Hoyle
right before this
Hoyle is guzzling bottled water and holding a mobile phone up to his ear when Bill makes it past the bruisers guarding the back rooms.
Bill keeps his mouth shut; no way to tell who he's talking to, and his voice is rather distinctive.
Hoyle nods and holds up a finger, then uses the back of the hand holding the bottle to wipe at the sweat dripping down his temple. Bill smirks slightly; he's having a hard time believing Hoyle could be too warm, dressed as he is (or isn't, as the case may be) in vinyl trousers with enough holes in them (although it's possiblethose holes can't be considered actual holes, since they seem to be fairly strategically placed) to be considered properly air conditioned and a shirt that looks like it would be right at home on Nic's body, made up mostly of mesh held together with what looks like strips of vinyl. He grins as Hoyle's eyes go sharp and alert, and he makes an obscene gesture in Bill's general direction.
"Yeah, no problem. Give me half an hour and send him in. And for God's sake, remind him to act at least a little bit gay. The straightest motherfucker I know did better than he managed last time." He smirks at Bill, and Bill waggles two fingers at him. "Yeah, good. No problem. Later."
He flips the phone closed and stows it in his back pocket.
"Okay, so tell me who you're looking for, I'll do what I can to help."
Bill hesitates for a few seconds, and then shrugs with one shoulder. He needs help, there's no denying that, and he does trust Hoyle. The kid was a good cop before, and he's clearly even better now. "This isn't official," he says. "It's not something I'd want discussed with anyone else."
He knows he doesn't have to be any clearer than that. Hoyle's eyes go speculative and he shifts and rolls his shoulders, but he nods his understanding.
It takes about ten minutes to give him the basics, and Bill is gratified by the way Hoyle listens, attentive, but otherwise impassive. He isn't surprised in the least when the first thing he says when Bill is done is: "You should turn this over to Homicide, Bill." He wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't say it.
Bill could rationalize it -- God knows he's done it often enough, mostly to himself -- but he doesn't bother. "Aye, probably. But I'm not going to. Not unless I absolutely have to."
Hoyle doesn't ask what would have to happen for Bill to absolutely have to. That's the beauty of talking to another cop, one that you know and respect. There isn't any need to cover things like that. They both know.
Bill has missed it, frankly.
"Okay," Hoyle says. "It'll take me a couple of hours to find anything out. I've got something going on shortly that I can't put off, but after that I should have a little time. You wanna hang around and watch, or call me, or what?"
Bill considers this. "Better for me not to stay here," he says eventually. "I don't exactly blend--" he glanced down at his jeans and plain black t-shirt, and then at Hoyle's get-up, "--and this is the sort of place I might be recognized from my previous assignment. I've never actually been here, but it's got that flavor, yeah?"
"Yeah, I get you. Although you don't do too bad; get some eyeliner on you and rip the sleeves off that shirt and you'd be pretty enough to fit in." Hoyle offers an evil grin and makes threatening ripping motions.
"Bite me," Bill snorts. "Some of us have absolutely no desire to be 'pretty enough' to fit in." He digs out his mobile and pulls up the phone book function. "Number?"
Hoyle gives it to him, and Bill punches it in, listing it under "rentboy" in the directory. "I've heard of Ms. St. Claire, by the way," he adds, an afterthought. "Nothing lately, but I think I remember when she quit the biz." He frowns, a little furrow etched between his brow that's at odds with his persona, then shakes his head. "I'll see what I can find out." He grins, cocky and sly, and that fits with his green hair and rentboy outfit a hell of a lot better, in Bill's opinion. "I'm good at finding things out."
Bill doesn't doubt that for a second.
"Now c'mere, gonna muss you up a bit so it looks like we were doing what this place was meant for."
Bill suffers himself to be mussed -- hands only, thanks very much -- and untucked and ruffled for several seconds before shoving Hoyle off. "That's quite enough 'mussing,' you pervy little bastard," he grumbles.
Hoyle snickers. "You're so fucking repressed, Boyd," he grins, rolling his eyes. "Now get the fuck out of here, I've got things to do."
Hoyle is guzzling bottled water and holding a mobile phone up to his ear when Bill makes it past the bruisers guarding the back rooms.
Bill keeps his mouth shut; no way to tell who he's talking to, and his voice is rather distinctive.
Hoyle nods and holds up a finger, then uses the back of the hand holding the bottle to wipe at the sweat dripping down his temple. Bill smirks slightly; he's having a hard time believing Hoyle could be too warm, dressed as he is (or isn't, as the case may be) in vinyl trousers with enough holes in them (although it's possiblethose holes can't be considered actual holes, since they seem to be fairly strategically placed) to be considered properly air conditioned and a shirt that looks like it would be right at home on Nic's body, made up mostly of mesh held together with what looks like strips of vinyl. He grins as Hoyle's eyes go sharp and alert, and he makes an obscene gesture in Bill's general direction.
"Yeah, no problem. Give me half an hour and send him in. And for God's sake, remind him to act at least a little bit gay. The straightest motherfucker I know did better than he managed last time." He smirks at Bill, and Bill waggles two fingers at him. "Yeah, good. No problem. Later."
He flips the phone closed and stows it in his back pocket.
"Okay, so tell me who you're looking for, I'll do what I can to help."
Bill hesitates for a few seconds, and then shrugs with one shoulder. He needs help, there's no denying that, and he does trust Hoyle. The kid was a good cop before, and he's clearly even better now. "This isn't official," he says. "It's not something I'd want discussed with anyone else."
He knows he doesn't have to be any clearer than that. Hoyle's eyes go speculative and he shifts and rolls his shoulders, but he nods his understanding.
It takes about ten minutes to give him the basics, and Bill is gratified by the way Hoyle listens, attentive, but otherwise impassive. He isn't surprised in the least when the first thing he says when Bill is done is: "You should turn this over to Homicide, Bill." He wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't say it.
Bill could rationalize it -- God knows he's done it often enough, mostly to himself -- but he doesn't bother. "Aye, probably. But I'm not going to. Not unless I absolutely have to."
Hoyle doesn't ask what would have to happen for Bill to absolutely have to. That's the beauty of talking to another cop, one that you know and respect. There isn't any need to cover things like that. They both know.
Bill has missed it, frankly.
"Okay," Hoyle says. "It'll take me a couple of hours to find anything out. I've got something going on shortly that I can't put off, but after that I should have a little time. You wanna hang around and watch, or call me, or what?"
Bill considers this. "Better for me not to stay here," he says eventually. "I don't exactly blend--" he glanced down at his jeans and plain black t-shirt, and then at Hoyle's get-up, "--and this is the sort of place I might be recognized from my previous assignment. I've never actually been here, but it's got that flavor, yeah?"
"Yeah, I get you. Although you don't do too bad; get some eyeliner on you and rip the sleeves off that shirt and you'd be pretty enough to fit in." Hoyle offers an evil grin and makes threatening ripping motions.
"Bite me," Bill snorts. "Some of us have absolutely no desire to be 'pretty enough' to fit in." He digs out his mobile and pulls up the phone book function. "Number?"
Hoyle gives it to him, and Bill punches it in, listing it under "rentboy" in the directory. "I've heard of Ms. St. Claire, by the way," he adds, an afterthought. "Nothing lately, but I think I remember when she quit the biz." He frowns, a little furrow etched between his brow that's at odds with his persona, then shakes his head. "I'll see what I can find out." He grins, cocky and sly, and that fits with his green hair and rentboy outfit a hell of a lot better, in Bill's opinion. "I'm good at finding things out."
Bill doesn't doubt that for a second.
"Now c'mere, gonna muss you up a bit so it looks like we were doing what this place was meant for."
Bill suffers himself to be mussed -- hands only, thanks very much -- and untucked and ruffled for several seconds before shoving Hoyle off. "That's quite enough 'mussing,' you pervy little bastard," he grumbles.
Hoyle snickers. "You're so fucking repressed, Boyd," he grins, rolling his eyes. "Now get the fuck out of here, I've got things to do."