Drinking buddies
Is Ray Hubbard slumming with me or what? What does he want? Hell. Maybe he gets off on slumming with yours truly and then having dinner with Emma la-di-da Frost. Who knows, with rich people? They're not like the rest of us, that's for damn sure.
Jerk could've at least offered me a job. A real one. Not the joke about trading places with him. Fuck that, money man. Getting me drunk, listening my sob story, and just storing up the laughing-up-his-sleeve entertainment behind that oh-so-nice and gosh-darn-shucks mask he's got working for him. Made me feel nice, and then I just felt angry. At myself. Him. Whatever. How pathetic am I? Last time I do that. Let him find some other worthless peon to patronize. And preach to about mutants and the government and, oh, no, the gangs, for the love of Mike! "Idealist," my ass. Get off your ass and put some of your damn money and your damn free time to helping the world, Ray Hubbard.
Asshole. Yeah, you are one, kinda, guy. Hanging out with the other assholes in your clique sure ain't gonna help, either.
Fuck it. Made John the driver sit at the window until I got my order just the way I wanted it. Car'll smell like French fries and special sauce for days now unless he gets it cleaned. Ha, ha, ha. The peon strikes back!
8/16/2005
Logfile from Leah.
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The Bay Horse
A mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England, in the corner of the large room is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for the jam nights, as well as the nights there are bands playing. There's also a fireplace with a mantle with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have. The seating also stems back to typical English pubs, older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, no particular pattern and a few don't even look like they are the same sort of table. Back to the stage, you made notice the fair sized gap near the stage where there is room to dance if anyone felt like it. Finally we have the bar, a long bar at that which stretches accross an entire wall, behind it is many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and even some real ale, whoever runs this place has dome their research. Theres also a door behind the bar that says employees only and another opposite the entrance that says 'beer garden.
--
Evening in New York City, and it finds the city doing well -- better, perhaps, than Leah Canto, in a dark-brown blouse, paler blue jeans, and a headache almost visible in her face's pinched, blanched expression. Seated at a table near the fireplace, she appears to be self-medicating by way of slow, steady sips at some amber liquid in a highball glass.
The door swishes open, and Raymond Hubbard enters, the fairly warm evening dictating that he's not wearing his customary overcoat or even a suit, but a pair of smartish slacks and a black shirt, open at cuff and collar. He strolls towards Leah at an easy pace, and halts only at her table. "Evening, Leah. Can I get you a drink before we start bitching tonight?"
For answer, Leah lifts her glass. "Beat you to it, Ray." And then looks up at him. Manages a smile. "Long day. Sorry. Sit down! Get yourself a drink, and we can let the bitchery begin."
"Yes, ma'am." Ray agrees, and sets off at a quick step for the bar, swiftly returning with a pitcher of something ale-like and a pair of glasses on a tray. "I figure it'll save some time in the long run." he offers, as he slides onto a chair, placing the drink on the table and pouring himself something. "So, a long day. Enlighten me? Or do you have any other bitching to go on with?"
Leah props her elbows on the table and toys with her drink. It's probably stronger than ale, so she's sticking with it, at least as long as it lasts. "No," she says after a moment's thought. A glance at him, squinting caution, and then back to studying her fingers pushing at and twisting the glass. "Just the day, I suppose. I spent it networking -- fun, huh? Your call came at a good time. Thanks."
"No problem at all." Ray assures, as he takes a deep draught from the ale, a gentle outlaying of breath coming afterwards. "I hate networking. Spend your time surrounded by idiots, only one of which turns out to be useful, and they end up disappearing before you can get their card. That the sort you've had?" He idly toys with the glass a little, before instinctively reaching for a pocket and his cigarettes, which are withdrawn in short order. "Actually, I read that piece you did on the safehouses. Interesting stuff. Take you long to write it?"
"Oh, it wasn't so bad, I guess. I was working my friends and their friends: phone calls, impromptu meetings, a lunch that really could've gone better...." Leah trails off into contemplation of booze. Has a swallow. Pushes out a breath, and another of those thinly manufactured smiles. "The life of a freelance reporter, you know. Sucks. Thanks about the story. It took, oh, months, I guess, from conception to birth. Getting all the interviews took the longest, and doing research. The actual writing was pretty easy: it wrote itself."
He nods slowly at the first, though the second brings an interest. "Never really understood how you people can say these things write themselves. But Jean Grey, must've been kind of scary to meet her, I guess. Someone that can stop bullets in mid-flight, and she said something about being a telepath in that statement a long time ago? Gives me the screaming heebies." Something like the facial equivalent of a shiver, before he takes another long drink. "Guess you've got a lot of offers coming in for work since that story, eh?"
Leah answers shortly, "No," and then tacks on an apologetic grimace. "Phone's not ringing off the hook, but then, it did only come out this week. Maybe soon, maybe soon. I'll think positive thoughts and see where it gets me." She flips a hand at the rest of it, and her smile curves more genuinely. "Oh, hell, it wasn't /so/ bad, really. Granted, I could've done without the mysteriously floating plate of finger sandwiches in the middle of the interview, but hey. You've got powers, you're gonna use 'em, right? Isn't that what her cause is all about?"
"Hopefully get you somewhere decent, and soon." Ray assures with a brief attempt at a sympathetic smile. "Floating sandwiches? Lord, I don't know. It's the telepathy that gets me. She'd scare the hell out of me if I was in the same room. Not sure what her cause really is all about, apart from getting mutants and humans living tolerably together." A slow smile of grimacing thought. "Guess it's alright for someone like her to say. You must know more about what she's trying to do."
Leah murmurs some gratitude for his assurance, but has to drain her drink before actually answering. "There!" She's almost sprightly, almost bright. "I promise to be in a better mood, now that my blood-alcohol level is on the rise. --Don't know about the telepathy, or the cause, so much. If she was reading my mind--" a little shiver, perhaps dramatically enhanced "--well, I wouldn't have known, right? And I'm on the other side of the fence on a lot of what she's espousing. It'd be like asking /her/ to comment on what the Friends of Humanity are doing."
"But you're so much fun when you're bitching and grumpy." Ray responds with a gently teasing tone. "I guess you are, with some of the stuff I've been reading. Yes, I'll admit to looking up some of your previous work out of interest." A brief twinkle appears in his eye at the mention of the Friends, though it could just be humour. "Quite an amusing thought, Jean Grey voicing the Friends of Humanity's line. So I guess you're more on their side of things?"
Leah flashes him a wry smile. "No, I'm really not, but thank you for saying so. Aren't you sweet?" she croons back, and even makes her best go at batting (admittedly short and spiky) lashes. "And even researching me! I'm all a-quiver, Mr. Hubbard. Do you like what I've done? It's not Friends material -- God save me from the terrorists -- but hell, Dr. Grey would probably classify me as close kin, don't you think?" She snorts and reaches for the pitcher to fill the other glass he brought. Her tone is mordant; her expression, piqued. "With the President and Congress we have -- with our own senator, in fact! -- you'd think that a conservative could catch a break in this country, or this city."
Ray chuckles at her comments, though drops into a little more serious for his response. "I'm not really a political man, Leah, but I've always thought that the dangerous ones should be locked up somewhere nice and tight, same as any crazy. And it /is/ kind of scary to think that there are theories out there that suggest we may well be becoming slowly extinct. Dr. Grey's probably plotting your social destruction at this very moment, for you are an evil bigot with no soul." A soft snort of ironic amusement. He shrugs at the last, "You'd think, wouldn't you? I guess maybe you're just a little unlucky in who you've been meeting recently or something."
Leah mutters, "Well, she and my old parish priest could have a discussion about my /soul/-- Extinct? Shit, that's right. Genetic dominance to go with the world dominance that crazy old Magneto wants." She sighs, cupping her ale in her hands on the table. "Helluva world, Ray. Helluva world. As for my unfortunate meetings--" she turns up a quirked mouth "--well, New York /is/ a liberal stronghold, isn't it? Melting pot and all. I love it, and I'm not looking to join the Rush Limbaughs out there, just ... get a steady job. Ha. So I'm crying into my beer to a guy who probably has more money than he knows what to do with, right? Go ahead and laugh at me. I don't mind. I know it's pathetic."
Ray does laugh, but only at the thoughts of Magneto, and wryly. "Erik Lenscherr is a sick, sick man. Who if he ever gets what he wants, we're all screwed." The rest wins a slow smile, tempered by an attempt at empathy, even as the final dregs of his first ale are poured down his throat. "Liberal stronghold, yeah. But with people like Sebastian Shaw out there as well? Hell, there's got to be a steady job, for someone willing to shout out against the mainstream view. Someone with some balls, if you'lle excuse the incongruous reference." Not even Ray is stupid enough to offer her work or money for no particular reason. "Not pathetic. A man with too much money and not enough life. We're both sad cases, Leah, and we can get drunk together to make ourselves feel a little better."
Leah laughs a little, herself, though it comes out with more harshness than humor. "Oh, Shaw. Whatever. Talk about a guy with too much money and not enough life, but hell, if he wants to play the public asshole, let him. I have friends in the biz who've been dining off his interviews for years now. You won't see /me/ lining up at that trough, though." Her mouth hooks down now, thought tightening the flesh around her eyes, and she repeats softly, "Asshole. Anyway. /You/ are not sad, Ray, are you? What brings you to my corner of the bitching world tonight?"
"He's an easy one to break into conversation, I'll give him that." Ray laughs, as he watches her reaction to that. "But yes, asshole of the highest order." More ale poured, more to go down the throat. "Of course I'm sad. It's not like I have a real life. Today's bitch shall mostly be about the damned annoying idiots without a clue in the world who piss me off on a regular basis. And, of course, for me, the classic bitch. Women. And how they don't make sense in general."
Leah snorts. "Well, I'd trade you my life for yours if I could. Probably. Maybe. Would I make a good oil tycoon, d'you think? I don't have much of a head for business, but I could swear with the best of 'em to get things done /for/ me." She leans her weight comfortable on an elbow, now toying with glass again in favor of drinking. Her gaze stays watchful and bright on his face. "Do women piss you off, or are they -- ha, /we/ -- a subset of the first bitching class?"
Ray offers up a wryly ironic smile. "I'm afraid it's not the most taxing job in the world, but it's one of the most depressing. Make an occasional important decision, and spend the rest of your life agreeing with other people's ideas. I only swear at them when I get bored. Which is often." Sounds like a dream job? "Then of course there's endless meaningless phonecalls, meetings with stockholders to be placated when there's a half-point dip, and meaningless conversation with even more meaningless people to try and expand. Still want to try it?" Glug. A deep draught makes its way down his throat. "Women just don't make sense. Especially ones who are trying to toy with you a little when they're fully aware that you're a taken man."
Crooking that hooked little smile, Leah slowly shakes her head. "No, thanks. I'd go mad. Or postal. It wouldn't end well for /some/one, anyway, and since I'm a survivor, well, watch out, board of directors and all else in my path." She studies him a moment, lets him see it, and then presses, "I smell bitching, Ray. And possibly /a/ bitch or two. Who's toying with you? Why?"
"And here was me about to offer you my job for a couple of weeks, with all perks, so I could go on vacation." Ray retorts. "Well, I suppose you'll just have to live without." Mock resignation, and he quirks a little smile up at Leah. "Just a businesswoman who's piqued my interest for making more money. Someone who may even be richer than me." Wry smile enters play. "But I think she thinks I'm after her for her body, and it just doesn't make sense, because she knows I'm attached, and who to. Though I'll admit she's gorgeous, and if I was available I'd be after her like a shot... I don't know. We're going to dinner soon. She's enjoyable company, if nothing else." Bouncing his thoughts off someone else, obviously.
Leah appears content to play sounding-board: nodding along, she asks at the end, "Is there any harm in stringing her along, maybe for contacts or just the hell of it? If your girlfriend doesn't mind, I mean." She looks briefly wicked. "You have nothing but the purest intentions towards this other woman, after all."
"Possibly the ridiculous thing is that I /do/ have only pure intentions towards her." Ray muses, a snort of laughter punching out of his nose. "Maybe I'll just go along and play innocent little redneck. I don't know. Abby doesn't mind me going out with other women, for business, as long as it's kept strictly business. Hell, even for pleasure as long as I'm not playing away." A faint frown delivered to his pint glass, and he drains most of what's left. "So. How's the rest of life in the Leah world?"
"Not nearly /that/ interesting," is the prompt reply from Leah-world's prime resident. "I'm not seeing anyone, for instance, whatever my intentions are." She's blithe about it, by tone and manner, but -- some bitterness. Some envy. Here and gone in acidic flashes. She drowns them with a swallow. "...Nor any fascinating businesswomen to lure me into dinner. Or -men, for that matter. I'm just pounding the pavement for work, Ray, like I told you. Spending time with friends. Ducking phone calls from my mother. Sorry. It really isn't anything worth talking about."
"It's not as thrilling as it sounds." Ray insists as the final dregs of pint two are consumed. "Then we'll have to find something else to bitch about. Mets or Yankees? Football or Soccer? Brotherhood or Friends? Take your pick, Leah."
Leah chuckles as she swirls around the last bit of /her/ ale. "Mets, thanks. Fuck the Yankees. Don't care about football or soccer. But if the Brotherhood and the Friends played each other? Hoo-boy. Bring it on. Stick that Lensherr in pads and a helmet -- no, those bright spandex-or-whatever jerseys and the tight shorts! And make him run around on the pitch until he drops. Ha. Can you imagine?" Malicious glee sparks gaze, eyes, and welcomes the end of her glass on a quick drink. "We could solve the world's mutant problems with sports, Ray. We'd be the saviors of humankind."
Ray actually breaks into a few real barks of laughter. "Sounds like a cracking idea to me, Leah. Suggest it in your next editorial." Another little snicker, and he begins pouring another ale for himself. "In fact, see if you can convince someone to get a cartoon going. You must have some artist friends in your circle? Damnit, you could make a fortune off that idea. Magneto in spandex. Heh."
Leah sniggers. "I know a guy -- yeah, yeah, I can do that. I'm /going/ to do that. And you'll get a cut of the proceeds, Scout's honor." She even offers her hand peremptorily across the table to seal the deal, and she's relaxed into a grin. "You're an evil man. Remind me to stay on your good side. Assuming I am?"
A hand comes forward to seal that deal. "I'll take ten percent for inspiration." He breaks into a broad grin for a moment. "You're on the good side, of course. Else I wouldn't still be here. How am I doing on the Canto scale of asshole? I don't need a scathing commentary in Rolling Stone."
Leah shakes firmly and drops it to lean forward for a refill. Over the pitcher, she glints him a /look./ "I have a scale now? Lord. I like that. You're fine, you're fine. You're good company -- for a spoiled redneck," she allows sympathetically, the glint brighter, "and you buy me drinks. What else can I ask for? You /don't/ have to worry about any commentaries from me, in Rolling Stone or otherwise. Think that bunch of uptight hippies is ever going to treat with me again? Forget it. Had to fight tooth-and-nail just to get in the door. I swear, I'm quitting it all and going to cooking school." Then she snorts again, shakes her head. "If only I didn't have the jones for this crap."
"Good company's high praise from one of Sabitha's friends." Ray replies, wryly. "But I'm happy to be drink-supplier. At least I've got someone here who /does/ drink, and doesn't mind ranting." He quirks a quick smile at Leah, before taking a quick draught. "If you can sell copies with that story, then they'll be crawling back for more, hippies or no. It's all about the money, to be honest, unless you managed to really piss them off somehow. And you're in the door, so surely they can't kick you out too easily? I must confess I have no idea how that game works."
Leah tells him readily, "It works on money and influence. Who's paying who, who's helping who, who's screwing who -- c'mon, Ray, /every/ game works like that. You're in business; you should know." Her expression is almost fond. Or condescending. "Good thing you're coming to me with this, instead of some of the sharks in town ... or are you just trying to make me feel better, by playing the naif?"
Condescending he can deal with. Fond would be more difficult. "Every game is slightly different. Mine works more on sheer brute force of social power, or failing that, political threat. It's surprising what a group of oilmen can do to a vote. However, I figured your game was more personal, more getting out there and speaking to people. Real people." Another slow smile crosses the table. "I'm always interested to see how someone else works at their job."
A short headshake, then Leah taps her forefinger's nail on the table between them in an impatient rhythm. "In case you missed the part where I'm unemployed -- I suck at games. Networking. Whatever. All that. Otherwise, I'd be head of NBC or the Times, right?" She tries to put a smile's spin on it and stops the tapping. "Sorry. I'm ascribing evil motives to a man of pure intentions. I /am/ having a bad life, aren't I?"
Ray takes another drink, a couple of gulps helping it along slightly. "Maybe you're just best suited to the freelance work. Either that, or you're simply unlucky. Hell, you don't seem like an incompetent to me." Frankness is coming out now, as he frowns lightly at Leah's expression. "And you should figure I must be evil. I'm rich, remember? Thus scum of the earth. The bastard with the lucky start in life." There's a snort of ironic laughter, before he carefully studies Leah across the table. "Either that, or you're just not really going for it because you don't really like what you're doing."
Leah twitches at that last. Time for a drink on her side of the table, oh, yes. And a response to the rest of his words, not /that/: "Nah, I'm not one of the proles waving a pitchfork and calling for your heads, you ruling-class folks. Let me eat cake; that's all I ask. A steady paycheck, and cake." She has her thin smile in place after a couple swallows, and so moves carefully on. "I do like what I do, Ray. It's what I am. It's pretty much all I've known, as a working adult. Cooking school -- well, that's just a lark I think about now and then. I'd never actually do it. Set in my ways, you know? I want to serve my community, hokey as that sounds, and I'm doing it as a reporter." Pause. Admission: "When I can."
"No idea what to suggest, unless you'd like to run a story on the cake-suppliers like myself." Ray offers sardonically. "Then again, I've always been one to look for solutions rather than sit back. Maybe find yourself a good, honest, conservative paper and write for them? Money might not be great, but it'd be there." He shrugs again as he gulps at his drink, placing the glass down fairly carefully. "Serve your community? Sounds like you'd be better off serving yourself, like the rest of the world."
"Yeah, I'm looking into the conservative rags. The New Republic's kept me on as a stringer, but for online work, mostly. Maybe..." Leah lets the thought run out, along with her frown. She forces a fresh smile. "Hey, don't knock community service, Mr. Rich Bitch. I'll have you know that I was going to be a cop for the first two decades of my life. Would've been a damn good one, too."
"Just keep looking. Something will hop up eventually." Ray reassures with a quick smile. He shakes his head slightly at the rest, with a slowly raising eyebrow. "A cop? Why not go do that now? Good pension, good colleagues. Hell, ran into a pair the other day who were almost human."
Leah snickers into her ale. "Versus what? Mutants?"
Ray chuckles slightly. "No, versus me, though one insisted on making sure I wasn't going to fire green goop at hookers. I offered to cover him in shower gel, but he didn't appreciate it." Quick drink.
Leah's eyes go wide; the mental connections behind them are nearly visible (and rather clumsy from the alcohol). "One of 'em wasn't a Vincent Lazzaro, was he?"
"I don't know. One was called Rossi, for certain. The other was a balding guy, about my height. Come to think of it, maybe he was called Lazzaro, yeah." Ray watches with interest. "You know him?"
Leah chokes on her swallow. "--Shit. Sorry. Yeah! That's them. Homicide and MA -- Rossi and Lazzaro." Her expression's tighter than a drumskin, but she's leaning forward as if to hear more. Or share. "Damn, what are the chances? Did you /see/ them on the news? Mutant attack. Injured in the line of duty. It was stupid. Awful. But mostly stupid."
"Homicide? Jeez." Ray looks genuinely surprised at that. "Guess that's why he insisted on being called Detective so much, eh? I didn't see the news about it. Man, that's wrong. What happened?"
"They're both detectives, and detectives want to be called properly, you know. They've earned it. My cousin Maggie's one, and you /don't/ want to call her 'Officer' on a bad day." Leah swings her head in a slow, amused shake, then lifts it for a calmer, smoother sip. "They just got jumped, basically. A couple of teenagers high on their own powers or something. Rossi took a bullet--" worry and exasperation both etch acid emphasis in her voice "--but he said Vincent's fine. Bruises, I guess. What a job, huh? 'Swhy you don't see /me/ walkin' a beat."
"I don't know enough about the Force to really know about that, but fair enough." Ray placates, with an obvious amusement in his tone. "Might have to send Rossi some flowers. He actually had me laughing, to be honest. Any idea what hospital he's at?" He shrugs slightly, though there's a touch of sympathy present. "Makes sense, I guess. A dangerous job, but a fair and honest one."
Leah rolls her eyes. "Believe me, the last thing that man needs is more flowers. He's got schoolkids bringing 'em to his bedside. As if his ego wasn't already--" But the rest of that mutter dives into her ale. Nearly finished. She stares into the glass. More refill soon! "Don't worry about it, Ray. 'Bout him. He'll be fine, the lucky ass. God. It's like going through it with my family again. Always hard when someone in your circle goes down, huh? You ever go through that?"
Ray actually breaks into a full grin. "But I bet he's never received a thousand daisies from a mysterious gentleman. That should scare him, right?" He smiles down at his own drink for a moment, somewhat fuzzily taking it up for a lengthy glug, before again carefully placing it down. "I've had a few people I know hurt. Scary stuff, when you're at the stage where you don't know if they're going to be alright again." Something has allowed a slight Southern drawl into his tone now. Not alcohol. Not at all
Oh, as if Leah's own Brooklyn brass weren't swaggering more broadly through her alto. Just a little. The topic doesn't help, of course. "Yeah. Lost my dad that way. Uncles. The usual, I guess. Hell with the force," she sighs and puts her glass down, too -- but only to top it off for the second time. "NYPD eats its own, and for what? So some mutant kids can get their rocks off against us normals? Is the MRA completely worthless? Be patient, everyone says, and let the law take effect, work its magic, what-the-hell-ever ... and cops gettin' gunned down in the street, tryin' to protect themselves and the people of this damn city."
"'Cause they're not allowed to get on with their job properly." Ray decides. "And mutants get away with so much 'because they're different and troubled.' Bullshit. The Force isn't equipped to deal with the dangerous mutants or even the normal gangs and the like because the red-tape-brigade refuse to spend the money on it that's desperately needed. Idiots." A little rant coming through as he sups again at the beer. "Patient my ass. Something needs to be done, and rapidly, before the entire country goes to shit."
Leah frowns. "Well ... I don't know." Idealism struggles dimly against the weight of depression and stress and anxiety. And bigotry. And also alcohol. "The shelters aren't /that/ old yet, and the MRA just passed. I'm not sayin' we wait a generation to see if these seeds produce flowers or whatever, but we're not gonna have forced-labor camps, either. 'Rapidly.' Hell, Ray. Like what? They can't breed us out of existence /that/ fast. Or kill us all. We outnumber them!"
"I'm not talking about the mutants now, Leah. Not specifically." Ray assures, "But all the dickheads that are sending America downhill. The people who come, don't even speak the damned language, and end up gangbanging on the streets of New York. The muggers and footpads who go out and hurt old women for kicks and thrills. And, of course, people like Lenscherr who's aim in life is to kill and maim and take over." He shakes his head, slowly. "I'm just an angry citizen, I guess. No way would I advocate labor camps or anything like that. But I do believe something should be done to set the country to rights. Hell, I'm an idealist, it'll never happen. But remember, we're talking about bitching?"
Leah nods along, gaze still on her glass. She has another little sip. "You're not a racist, are you?" she asks quietly and peeks at him. "Hey, no one said people have to speak English here, and gangs are everyone's problem, not just immigrants'." Her smile curves sardonic, self-aware, and a little mocking. "You know, bash the muties all you want, but don't you talk trash about good old-fashioned races. That shit ain't right, Southern boy."
Ray breaks into a wryly self-conscious smile. "Reformed racist. Got years of conditioning to deal with; the rednecks are surprisingly good at brainwash techniques." He snorts a sardonic smile into his glass before tipping it for emptying. "'Sides, I figure there /should/ be a single language. Hell, I'd be happy to learn whatever it was they chose for it. But you're right. Gangs are everyone's issue, and I'm just getting a little carried away. Must be the ale."
"I'll drink to that," Leah smiles back. "In fact, I think I /am/ drinking to that. And, eh, don't mind me. I grew up in this here melting pot, but not everyone thinks alike. At least you admit it, and you didn't rip my head off about it. I promise not to lecture. Promise. Anyway, about the rest of it -- actually, no. Don't get me started on politicians. 'Swhat I do, or usually do, for a living. Damn weasels. Congresscritters and lying sacks of shit." She deliberately sniffs. "I will be some kind of -ist about /them./ I swear, the only thing keeping this country from going off the rails is sheer inertia. Not idealism, not democracy, not shining and noble deeds. Just pure stupid momentum. And all it'd take to /shift/ the direction is just a little pebble, right?"
"Absolutely. Change that direction just a little and a few years down the line we're living in a completely different place." Ray agrees, with a briefly nodding smile. "Everyone hates politicians. Even politicians. /Especially/ politicians. I'm surprised they're not an endangered species by now." His lips quirk into another smile as he looks at the women. "But what sort of pebble are you talking about?"
Leah sighs over her glass, flapping a hand vaguely at him. "Hell if I know. It's always the little events, isn't it? Well, big ones, too. Another Liberty Island, maybe. Or, I guess, from the other direction -- maybe someone tries to assassinate Jean Grey? We tip over into 'death to mutants!' or 'yay, mutants!' Or we just keep on keepin' on, same as always."
"And the way it goes could very well depend on the mood of the mob on the day." Ray muses lightly, even as he knocks back the remainder of his drink. He shrugs at Leah, before peering at the now-empty pitcher. "Damnit. Empty. But I figure it'll be interesting to watch what happens. We just have to hope the city survives it, eh?" He glances to his watch. "Shit, is that the time already?"
Leah fumbles at her wrist to peer at her watch, too. "Guess it is." She rounds an apologetic look at him. "Sorry. The bitchery goes into overtime, huh? You got a busy day tomorrow? All ... tycooning and stuff."
"Tycooning happily away. And a dinner with a ridiculously rich businesswoman. Ms. Frost awaits me." The apologetic look is met only by a friendly smile. "Don't worry about how long we've been here, I've enjoyed it."
Leah stretches out a hand to pat his. She's very careful to make sure not to miss it, or to pat too heavily, or to make it linger. Concentration! "You're a good guy, then, Ray. Thanks. --/Emma/ Frost?" That sharpens her a bit, brings her head up curiously. "Seriously?"
Ray makes a mock-magmanimous gesture. "Don't compliment me, you'll scare me." he retorts with a twinkle to his eye, looking remarkably steady on his feet considering the volume of alcohol consumed in a short period of time as he stands up. "Emma Frost indeed. That's the lady I was talking about."
"Oh, please. What do /you/ have to be scared of, especially from /me/?" Bitterness sways Leah to her feet, too, and she goes digging in her pockets for her wallet. Hmm. "Well, good luck with her, man. She runs in the highest circles around here, to judge by the parties she's at and the people she's with. But I guess you're used to that, huh? Having dinner with /the/ Emma Frost isn't a big deal, probably." There's the wallet! And open and peered into. "Oh, hell. Andy took my last twenty."
"Compliments, my dear." Ray replies with a brief smile. "I've not learnt to expect them from you. But it'll be alright, I guess. I'll have to be polite and all, though she's surprisingly good company. Most rich types are assholes." He raises an eyebrow. "Don't worry about it. I'll have my driver take you home, and I can walk. It's not far to my apartment."
Leah bristles, but wearily. "Hey, you're a good guy, but I live out in freakin' Westchester County. I'm good enough for the train. Got my MetroCard and everything." She does put the wallet back, though. Reluctantly. "I hate being beholden," she goes on more quietly, evenly. "But thanks for the drinks, at least. And the company. I'll try to keep the compliments to a dull roar. You're a taken man, after all." And /there's/ a flashed, full grin. "I missed my chance at that car wreck, all that time ago, huh?"
"Maybe you did." Ray replies, quirking a lopsided grin back. "But Westchester's plenty close enough. The man's paid to drive people to wherever the hell I tell him to. It's nice and easy, and comfortable. Just take it as a thanks for the company. No arguments, and no debt." He shrugs as he walks to the door, holding it open for Leah to exit. "I suppose I can live with the odd compliment from a famously published and stylish journalist."
That draws a low, beery laugh from said journalist as she slides by him. She's steady enough on her feet to manage it, but she's blinking a bit much, and her words drag like laden fishing nets through the murky waters of Brooklyn's alto. "/Now/ who's complimenting, Ray? Fine, fine, I'll take the damn driver. I'll make him stop at a McDonald's so I can grab something for the ride home." She turns on the sidewalk to eye him archly, teasingly. "That okay?"
"I believe he's fully trained in the art of the drive-through." Ray assures, "So you shouldn't run into any issues." Hand enters pocket, withdraws phone, finds correct number. "He'll be here in a minute or so. And what's wrong with complimenting when you keep on doing it to me?" Southern tones drift and drawl through the sentences a little, as he allows a smile in her direction. "Doesn't it scare you?"
Leah tells him, "Hardly. A little complimenting and flirting never hurt anyone. Good for the soul. Or at least the ego. Something like that." She stuffs her hands in her pockets and composes herself to wait. And study him some more. "It doesn't /mean/ anything, really. Just something you do in polite society, y'know. I say something nice, you say something nice, and we all feel good. Scary is mutant attacks and shit."
Ray counters, "And we all offer platitudes and graciously accept meaningless drivel. Unfortunately, when I say you're good company, I'm actually telling the truth. Ego-stroking's a socialite game. One that I'm not very good at. Anyhow,-" He peers to the side, at an approaching set of lights attached to a rather gorgeous and practically new Lexus. "Mutant attacks are thankfully rare enough not to scare me too much. However, keep an eye on John the driver, he's got an eye for the ladies."
"Then I have nothing to fear," chuckles Leah in acidic reply, "since I'm nowhere near a /lady./ Leave that to your pretty Emma, Ray. This him? Great." She shuffles towards the car's approach, back a step, then another. Sighs. "It /was/ a nice evening. You know what I mean. Thanks for listening. And bitching."
Ray nods at the driver as he pulls up, and the oilman steps forward to open one of the back doors for Leah. "Same to you, Leah. Thanks. And now I do the gentlemanly thing while you get in, and then wacth you drift off into the sunset, even as I take the arduous walk home. Fare thee well, lady."
Leah murmurs, "Awww," in eye-rolling mockery, but does lean to kiss his cheek before she slithers into the car. A wave flips out, cheerful and dismissive at once, and then she's all the way in. Time for that sunset. And the drive-through!
[Log ends.]
Jerk could've at least offered me a job. A real one. Not the joke about trading places with him. Fuck that, money man. Getting me drunk, listening my sob story, and just storing up the laughing-up-his-sleeve entertainment behind that oh-so-nice and gosh-darn-shucks mask he's got working for him. Made me feel nice, and then I just felt angry. At myself. Him. Whatever. How pathetic am I? Last time I do that. Let him find some other worthless peon to patronize. And preach to about mutants and the government and, oh, no, the gangs, for the love of Mike! "Idealist," my ass. Get off your ass and put some of your damn money and your damn free time to helping the world, Ray Hubbard.
Asshole. Yeah, you are one, kinda, guy. Hanging out with the other assholes in your clique sure ain't gonna help, either.
Fuck it. Made John the driver sit at the window until I got my order just the way I wanted it. Car'll smell like French fries and special sauce for days now unless he gets it cleaned. Ha, ha, ha. The peon strikes back!
8/16/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Bay Horse
A mixture of a modern bar and the pub environment present back in England, in the corner of the large room is a small stage with the PA system already set up and a lone mic standing there, ready for the jam nights, as well as the nights there are bands playing. There's also a fireplace with a mantle with a couple of horsehoes like most English pubs have. The seating also stems back to typical English pubs, older looking wooden tables with wooden seats surrounding them, no particular pattern and a few don't even look like they are the same sort of table. Back to the stage, you made notice the fair sized gap near the stage where there is room to dance if anyone felt like it. Finally we have the bar, a long bar at that which stretches accross an entire wall, behind it is many wierd and wonderful bottles of spirits and mixers and even some real ale, whoever runs this place has dome their research. Theres also a door behind the bar that says employees only and another opposite the entrance that says 'beer garden.
--
Evening in New York City, and it finds the city doing well -- better, perhaps, than Leah Canto, in a dark-brown blouse, paler blue jeans, and a headache almost visible in her face's pinched, blanched expression. Seated at a table near the fireplace, she appears to be self-medicating by way of slow, steady sips at some amber liquid in a highball glass.
The door swishes open, and Raymond Hubbard enters, the fairly warm evening dictating that he's not wearing his customary overcoat or even a suit, but a pair of smartish slacks and a black shirt, open at cuff and collar. He strolls towards Leah at an easy pace, and halts only at her table. "Evening, Leah. Can I get you a drink before we start bitching tonight?"
For answer, Leah lifts her glass. "Beat you to it, Ray." And then looks up at him. Manages a smile. "Long day. Sorry. Sit down! Get yourself a drink, and we can let the bitchery begin."
"Yes, ma'am." Ray agrees, and sets off at a quick step for the bar, swiftly returning with a pitcher of something ale-like and a pair of glasses on a tray. "I figure it'll save some time in the long run." he offers, as he slides onto a chair, placing the drink on the table and pouring himself something. "So, a long day. Enlighten me? Or do you have any other bitching to go on with?"
Leah props her elbows on the table and toys with her drink. It's probably stronger than ale, so she's sticking with it, at least as long as it lasts. "No," she says after a moment's thought. A glance at him, squinting caution, and then back to studying her fingers pushing at and twisting the glass. "Just the day, I suppose. I spent it networking -- fun, huh? Your call came at a good time. Thanks."
"No problem at all." Ray assures, as he takes a deep draught from the ale, a gentle outlaying of breath coming afterwards. "I hate networking. Spend your time surrounded by idiots, only one of which turns out to be useful, and they end up disappearing before you can get their card. That the sort you've had?" He idly toys with the glass a little, before instinctively reaching for a pocket and his cigarettes, which are withdrawn in short order. "Actually, I read that piece you did on the safehouses. Interesting stuff. Take you long to write it?"
"Oh, it wasn't so bad, I guess. I was working my friends and their friends: phone calls, impromptu meetings, a lunch that really could've gone better...." Leah trails off into contemplation of booze. Has a swallow. Pushes out a breath, and another of those thinly manufactured smiles. "The life of a freelance reporter, you know. Sucks. Thanks about the story. It took, oh, months, I guess, from conception to birth. Getting all the interviews took the longest, and doing research. The actual writing was pretty easy: it wrote itself."
He nods slowly at the first, though the second brings an interest. "Never really understood how you people can say these things write themselves. But Jean Grey, must've been kind of scary to meet her, I guess. Someone that can stop bullets in mid-flight, and she said something about being a telepath in that statement a long time ago? Gives me the screaming heebies." Something like the facial equivalent of a shiver, before he takes another long drink. "Guess you've got a lot of offers coming in for work since that story, eh?"
Leah answers shortly, "No," and then tacks on an apologetic grimace. "Phone's not ringing off the hook, but then, it did only come out this week. Maybe soon, maybe soon. I'll think positive thoughts and see where it gets me." She flips a hand at the rest of it, and her smile curves more genuinely. "Oh, hell, it wasn't /so/ bad, really. Granted, I could've done without the mysteriously floating plate of finger sandwiches in the middle of the interview, but hey. You've got powers, you're gonna use 'em, right? Isn't that what her cause is all about?"
"Hopefully get you somewhere decent, and soon." Ray assures with a brief attempt at a sympathetic smile. "Floating sandwiches? Lord, I don't know. It's the telepathy that gets me. She'd scare the hell out of me if I was in the same room. Not sure what her cause really is all about, apart from getting mutants and humans living tolerably together." A slow smile of grimacing thought. "Guess it's alright for someone like her to say. You must know more about what she's trying to do."
Leah murmurs some gratitude for his assurance, but has to drain her drink before actually answering. "There!" She's almost sprightly, almost bright. "I promise to be in a better mood, now that my blood-alcohol level is on the rise. --Don't know about the telepathy, or the cause, so much. If she was reading my mind--" a little shiver, perhaps dramatically enhanced "--well, I wouldn't have known, right? And I'm on the other side of the fence on a lot of what she's espousing. It'd be like asking /her/ to comment on what the Friends of Humanity are doing."
"But you're so much fun when you're bitching and grumpy." Ray responds with a gently teasing tone. "I guess you are, with some of the stuff I've been reading. Yes, I'll admit to looking up some of your previous work out of interest." A brief twinkle appears in his eye at the mention of the Friends, though it could just be humour. "Quite an amusing thought, Jean Grey voicing the Friends of Humanity's line. So I guess you're more on their side of things?"
Leah flashes him a wry smile. "No, I'm really not, but thank you for saying so. Aren't you sweet?" she croons back, and even makes her best go at batting (admittedly short and spiky) lashes. "And even researching me! I'm all a-quiver, Mr. Hubbard. Do you like what I've done? It's not Friends material -- God save me from the terrorists -- but hell, Dr. Grey would probably classify me as close kin, don't you think?" She snorts and reaches for the pitcher to fill the other glass he brought. Her tone is mordant; her expression, piqued. "With the President and Congress we have -- with our own senator, in fact! -- you'd think that a conservative could catch a break in this country, or this city."
Ray chuckles at her comments, though drops into a little more serious for his response. "I'm not really a political man, Leah, but I've always thought that the dangerous ones should be locked up somewhere nice and tight, same as any crazy. And it /is/ kind of scary to think that there are theories out there that suggest we may well be becoming slowly extinct. Dr. Grey's probably plotting your social destruction at this very moment, for you are an evil bigot with no soul." A soft snort of ironic amusement. He shrugs at the last, "You'd think, wouldn't you? I guess maybe you're just a little unlucky in who you've been meeting recently or something."
Leah mutters, "Well, she and my old parish priest could have a discussion about my /soul/-- Extinct? Shit, that's right. Genetic dominance to go with the world dominance that crazy old Magneto wants." She sighs, cupping her ale in her hands on the table. "Helluva world, Ray. Helluva world. As for my unfortunate meetings--" she turns up a quirked mouth "--well, New York /is/ a liberal stronghold, isn't it? Melting pot and all. I love it, and I'm not looking to join the Rush Limbaughs out there, just ... get a steady job. Ha. So I'm crying into my beer to a guy who probably has more money than he knows what to do with, right? Go ahead and laugh at me. I don't mind. I know it's pathetic."
Ray does laugh, but only at the thoughts of Magneto, and wryly. "Erik Lenscherr is a sick, sick man. Who if he ever gets what he wants, we're all screwed." The rest wins a slow smile, tempered by an attempt at empathy, even as the final dregs of his first ale are poured down his throat. "Liberal stronghold, yeah. But with people like Sebastian Shaw out there as well? Hell, there's got to be a steady job, for someone willing to shout out against the mainstream view. Someone with some balls, if you'lle excuse the incongruous reference." Not even Ray is stupid enough to offer her work or money for no particular reason. "Not pathetic. A man with too much money and not enough life. We're both sad cases, Leah, and we can get drunk together to make ourselves feel a little better."
Leah laughs a little, herself, though it comes out with more harshness than humor. "Oh, Shaw. Whatever. Talk about a guy with too much money and not enough life, but hell, if he wants to play the public asshole, let him. I have friends in the biz who've been dining off his interviews for years now. You won't see /me/ lining up at that trough, though." Her mouth hooks down now, thought tightening the flesh around her eyes, and she repeats softly, "Asshole. Anyway. /You/ are not sad, Ray, are you? What brings you to my corner of the bitching world tonight?"
"He's an easy one to break into conversation, I'll give him that." Ray laughs, as he watches her reaction to that. "But yes, asshole of the highest order." More ale poured, more to go down the throat. "Of course I'm sad. It's not like I have a real life. Today's bitch shall mostly be about the damned annoying idiots without a clue in the world who piss me off on a regular basis. And, of course, for me, the classic bitch. Women. And how they don't make sense in general."
Leah snorts. "Well, I'd trade you my life for yours if I could. Probably. Maybe. Would I make a good oil tycoon, d'you think? I don't have much of a head for business, but I could swear with the best of 'em to get things done /for/ me." She leans her weight comfortable on an elbow, now toying with glass again in favor of drinking. Her gaze stays watchful and bright on his face. "Do women piss you off, or are they -- ha, /we/ -- a subset of the first bitching class?"
Ray offers up a wryly ironic smile. "I'm afraid it's not the most taxing job in the world, but it's one of the most depressing. Make an occasional important decision, and spend the rest of your life agreeing with other people's ideas. I only swear at them when I get bored. Which is often." Sounds like a dream job? "Then of course there's endless meaningless phonecalls, meetings with stockholders to be placated when there's a half-point dip, and meaningless conversation with even more meaningless people to try and expand. Still want to try it?" Glug. A deep draught makes its way down his throat. "Women just don't make sense. Especially ones who are trying to toy with you a little when they're fully aware that you're a taken man."
Crooking that hooked little smile, Leah slowly shakes her head. "No, thanks. I'd go mad. Or postal. It wouldn't end well for /some/one, anyway, and since I'm a survivor, well, watch out, board of directors and all else in my path." She studies him a moment, lets him see it, and then presses, "I smell bitching, Ray. And possibly /a/ bitch or two. Who's toying with you? Why?"
"And here was me about to offer you my job for a couple of weeks, with all perks, so I could go on vacation." Ray retorts. "Well, I suppose you'll just have to live without." Mock resignation, and he quirks a little smile up at Leah. "Just a businesswoman who's piqued my interest for making more money. Someone who may even be richer than me." Wry smile enters play. "But I think she thinks I'm after her for her body, and it just doesn't make sense, because she knows I'm attached, and who to. Though I'll admit she's gorgeous, and if I was available I'd be after her like a shot... I don't know. We're going to dinner soon. She's enjoyable company, if nothing else." Bouncing his thoughts off someone else, obviously.
Leah appears content to play sounding-board: nodding along, she asks at the end, "Is there any harm in stringing her along, maybe for contacts or just the hell of it? If your girlfriend doesn't mind, I mean." She looks briefly wicked. "You have nothing but the purest intentions towards this other woman, after all."
"Possibly the ridiculous thing is that I /do/ have only pure intentions towards her." Ray muses, a snort of laughter punching out of his nose. "Maybe I'll just go along and play innocent little redneck. I don't know. Abby doesn't mind me going out with other women, for business, as long as it's kept strictly business. Hell, even for pleasure as long as I'm not playing away." A faint frown delivered to his pint glass, and he drains most of what's left. "So. How's the rest of life in the Leah world?"
"Not nearly /that/ interesting," is the prompt reply from Leah-world's prime resident. "I'm not seeing anyone, for instance, whatever my intentions are." She's blithe about it, by tone and manner, but -- some bitterness. Some envy. Here and gone in acidic flashes. She drowns them with a swallow. "...Nor any fascinating businesswomen to lure me into dinner. Or -men, for that matter. I'm just pounding the pavement for work, Ray, like I told you. Spending time with friends. Ducking phone calls from my mother. Sorry. It really isn't anything worth talking about."
"It's not as thrilling as it sounds." Ray insists as the final dregs of pint two are consumed. "Then we'll have to find something else to bitch about. Mets or Yankees? Football or Soccer? Brotherhood or Friends? Take your pick, Leah."
Leah chuckles as she swirls around the last bit of /her/ ale. "Mets, thanks. Fuck the Yankees. Don't care about football or soccer. But if the Brotherhood and the Friends played each other? Hoo-boy. Bring it on. Stick that Lensherr in pads and a helmet -- no, those bright spandex-or-whatever jerseys and the tight shorts! And make him run around on the pitch until he drops. Ha. Can you imagine?" Malicious glee sparks gaze, eyes, and welcomes the end of her glass on a quick drink. "We could solve the world's mutant problems with sports, Ray. We'd be the saviors of humankind."
Ray actually breaks into a few real barks of laughter. "Sounds like a cracking idea to me, Leah. Suggest it in your next editorial." Another little snicker, and he begins pouring another ale for himself. "In fact, see if you can convince someone to get a cartoon going. You must have some artist friends in your circle? Damnit, you could make a fortune off that idea. Magneto in spandex. Heh."
Leah sniggers. "I know a guy -- yeah, yeah, I can do that. I'm /going/ to do that. And you'll get a cut of the proceeds, Scout's honor." She even offers her hand peremptorily across the table to seal the deal, and she's relaxed into a grin. "You're an evil man. Remind me to stay on your good side. Assuming I am?"
A hand comes forward to seal that deal. "I'll take ten percent for inspiration." He breaks into a broad grin for a moment. "You're on the good side, of course. Else I wouldn't still be here. How am I doing on the Canto scale of asshole? I don't need a scathing commentary in Rolling Stone."
Leah shakes firmly and drops it to lean forward for a refill. Over the pitcher, she glints him a /look./ "I have a scale now? Lord. I like that. You're fine, you're fine. You're good company -- for a spoiled redneck," she allows sympathetically, the glint brighter, "and you buy me drinks. What else can I ask for? You /don't/ have to worry about any commentaries from me, in Rolling Stone or otherwise. Think that bunch of uptight hippies is ever going to treat with me again? Forget it. Had to fight tooth-and-nail just to get in the door. I swear, I'm quitting it all and going to cooking school." Then she snorts again, shakes her head. "If only I didn't have the jones for this crap."
"Good company's high praise from one of Sabitha's friends." Ray replies, wryly. "But I'm happy to be drink-supplier. At least I've got someone here who /does/ drink, and doesn't mind ranting." He quirks a quick smile at Leah, before taking a quick draught. "If you can sell copies with that story, then they'll be crawling back for more, hippies or no. It's all about the money, to be honest, unless you managed to really piss them off somehow. And you're in the door, so surely they can't kick you out too easily? I must confess I have no idea how that game works."
Leah tells him readily, "It works on money and influence. Who's paying who, who's helping who, who's screwing who -- c'mon, Ray, /every/ game works like that. You're in business; you should know." Her expression is almost fond. Or condescending. "Good thing you're coming to me with this, instead of some of the sharks in town ... or are you just trying to make me feel better, by playing the naif?"
Condescending he can deal with. Fond would be more difficult. "Every game is slightly different. Mine works more on sheer brute force of social power, or failing that, political threat. It's surprising what a group of oilmen can do to a vote. However, I figured your game was more personal, more getting out there and speaking to people. Real people." Another slow smile crosses the table. "I'm always interested to see how someone else works at their job."
A short headshake, then Leah taps her forefinger's nail on the table between them in an impatient rhythm. "In case you missed the part where I'm unemployed -- I suck at games. Networking. Whatever. All that. Otherwise, I'd be head of NBC or the Times, right?" She tries to put a smile's spin on it and stops the tapping. "Sorry. I'm ascribing evil motives to a man of pure intentions. I /am/ having a bad life, aren't I?"
Ray takes another drink, a couple of gulps helping it along slightly. "Maybe you're just best suited to the freelance work. Either that, or you're simply unlucky. Hell, you don't seem like an incompetent to me." Frankness is coming out now, as he frowns lightly at Leah's expression. "And you should figure I must be evil. I'm rich, remember? Thus scum of the earth. The bastard with the lucky start in life." There's a snort of ironic laughter, before he carefully studies Leah across the table. "Either that, or you're just not really going for it because you don't really like what you're doing."
Leah twitches at that last. Time for a drink on her side of the table, oh, yes. And a response to the rest of his words, not /that/: "Nah, I'm not one of the proles waving a pitchfork and calling for your heads, you ruling-class folks. Let me eat cake; that's all I ask. A steady paycheck, and cake." She has her thin smile in place after a couple swallows, and so moves carefully on. "I do like what I do, Ray. It's what I am. It's pretty much all I've known, as a working adult. Cooking school -- well, that's just a lark I think about now and then. I'd never actually do it. Set in my ways, you know? I want to serve my community, hokey as that sounds, and I'm doing it as a reporter." Pause. Admission: "When I can."
"No idea what to suggest, unless you'd like to run a story on the cake-suppliers like myself." Ray offers sardonically. "Then again, I've always been one to look for solutions rather than sit back. Maybe find yourself a good, honest, conservative paper and write for them? Money might not be great, but it'd be there." He shrugs again as he gulps at his drink, placing the glass down fairly carefully. "Serve your community? Sounds like you'd be better off serving yourself, like the rest of the world."
"Yeah, I'm looking into the conservative rags. The New Republic's kept me on as a stringer, but for online work, mostly. Maybe..." Leah lets the thought run out, along with her frown. She forces a fresh smile. "Hey, don't knock community service, Mr. Rich Bitch. I'll have you know that I was going to be a cop for the first two decades of my life. Would've been a damn good one, too."
"Just keep looking. Something will hop up eventually." Ray reassures with a quick smile. He shakes his head slightly at the rest, with a slowly raising eyebrow. "A cop? Why not go do that now? Good pension, good colleagues. Hell, ran into a pair the other day who were almost human."
Leah snickers into her ale. "Versus what? Mutants?"
Ray chuckles slightly. "No, versus me, though one insisted on making sure I wasn't going to fire green goop at hookers. I offered to cover him in shower gel, but he didn't appreciate it." Quick drink.
Leah's eyes go wide; the mental connections behind them are nearly visible (and rather clumsy from the alcohol). "One of 'em wasn't a Vincent Lazzaro, was he?"
"I don't know. One was called Rossi, for certain. The other was a balding guy, about my height. Come to think of it, maybe he was called Lazzaro, yeah." Ray watches with interest. "You know him?"
Leah chokes on her swallow. "--Shit. Sorry. Yeah! That's them. Homicide and MA -- Rossi and Lazzaro." Her expression's tighter than a drumskin, but she's leaning forward as if to hear more. Or share. "Damn, what are the chances? Did you /see/ them on the news? Mutant attack. Injured in the line of duty. It was stupid. Awful. But mostly stupid."
"Homicide? Jeez." Ray looks genuinely surprised at that. "Guess that's why he insisted on being called Detective so much, eh? I didn't see the news about it. Man, that's wrong. What happened?"
"They're both detectives, and detectives want to be called properly, you know. They've earned it. My cousin Maggie's one, and you /don't/ want to call her 'Officer' on a bad day." Leah swings her head in a slow, amused shake, then lifts it for a calmer, smoother sip. "They just got jumped, basically. A couple of teenagers high on their own powers or something. Rossi took a bullet--" worry and exasperation both etch acid emphasis in her voice "--but he said Vincent's fine. Bruises, I guess. What a job, huh? 'Swhy you don't see /me/ walkin' a beat."
"I don't know enough about the Force to really know about that, but fair enough." Ray placates, with an obvious amusement in his tone. "Might have to send Rossi some flowers. He actually had me laughing, to be honest. Any idea what hospital he's at?" He shrugs slightly, though there's a touch of sympathy present. "Makes sense, I guess. A dangerous job, but a fair and honest one."
Leah rolls her eyes. "Believe me, the last thing that man needs is more flowers. He's got schoolkids bringing 'em to his bedside. As if his ego wasn't already--" But the rest of that mutter dives into her ale. Nearly finished. She stares into the glass. More refill soon! "Don't worry about it, Ray. 'Bout him. He'll be fine, the lucky ass. God. It's like going through it with my family again. Always hard when someone in your circle goes down, huh? You ever go through that?"
Ray actually breaks into a full grin. "But I bet he's never received a thousand daisies from a mysterious gentleman. That should scare him, right?" He smiles down at his own drink for a moment, somewhat fuzzily taking it up for a lengthy glug, before again carefully placing it down. "I've had a few people I know hurt. Scary stuff, when you're at the stage where you don't know if they're going to be alright again." Something has allowed a slight Southern drawl into his tone now. Not alcohol. Not at all
Oh, as if Leah's own Brooklyn brass weren't swaggering more broadly through her alto. Just a little. The topic doesn't help, of course. "Yeah. Lost my dad that way. Uncles. The usual, I guess. Hell with the force," she sighs and puts her glass down, too -- but only to top it off for the second time. "NYPD eats its own, and for what? So some mutant kids can get their rocks off against us normals? Is the MRA completely worthless? Be patient, everyone says, and let the law take effect, work its magic, what-the-hell-ever ... and cops gettin' gunned down in the street, tryin' to protect themselves and the people of this damn city."
"'Cause they're not allowed to get on with their job properly." Ray decides. "And mutants get away with so much 'because they're different and troubled.' Bullshit. The Force isn't equipped to deal with the dangerous mutants or even the normal gangs and the like because the red-tape-brigade refuse to spend the money on it that's desperately needed. Idiots." A little rant coming through as he sups again at the beer. "Patient my ass. Something needs to be done, and rapidly, before the entire country goes to shit."
Leah frowns. "Well ... I don't know." Idealism struggles dimly against the weight of depression and stress and anxiety. And bigotry. And also alcohol. "The shelters aren't /that/ old yet, and the MRA just passed. I'm not sayin' we wait a generation to see if these seeds produce flowers or whatever, but we're not gonna have forced-labor camps, either. 'Rapidly.' Hell, Ray. Like what? They can't breed us out of existence /that/ fast. Or kill us all. We outnumber them!"
"I'm not talking about the mutants now, Leah. Not specifically." Ray assures, "But all the dickheads that are sending America downhill. The people who come, don't even speak the damned language, and end up gangbanging on the streets of New York. The muggers and footpads who go out and hurt old women for kicks and thrills. And, of course, people like Lenscherr who's aim in life is to kill and maim and take over." He shakes his head, slowly. "I'm just an angry citizen, I guess. No way would I advocate labor camps or anything like that. But I do believe something should be done to set the country to rights. Hell, I'm an idealist, it'll never happen. But remember, we're talking about bitching?"
Leah nods along, gaze still on her glass. She has another little sip. "You're not a racist, are you?" she asks quietly and peeks at him. "Hey, no one said people have to speak English here, and gangs are everyone's problem, not just immigrants'." Her smile curves sardonic, self-aware, and a little mocking. "You know, bash the muties all you want, but don't you talk trash about good old-fashioned races. That shit ain't right, Southern boy."
Ray breaks into a wryly self-conscious smile. "Reformed racist. Got years of conditioning to deal with; the rednecks are surprisingly good at brainwash techniques." He snorts a sardonic smile into his glass before tipping it for emptying. "'Sides, I figure there /should/ be a single language. Hell, I'd be happy to learn whatever it was they chose for it. But you're right. Gangs are everyone's issue, and I'm just getting a little carried away. Must be the ale."
"I'll drink to that," Leah smiles back. "In fact, I think I /am/ drinking to that. And, eh, don't mind me. I grew up in this here melting pot, but not everyone thinks alike. At least you admit it, and you didn't rip my head off about it. I promise not to lecture. Promise. Anyway, about the rest of it -- actually, no. Don't get me started on politicians. 'Swhat I do, or usually do, for a living. Damn weasels. Congresscritters and lying sacks of shit." She deliberately sniffs. "I will be some kind of -ist about /them./ I swear, the only thing keeping this country from going off the rails is sheer inertia. Not idealism, not democracy, not shining and noble deeds. Just pure stupid momentum. And all it'd take to /shift/ the direction is just a little pebble, right?"
"Absolutely. Change that direction just a little and a few years down the line we're living in a completely different place." Ray agrees, with a briefly nodding smile. "Everyone hates politicians. Even politicians. /Especially/ politicians. I'm surprised they're not an endangered species by now." His lips quirk into another smile as he looks at the women. "But what sort of pebble are you talking about?"
Leah sighs over her glass, flapping a hand vaguely at him. "Hell if I know. It's always the little events, isn't it? Well, big ones, too. Another Liberty Island, maybe. Or, I guess, from the other direction -- maybe someone tries to assassinate Jean Grey? We tip over into 'death to mutants!' or 'yay, mutants!' Or we just keep on keepin' on, same as always."
"And the way it goes could very well depend on the mood of the mob on the day." Ray muses lightly, even as he knocks back the remainder of his drink. He shrugs at Leah, before peering at the now-empty pitcher. "Damnit. Empty. But I figure it'll be interesting to watch what happens. We just have to hope the city survives it, eh?" He glances to his watch. "Shit, is that the time already?"
Leah fumbles at her wrist to peer at her watch, too. "Guess it is." She rounds an apologetic look at him. "Sorry. The bitchery goes into overtime, huh? You got a busy day tomorrow? All ... tycooning and stuff."
"Tycooning happily away. And a dinner with a ridiculously rich businesswoman. Ms. Frost awaits me." The apologetic look is met only by a friendly smile. "Don't worry about how long we've been here, I've enjoyed it."
Leah stretches out a hand to pat his. She's very careful to make sure not to miss it, or to pat too heavily, or to make it linger. Concentration! "You're a good guy, then, Ray. Thanks. --/Emma/ Frost?" That sharpens her a bit, brings her head up curiously. "Seriously?"
Ray makes a mock-magmanimous gesture. "Don't compliment me, you'll scare me." he retorts with a twinkle to his eye, looking remarkably steady on his feet considering the volume of alcohol consumed in a short period of time as he stands up. "Emma Frost indeed. That's the lady I was talking about."
"Oh, please. What do /you/ have to be scared of, especially from /me/?" Bitterness sways Leah to her feet, too, and she goes digging in her pockets for her wallet. Hmm. "Well, good luck with her, man. She runs in the highest circles around here, to judge by the parties she's at and the people she's with. But I guess you're used to that, huh? Having dinner with /the/ Emma Frost isn't a big deal, probably." There's the wallet! And open and peered into. "Oh, hell. Andy took my last twenty."
"Compliments, my dear." Ray replies with a brief smile. "I've not learnt to expect them from you. But it'll be alright, I guess. I'll have to be polite and all, though she's surprisingly good company. Most rich types are assholes." He raises an eyebrow. "Don't worry about it. I'll have my driver take you home, and I can walk. It's not far to my apartment."
Leah bristles, but wearily. "Hey, you're a good guy, but I live out in freakin' Westchester County. I'm good enough for the train. Got my MetroCard and everything." She does put the wallet back, though. Reluctantly. "I hate being beholden," she goes on more quietly, evenly. "But thanks for the drinks, at least. And the company. I'll try to keep the compliments to a dull roar. You're a taken man, after all." And /there's/ a flashed, full grin. "I missed my chance at that car wreck, all that time ago, huh?"
"Maybe you did." Ray replies, quirking a lopsided grin back. "But Westchester's plenty close enough. The man's paid to drive people to wherever the hell I tell him to. It's nice and easy, and comfortable. Just take it as a thanks for the company. No arguments, and no debt." He shrugs as he walks to the door, holding it open for Leah to exit. "I suppose I can live with the odd compliment from a famously published and stylish journalist."
That draws a low, beery laugh from said journalist as she slides by him. She's steady enough on her feet to manage it, but she's blinking a bit much, and her words drag like laden fishing nets through the murky waters of Brooklyn's alto. "/Now/ who's complimenting, Ray? Fine, fine, I'll take the damn driver. I'll make him stop at a McDonald's so I can grab something for the ride home." She turns on the sidewalk to eye him archly, teasingly. "That okay?"
"I believe he's fully trained in the art of the drive-through." Ray assures, "So you shouldn't run into any issues." Hand enters pocket, withdraws phone, finds correct number. "He'll be here in a minute or so. And what's wrong with complimenting when you keep on doing it to me?" Southern tones drift and drawl through the sentences a little, as he allows a smile in her direction. "Doesn't it scare you?"
Leah tells him, "Hardly. A little complimenting and flirting never hurt anyone. Good for the soul. Or at least the ego. Something like that." She stuffs her hands in her pockets and composes herself to wait. And study him some more. "It doesn't /mean/ anything, really. Just something you do in polite society, y'know. I say something nice, you say something nice, and we all feel good. Scary is mutant attacks and shit."
Ray counters, "And we all offer platitudes and graciously accept meaningless drivel. Unfortunately, when I say you're good company, I'm actually telling the truth. Ego-stroking's a socialite game. One that I'm not very good at. Anyhow,-" He peers to the side, at an approaching set of lights attached to a rather gorgeous and practically new Lexus. "Mutant attacks are thankfully rare enough not to scare me too much. However, keep an eye on John the driver, he's got an eye for the ladies."
"Then I have nothing to fear," chuckles Leah in acidic reply, "since I'm nowhere near a /lady./ Leave that to your pretty Emma, Ray. This him? Great." She shuffles towards the car's approach, back a step, then another. Sighs. "It /was/ a nice evening. You know what I mean. Thanks for listening. And bitching."
Ray nods at the driver as he pulls up, and the oilman steps forward to open one of the back doors for Leah. "Same to you, Leah. Thanks. And now I do the gentlemanly thing while you get in, and then wacth you drift off into the sunset, even as I take the arduous walk home. Fare thee well, lady."
Leah murmurs, "Awww," in eye-rolling mockery, but does lean to kiss his cheek before she slithers into the car. A wave flips out, cheerful and dismissive at once, and then she's all the way in. Time for that sunset. And the drive-through!
[Log ends.]