently sure Erik was just going to tip him over the edge and pretend he never met the pianist. It would be easy, he worked in an illegal bar and had few connections outside of that and his little bookstore-- they would assume the worst happened, Raven would have to get into that little tin he stashed for her and try to take care of herself till she found somewhere else to live. The thought made his chest ache; she had been so hungry when he found her, so little and lost, he couldn't imagine her going through that again. Thinking Charles had left like the others. ] Alright, no more running, I promise. [ He doesn't let go because he's still teetering on the precipice and he wont go over the edge without a fight; even if it was futile against a man Erik's size. ]
I just got scared-- I'm sorry. [ That wasn't entirely a lie; he was scared, but he was only sorry he had been caught. For now he would try to appease the man so he could make it home-- try to return to his simple little life. ] Erik-- I just-- [ He clears his throat and goes for his best humorous tone, though he's still apparently scared. ] -- I'm just, not a very good swimmer, you know?
[ In the light of the bar, as he leans forward, the shine highlights a thin scar on the mobster’s jaw; following the line of his cheekbone. It’s disfiguring in a way, serving to sharpen the diagonals of his already angular face, harshening it and giving him a current of something alien. Behind them, the old jukebox croons miserably, bye bye, Blackbird. ] What do you say? [ Sliding back the hem of his overcoat, the Colt Pre-Woodsman .22 calibre automatic’s handle glints as dangerously as his slowly peeled back smile. ]
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I really don't know what you expect to gain from this. [ He mutters, sucking in a breath of cold air and not looking back, he had left his jacket inside but he didn't dare diverge to grab it-- he wasn't sure what would cause a commotion anymore. ]
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A new Ford V-8 has pulled up to the curb, the black paint-work gleaming in the light from the overhead lights. ] Get in, [ Erik's head tips towards the pianist, and he's standing close enough to remain innocuous, but retains that lingering threat. ]
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Where are we going? [ He's not entirely sure he'll get an answer, but he doesn't seem the harm in asking-- he hasn't been blindfolded or anything like that yet, which he supposes, is a good sign. ]
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We're going to my apartment. Mob headquarters, secret lair. For questioning. [ He seems uproariously relaxed for someone about to initiate any kind of questioning-- arm draped nearly about the piano player's shoulders. ]
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I don't think I know anything that will appease you, [ He murmurs, thin leg crossing over the other and his hands folded primly in his lap. ]
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Relax, I'm not Capone. [ Possibly worse, but regardless-- at least it's less publicized ]
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I've got a good idea what sort of man you are, Lehnsherr. [ His lips purse in distaste, because Charles has always done his best to side with pacifism, something that doesn't mesh all that well with the Mobster sort of lifestyle. ]
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[ He vaults out the car and has an abrupt exchange with one of the men who had been slumped in the front seat; hat low. Returning, Erik pulls open Charles' door, standing expectantly, his fedora tilted backwards on his head-- enough to reduce the shadowing about his eyes. ] Out.
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Moving to the edge of the seat he offered a soft smile, like he was inclined to follow him with no protest, but instead kicked out, aiming right for the mans lower gut before dropping the jacket in the back seat and taking off toward the alleyway in a hard sprint. ]
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Erik pauses at a street corner, listening for footsteps, and he ducks down another back route-- crossing through a street of brownstones, jumping a railing and crossing through a backyard, leaping the fence that took him to the main road. He reaches the Brooklyn Bridge efficiently, the only road that lead directly to New York from where they had been. The passenger walkway is deserted, and he stays out of sight, fedora pulled low over his eyes and gun tucked beneath his overcoat. ]
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Stepping along quietly he slinks along the bridge, casting the occasional glance around, always wary of someone sneaking up behind him. Never could be too sure with the vultures. ]
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They say it's not how you fall, it's how you land. [ He's closer, height used to his own advantage here; threatening, his breath clouding in the crisp air and highlighted by the dingy light hanging above them-- always with the most subtle hint of enjoyment, bemusement. ]
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Please-- I just wanted to get home to her-- she's too little to be alone this late-- Please--
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Erik doesn't back off, however-- the shorter man still pushed back up against the rail, the water roaring beneath the bridge, glinting. ] Charles-- [ He purrs it, leaning close to the other's ear. ] You're going to come along with me, back to headquarters-- and you're going to do it willingly, without putting up any more of a fight.
[ Continuing, he removes the gun from Charles' side-- his free hand winding in the other's shirt to keep him in place. ] If you plan on seeing her again, of course. [ Erik's breath ghosts against Charles' skin; and he's leaning in closer-- teeth bared in a smile. ]
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I just got scared-- I'm sorry. [ That wasn't entirely a lie; he was scared, but he was only sorry he had been caught. For now he would try to appease the man so he could make it home-- try to return to his simple little life. ] Erik-- I just-- [ He clears his throat and goes for his best humorous tone, though he's still apparently scared. ] -- I'm just, not a very good swimmer, you know?
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