5/18/07 - Andre, Lark
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The scent of mint tea, coffee, and fresh baked cookies added to the cheerful chatter of Friday afternoon customers makes the little cafe seem warm and welcoming. Lark sinks back into the puffy cushions of an armchair until her feet don't touch the ground anymore, then tucks them up underneath her. After a cursory glance around at the busy tables she leans down to pull her bag to her across the floor. With an effort she heaves a heavy textbook up unto her lap and turns to a ragged bookmark that proclaims in bold letters "At least I'm not a trombonist!"
"Something with ginger in it," says a clear, carrying baritone, a lazy-paced sway of a voice that matches the casual attire of the speaker. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, Nordic and California-tanned, Steve Bessick drops into a sprawl at a neighboring table and props his feet on the table.
"Fuckwit," says his companion, dropping beside him. Already the trumpet-player's attention has moved away: there are cute girls at the next table, after all, and he leans towards them like a masculine flower to sun. Chris Rossi stretches his legs, a cup of coffee cradled in his stomach, and turns his own glance elsewhere. Patrons. Busboys. Passersby. Lark. An eyebrow shoots up. "Hey--"
While Andre Harrison is the proud owner of many sloganized t-shirts, the one he wears today does not proclaim his profession. Rather, the noble mission statement of 'Stop Plate Tectonics!' is emblazoned across his chest. Nor is the sign of his calling in life clutched in his hands at the ready to be used; instead, that right hand is occupied by the handle of a metal hospital-issue cane, though this is used loosely rather than for solid support. A black bag is slung over his other shoulder, its professional contents invisible, and a cup of coffee has recently been placed in his left hand. He turns away from the line and begins the search for a table, though it's only a short matter of time before his eyes lock on the music geekery of Lark's shirt. With a quiet laugh, the percussionist heads in that direction.
Lark looks up at the sound of a familiar voice pitched in her direction. A blush spreads across her cheeks when she recognizes Rossi. She looks down at her book again for a moment, as though contemplating hiding behind it. Then she carefully replaces her bookmark and closes the book. Hefting it in one hand she slides her feet to the floor and stands up. Quickly she glances to check her bag is out of sight under the chair and her sweater is holding her spot. Then she starts to head over toward Rossi, winding her way between tables. Not paying much attention to the other people around her she doesn't notice Andre until she's pretty much walked right up into his personal space. She stops and blushes again. "Uh, sorry. Crowded in here, huh?"
The eyebrow, already lifted, is joined by its fellow as recognition bounces off of Lark and marks Andre in turn. "You two together?" Rossi asks, dragging himself up on his chair just far enough that his reach for the table (still adorned by Steve's feet) requires little effort on his part. The coffee cup chimes quietly, placed on marble; the cop tucks a foot under his chair, preparing to stand. "Beckah know you're stepping out on her, man?"
Not expecting to be converged upon does not mean there is much time to prepare against coffee spillage. It's fortunate that Andre has a to-go cup with a plastic lid, though a small trickle of steaming liquid does run out of the drinking hole. The Californian wrinkles his nose as the coffee heats but does not burn, then nods at Lark's question. Any verbal response, though, is preempted by Rossi's interjection and the requirement to respond to that "Hrhwha? I've never seen this woman before in my life, though I have to say, I approve of the t-shirt already."
Lark steps back away from Andre with a snort and a raised eyebrow for Rossi. She adds to Andre "Thanks, I don't usually wear it except on laundry days. I'd get in trouble with some good trombone playing friends of mine. Cellists are just too hard to make fun of, and they say it's not fair for me to take advantage." The book slips in her hand, the shiny cover squeaking a little in protest. Lark lifts her other hand to stop it falling then steps over to set it on the bar beside Rossi's coffee. "You two friends?"
A body passes between Rossi and the pair, cutting off both his reply and his rise. When the path has cleared again, the cop has retrenched himself in his seat, comfortable in his casual attire: jeans, unzipped black leather jacket, dark blue NYPD T-shirt beneath. "Andy," he says, gesturing towards the other man with a scarred and amiable hand. "Dates a girl I know. Beckah. Andre, meet--" He pauses. Regards Lark quizzically. "I never got your name, did I?"
"What, you mean you've avoided people telling you you should've taken up piccolo instead whenever they see you lugging the case around?" Andre's eyebrows raise exaggeratedly high as he asks, before falling into a more natural conversational position as he tilts his head toward Rossi. "Yeah, I knew /about/ him before I actually /met/ him." Dun dun dunnn.
Lark chuckles. "That's exactly what /he/ said." Extending a hand, with an odd glance at Rossi, she continues "I'm Lark. I mostly avoid it by projecting an aura of firm confidence and carrying Juliet around as little as conceivably possible. It doesn't always work of course, which is how I met Detective Rossi." Her smile gains a hint of self mockery. "And proceeded to bitch about my life to him." She braid slips off her shoulder to hang down her back as she turns to Rossi. "The whole confessing thing to a stranger didn't turn out so well, did it? Hopefully I now I can make up for it and convince you I'm not actually crazy."
Green eyes smile at Andre, bright with mockery. "That supposed to worry her? What the hell did Beckah tell you, anyway?" Rossi asks, telescoping a bit to shove Steve's feet off the table. The trumpet player shifts in his seat, legs dropping with a thump, and pauses just long enough to acknowledge Lark with a familiar nod before returning to his flirting. "Don't worry about it," the detective adds towards the cellist. "Happens to me all the time. Grab a seat if you want, both of you."
Andre simply flashes Rossi a toothy grin and accompanies it with a shrug. "All musicians are crazy, and are required to say that to cellists as part of audition procedure," he corrects Lark teasingly as he uses the stick of his cane to snag a chair by the leg and pull it out from the table and slips into the seat, setting his coffee down slowly but letting the cane clatter out of his hand. "And it was nothing bad, I promise," he answers Rossi, phrase displaced from expression.
"I'd better go grab my bag before it decides to grow legs and wander away." Lark throw the last of this over her shoulder as she elbows her way back over to her armchair. She bends un-selfconciously from the waist to dig her bag out from the dusty space under the trendy furniture. Muttering something about sweeping and teenagers, she picks a large dust bunny of the corduroy of her bag. Snagging her sweater as well she slings them both over her shoulder and makes her way a little more politely and carefully back over toward Rossi and Andre.
"Knowing Becks," Rossi begins, stretching his legs into the aisle to obstruct the traffic. He claims his coffee cup in lieu of finishing the thought, and takes a swallow. His eyebrow quirks up at Andre before turning towards the drummer's cane. "Still got problems with the leg? Thought you were gonna get better. Leftover? Or are you a gimp for life?" Tactful man. He wedges a foot under one of the spindly chairs by the table and shoves, sending it careening towards Lark in an exceedingly physical invitation.
Said cane happens to be a little bit more in the middle of the floor than it needs to be, and Andre extends one leg to catch the cane around his toes and pull it more under the table as Rossi mentions it. "Not really so much anymore, but the doctors told me I have to keep using the thing until the six month mark. I told them I'm feeling fine without it rehearsal and my building and stuff, but I guess six months is some sort of magic number for them." He wrinkles his nose and shrugs.
Catching the chair with one hand, Lark pushes it in front of her as she continues up to the table. She drops her bag and sweater and then attempts to arrange herself on the chair. First criss-cross, then feet tucked, finally she settles on one foot up on the edge and the other dangling just off the ground. After dragging her eyes away from the girls Steve is flirting with at a neighboring table, she catches the tail end what Andre is saying. "Doctors? Would it be rude of me to ask what happened?"
Rossi's eyes half-lid. Under the shadow of black lashes, too long to be masculine, pale eyes smile. "Baryshnikov here had a little incident." He takes refuge behind his cup again, gesturing with a hand. On one finger, moody red gleams in a heavy Academy ring. Andre's story.
"Baryshnikov," Andre repeats with a snort and a shake of his head. "Dude. If I'm suddenly able to /dance/ after six months, maybe the magic cane number'll've been worth it. To some degree. Maybe." He takes the travel lid off his coffee, blows across the surface of the liquid, and takes a small sip. "Big guy, small alley. I'd rather take the trombone section in my ear canal, really."
"Kinky fucker," says Rossi, and blows across his coffee.
Lark snorts. "I can just hear my stand partner saying 'What? I don't get it!'. She has a disturbingly /clean/ mind." She lets both feet slip to the floor and leans over to rummage in her bag. After a moment she pulls out a small pad of paper and very small pencil. Sitting back in the chair she tucks both knees up and starts writing behind them, glancing up at Rossi occasionally. She is clearly trying and yet failing to be subtle.
Says Rossi, mouth twisting, "'Clean' isn't one of the words usually used to describe us proud officers in the NYPD. Don't know what Beckah would say about your mind, man-- /what/?" he breaks off in a swift kick of curiosity, gaze sharpening on Lark and her pad. "Something interesting?"
Andre grimaces, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his teeth. The expression could be taken for genuine, if it is not interrupted with a laugh and another shake of his head. "You /know/ I didn't mean that!" he protests as he brushes displaced hair out of his eyes. "Trombones, I continue to uphold, are worse! And besides, Beckah's the one who rents all the zombie movies for our dates!" This second accusation cannot help but sound fond. As Lark pulls out the pad, Andre leans forward. "Whazzat?"
"uh, it's just.. I'm trying to..." Lark sighs and starts again, sitting up straight and lifting her chin. "A friend of mine is trying to convince me to start composing. She got me to carry this around in case something occurred to me. When I met you detective something did. Then I looked at it again later and it was all wrong. So now I'm trying to fix it." Finishing, she lets her defensiveness drop a little. "I hope you don't mind."
Rossi's reply is a blank look and a baffled, "What?" He slouches a little. His eyebrows lower in puzzled suspicion. "The fuck? You aren't writing crap for-- for boy bands, are you?"
Andre's eyebrows raise in surprise, and he leans further over the table, hand and forearm flat against the surface, fingers tapping noiselessly, gaze focused on the blank back of the pad. "Sort of an Enigma Variations kind of thing?"
"Enigma what?" Rossi slouches even further. /Musicians/.
Lark Shoots a somewhat hurt glance at Rossi, but smiles at Andre. "Exactly. Though If I could I'd want to make this into a string quartet. I'm just not good enough though. I get frustrated, which is why I don't normally try. Have you ever done any composing?"
"String quartets're hard," Andre observes. "I took this seminar about the genre in undergrad. They were considered a big deal thing for composers to do. Pretty ambitious, but hey, why not?" He shrugs, smiling encouragingly even as he shakes his head. "I haven't tried since assigned stuff in school. And the Enigma Variations," he turns to Rossi, "is this piece by Elgar, where he tried to portray all of his friends with the music. Except then he tried to hide it by using only their initials as titles. Maybe in case they didn't like the piece!"
"A pretty famous piece. I think there's even play named after it." Lark sets the pad and pencil down on the the table to take a wallet out of her back pocket. As she stands up she checks its contents, counting to herself. "..16! I'm practically rich." She glances at the coffee cups the other two are holding. "I'm going to go get something very sugary and bad for me. Either of you want anything?"
Rossi says with some cynicism, "Smart guy. Can't say I'd picture myself-- sorry, /hear/ myself," he corrects with a glance at Lark, "as a string quartet. What is that, a few violins, a cello, add soda and blend? That's that stuff they play in expensive restaurants, right?" Man of culture, Det. Rossi. He slumps forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and squints up at the girl. "I'm good. Can you afford to treat people on a musician's salary?"
"I'm good," Andre responds to Lark's question with a gesture toward his mostly-full cup of coffee. Which he proceeds to lift and sip after acknowledging his existence. "Yeah, two violins, viola, and cello. Restaurants, wedding gigs, museums...all the stuff they /never/ ask the percussionists to do." His other hand swats at the air. "Cellists'd be able to treat more often with the extra gigs." He nods solidly.
"Ah, I'm feeling particularly rich right now too." Lark smiles proudly "The New York Phil pays a lot better then what I was making back in Chicago. I'll be right back." She nods to the two men and walks over to the cash register. Things have quieted down a little and she orders quickly. Waiting for her cup of sugar and milk with a hint of coffee, she leans back on the counter and appreciatively watches the girls Steve is still flirting with. Then after the call of "Luck!" --which she astutely recognizes as intended to be her name-- she collects her coffee and slowly heads back to the table, sipping as she walks.
"Money," Rossi says, scrubbing a hand through black hair streaked with thin strands of grey. He crimps his mouth and glances askance at Andre, quizzical under the wrinkled brow. "They really make that much? A detective's salary can go pretty far, if you're living my lifestyle. Eat out cheap, rent, movie once in a while-- Christ," he realizes to no one in particular. "I'm a pretty boring guy. What do percussionists do for extra cash, anyway? Drive taxis? Deliver pizzas? Porn?"
"Last one's /still/ trombonists," Andre keeps up the thread of mockery. "They learn to play in terms of positions, after all..." He raises one eyebrow, then quickly adds, "as they boast themselves!" He takes another sip of his coffee, drumming two fingers against the side of the cup as he sets it back down. "Non-classical gigs," he answers the question in earnest, "though the orchestra I'm in actually pays ok. Though not as well as the /Phil/. /Jeez/!" The final phrase is inflected more intensely, impressed and jealous at once, as Lark approaches the table once more.
"Only last chair, bottom of the pile. Still, I just moved for the job and I am indecently excited. It's pretty much my dream job." Her eyes are lit and sits straight when she sits down in her chair. "I'm surprised the concert master is so nice. The last one I had was a complete bitch to everyone but her darling first violins." She takes a pull at her coffee and makes a face. "whew, this is disgustingly sweet even for me. I'll have to run it off in the Park tomorrow morning."
Rossi's harsh face, relaxed briefly by a smile at the trombone sally, scratches at the hollow of his cheek. Nails scrape against stubble. "What the hell's a non-classical gig?" he asks. "Jazz bands, rock bands, garage bands, that sort of thing?" He tracks Lark's return with upraised brows, straightening a bit to reclaim his coffee cup. "Not much call for cello in any of those."
"It's /still/ the /Phil/!" Andre insists, shrugging and facing both palms toward the ceiling. The rhyme, it appears, was unintentional, though he reacts to it with a quiet, "Heh." His hands fall back to the table and resume their silent tapping. "Even last chair's pretty much a lifetime goal. Even /triangle/ is a lifetime goal there. Man." The tapping really should be making noise at the rate it's going, but it doesn't. "That about covers it," he notes to Rossi. "I have a bad band," the word bad is used lovingly, "we do some gigs. And when I was still in California, there was the occasional small film soundtrack. Once or twice."
"You should know detective there's an important distinction between a /percussionist/ and a /drummer/. Andre is clearly a percussionist." She nods to Andre, giving it as the compliment it is. "A drummer on the other hand is even even worse than a trombonist. They only play drums, not any of the other percussion instruments, and pretty much every other musician makes fun of them." She smiles, lightening the stricture to joking. "By the way a cello can do some non-classical music too. I play Jazz. Some cellists also play double base and that's in great demand."
"Shut down," Rossi says with an entirely false chagrin, his eyes grinning over the tip of the coffee cup. He tips back the last of the drink and sets it back on the table, a glance at Steve confirming that the man is, indeed, striking it lucky with at least one of the girls at the neighboring table. The cop makes a sound of mixed exasperation and amusement. "Jazz is my thing. You want to write me into music, make it jazz. --This isn't one of those whack things where you'll write my soul into it and the first time it's performed I'll die, right?"
Andre beams toothily as Lark upholds his position in the orchestra against his more common drumstick-wielding peers. "Not to mention /percussionists/ can do a better impression of /drummers/ than the drummers themselves can!" He nods, eyes partly lidding in joking smugness. His expression recedes to something less exaggerated as he adds, "I kinda wish I hadn't bypassed the chance I had to do some jazz stuff when I was earlier on in learning to play. It seems like the kind of thing that comes more naturally the earlier you start it."
Lark Lark looks over to Rossi and raises an eyebrow. "Uh...no? As far as I know I'm not either good at stealing souls or bent on bringing about your death." Turning back to Andre and letting the eyebrow fall she replies "I guess I started pretty early. My dad was really into old jazz records when I was growing up and I pretty much backed my cello teacher into a corner, made him teach me how to play. I tried to pick up double bass, which is a much better or at least /easier/ jazz instrument, but I'm uh, not quite tall enough." She smiles wryly at that mental image. Rubbing her arms and making a little hiss of cold, she pulls on her oversize sweater, which unintentionally emphasizes her small size.
Rossi leans slowly towards Andre, head tilting. "It's possible my job's making me paranoid," he confides. "You think?"
"I'd say it's a justified paranoia," Andre responds in a stage-whisper, tilting his own head back toward Rossi. His voice comes back up to its normal tenor as he suggests to Lark, "You could get one of those special bass stools?" He lifts one hand from the table and holds it at an estimated height level for one of those stools. "And yeah, I didn't grow up around the jazz stuff, which is why I didn't think to take the opportunity. My dad's an ethnomusicologist who does stuff about drums, but not drumset-type."
Lark pulls her braid from behind her should and strips off the hair band at the end. She puts in on her left wrist where it joins a collection of several similar ones. As she talks she starts to unbraid her hair. "It's unfair how much our parents influence the course of our lives when we're little. There's several things that I would have make me learn when I was little, if I were, you know capable of time travel." She finishes pulling the braid apart and runs her fingers through her hair, playing with it absently. "You two aren't quite the demographic I try for, but maybe you could give me an opinion. I'm trying to decide whether or not to cut all this hair off and go for a pixie cut or something."
"Don't look at me," Rossi demurs with haste, lifting both hands to ward off the question. He unfolds to stand; beside him, Steve glances up, eyebrows arching, only to grin when the other man waves dismissively: stay. "I don't offer opinions on chicks' looks. I'm heading out. Luck," he tells Lark, touching two fingers to his temple in a lackadaisical salute. Eyes flick towards Andre. "You too. See you around. Say hi to Becks for me."
"I know--" Andre begins as Lark mentions time travel, then cuts off quickly, following up with, "My mom's a geophysicist. Aheh." He shuts his eyes, raises his eyebrows, mock-frowns, and shrugs. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then taps the table some more. The expression that follows his swallowing is blanker than before. "Really can't say. I mean, my girlfriend has red dreadlocks. And yeah, I'll be sure to say hi!" He nods to Rossi on the last sentence, lifting one hand and waving it, a motion from the wrist. "Seeya around!"
Lark raises a hand in farewell. "It was fun. Maybe I'll run into you again sometime." Turning back to Andre she says "What's she like? Your girlfriend, I mean." Looking genuinely interested, she starts braiding her hair into a pair of pigtails.
One last, backhanded gesture of farewell and Rossi heads out, his stride long and even. Left behind, Steve scoots his chair closer to join the girls at the next table: his preferences is obvious enough.
The scent of mint tea, coffee, and fresh baked cookies added to the cheerful chatter of Friday afternoon customers makes the little cafe seem warm and welcoming. Lark sinks back into the puffy cushions of an armchair until her feet don't touch the ground anymore, then tucks them up underneath her. After a cursory glance around at the busy tables she leans down to pull her bag to her across the floor. With an effort she heaves a heavy textbook up unto her lap and turns to a ragged bookmark that proclaims in bold letters "At least I'm not a trombonist!"
"Something with ginger in it," says a clear, carrying baritone, a lazy-paced sway of a voice that matches the casual attire of the speaker. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, Nordic and California-tanned, Steve Bessick drops into a sprawl at a neighboring table and props his feet on the table.
"Fuckwit," says his companion, dropping beside him. Already the trumpet-player's attention has moved away: there are cute girls at the next table, after all, and he leans towards them like a masculine flower to sun. Chris Rossi stretches his legs, a cup of coffee cradled in his stomach, and turns his own glance elsewhere. Patrons. Busboys. Passersby. Lark. An eyebrow shoots up. "Hey--"
While Andre Harrison is the proud owner of many sloganized t-shirts, the one he wears today does not proclaim his profession. Rather, the noble mission statement of 'Stop Plate Tectonics!' is emblazoned across his chest. Nor is the sign of his calling in life clutched in his hands at the ready to be used; instead, that right hand is occupied by the handle of a metal hospital-issue cane, though this is used loosely rather than for solid support. A black bag is slung over his other shoulder, its professional contents invisible, and a cup of coffee has recently been placed in his left hand. He turns away from the line and begins the search for a table, though it's only a short matter of time before his eyes lock on the music geekery of Lark's shirt. With a quiet laugh, the percussionist heads in that direction.
Lark looks up at the sound of a familiar voice pitched in her direction. A blush spreads across her cheeks when she recognizes Rossi. She looks down at her book again for a moment, as though contemplating hiding behind it. Then she carefully replaces her bookmark and closes the book. Hefting it in one hand she slides her feet to the floor and stands up. Quickly she glances to check her bag is out of sight under the chair and her sweater is holding her spot. Then she starts to head over toward Rossi, winding her way between tables. Not paying much attention to the other people around her she doesn't notice Andre until she's pretty much walked right up into his personal space. She stops and blushes again. "Uh, sorry. Crowded in here, huh?"
The eyebrow, already lifted, is joined by its fellow as recognition bounces off of Lark and marks Andre in turn. "You two together?" Rossi asks, dragging himself up on his chair just far enough that his reach for the table (still adorned by Steve's feet) requires little effort on his part. The coffee cup chimes quietly, placed on marble; the cop tucks a foot under his chair, preparing to stand. "Beckah know you're stepping out on her, man?"
Not expecting to be converged upon does not mean there is much time to prepare against coffee spillage. It's fortunate that Andre has a to-go cup with a plastic lid, though a small trickle of steaming liquid does run out of the drinking hole. The Californian wrinkles his nose as the coffee heats but does not burn, then nods at Lark's question. Any verbal response, though, is preempted by Rossi's interjection and the requirement to respond to that "Hrhwha? I've never seen this woman before in my life, though I have to say, I approve of the t-shirt already."
Lark steps back away from Andre with a snort and a raised eyebrow for Rossi. She adds to Andre "Thanks, I don't usually wear it except on laundry days. I'd get in trouble with some good trombone playing friends of mine. Cellists are just too hard to make fun of, and they say it's not fair for me to take advantage." The book slips in her hand, the shiny cover squeaking a little in protest. Lark lifts her other hand to stop it falling then steps over to set it on the bar beside Rossi's coffee. "You two friends?"
A body passes between Rossi and the pair, cutting off both his reply and his rise. When the path has cleared again, the cop has retrenched himself in his seat, comfortable in his casual attire: jeans, unzipped black leather jacket, dark blue NYPD T-shirt beneath. "Andy," he says, gesturing towards the other man with a scarred and amiable hand. "Dates a girl I know. Beckah. Andre, meet--" He pauses. Regards Lark quizzically. "I never got your name, did I?"
"What, you mean you've avoided people telling you you should've taken up piccolo instead whenever they see you lugging the case around?" Andre's eyebrows raise exaggeratedly high as he asks, before falling into a more natural conversational position as he tilts his head toward Rossi. "Yeah, I knew /about/ him before I actually /met/ him." Dun dun dunnn.
Lark chuckles. "That's exactly what /he/ said." Extending a hand, with an odd glance at Rossi, she continues "I'm Lark. I mostly avoid it by projecting an aura of firm confidence and carrying Juliet around as little as conceivably possible. It doesn't always work of course, which is how I met Detective Rossi." Her smile gains a hint of self mockery. "And proceeded to bitch about my life to him." She braid slips off her shoulder to hang down her back as she turns to Rossi. "The whole confessing thing to a stranger didn't turn out so well, did it? Hopefully I now I can make up for it and convince you I'm not actually crazy."
Green eyes smile at Andre, bright with mockery. "That supposed to worry her? What the hell did Beckah tell you, anyway?" Rossi asks, telescoping a bit to shove Steve's feet off the table. The trumpet player shifts in his seat, legs dropping with a thump, and pauses just long enough to acknowledge Lark with a familiar nod before returning to his flirting. "Don't worry about it," the detective adds towards the cellist. "Happens to me all the time. Grab a seat if you want, both of you."
Andre simply flashes Rossi a toothy grin and accompanies it with a shrug. "All musicians are crazy, and are required to say that to cellists as part of audition procedure," he corrects Lark teasingly as he uses the stick of his cane to snag a chair by the leg and pull it out from the table and slips into the seat, setting his coffee down slowly but letting the cane clatter out of his hand. "And it was nothing bad, I promise," he answers Rossi, phrase displaced from expression.
"I'd better go grab my bag before it decides to grow legs and wander away." Lark throw the last of this over her shoulder as she elbows her way back over to her armchair. She bends un-selfconciously from the waist to dig her bag out from the dusty space under the trendy furniture. Muttering something about sweeping and teenagers, she picks a large dust bunny of the corduroy of her bag. Snagging her sweater as well she slings them both over her shoulder and makes her way a little more politely and carefully back over toward Rossi and Andre.
"Knowing Becks," Rossi begins, stretching his legs into the aisle to obstruct the traffic. He claims his coffee cup in lieu of finishing the thought, and takes a swallow. His eyebrow quirks up at Andre before turning towards the drummer's cane. "Still got problems with the leg? Thought you were gonna get better. Leftover? Or are you a gimp for life?" Tactful man. He wedges a foot under one of the spindly chairs by the table and shoves, sending it careening towards Lark in an exceedingly physical invitation.
Said cane happens to be a little bit more in the middle of the floor than it needs to be, and Andre extends one leg to catch the cane around his toes and pull it more under the table as Rossi mentions it. "Not really so much anymore, but the doctors told me I have to keep using the thing until the six month mark. I told them I'm feeling fine without it rehearsal and my building and stuff, but I guess six months is some sort of magic number for them." He wrinkles his nose and shrugs.
Catching the chair with one hand, Lark pushes it in front of her as she continues up to the table. She drops her bag and sweater and then attempts to arrange herself on the chair. First criss-cross, then feet tucked, finally she settles on one foot up on the edge and the other dangling just off the ground. After dragging her eyes away from the girls Steve is flirting with at a neighboring table, she catches the tail end what Andre is saying. "Doctors? Would it be rude of me to ask what happened?"
Rossi's eyes half-lid. Under the shadow of black lashes, too long to be masculine, pale eyes smile. "Baryshnikov here had a little incident." He takes refuge behind his cup again, gesturing with a hand. On one finger, moody red gleams in a heavy Academy ring. Andre's story.
"Baryshnikov," Andre repeats with a snort and a shake of his head. "Dude. If I'm suddenly able to /dance/ after six months, maybe the magic cane number'll've been worth it. To some degree. Maybe." He takes the travel lid off his coffee, blows across the surface of the liquid, and takes a small sip. "Big guy, small alley. I'd rather take the trombone section in my ear canal, really."
"Kinky fucker," says Rossi, and blows across his coffee.
Lark snorts. "I can just hear my stand partner saying 'What? I don't get it!'. She has a disturbingly /clean/ mind." She lets both feet slip to the floor and leans over to rummage in her bag. After a moment she pulls out a small pad of paper and very small pencil. Sitting back in the chair she tucks both knees up and starts writing behind them, glancing up at Rossi occasionally. She is clearly trying and yet failing to be subtle.
Says Rossi, mouth twisting, "'Clean' isn't one of the words usually used to describe us proud officers in the NYPD. Don't know what Beckah would say about your mind, man-- /what/?" he breaks off in a swift kick of curiosity, gaze sharpening on Lark and her pad. "Something interesting?"
Andre grimaces, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his teeth. The expression could be taken for genuine, if it is not interrupted with a laugh and another shake of his head. "You /know/ I didn't mean that!" he protests as he brushes displaced hair out of his eyes. "Trombones, I continue to uphold, are worse! And besides, Beckah's the one who rents all the zombie movies for our dates!" This second accusation cannot help but sound fond. As Lark pulls out the pad, Andre leans forward. "Whazzat?"
"uh, it's just.. I'm trying to..." Lark sighs and starts again, sitting up straight and lifting her chin. "A friend of mine is trying to convince me to start composing. She got me to carry this around in case something occurred to me. When I met you detective something did. Then I looked at it again later and it was all wrong. So now I'm trying to fix it." Finishing, she lets her defensiveness drop a little. "I hope you don't mind."
Rossi's reply is a blank look and a baffled, "What?" He slouches a little. His eyebrows lower in puzzled suspicion. "The fuck? You aren't writing crap for-- for boy bands, are you?"
Andre's eyebrows raise in surprise, and he leans further over the table, hand and forearm flat against the surface, fingers tapping noiselessly, gaze focused on the blank back of the pad. "Sort of an Enigma Variations kind of thing?"
"Enigma what?" Rossi slouches even further. /Musicians/.
Lark Shoots a somewhat hurt glance at Rossi, but smiles at Andre. "Exactly. Though If I could I'd want to make this into a string quartet. I'm just not good enough though. I get frustrated, which is why I don't normally try. Have you ever done any composing?"
"String quartets're hard," Andre observes. "I took this seminar about the genre in undergrad. They were considered a big deal thing for composers to do. Pretty ambitious, but hey, why not?" He shrugs, smiling encouragingly even as he shakes his head. "I haven't tried since assigned stuff in school. And the Enigma Variations," he turns to Rossi, "is this piece by Elgar, where he tried to portray all of his friends with the music. Except then he tried to hide it by using only their initials as titles. Maybe in case they didn't like the piece!"
"A pretty famous piece. I think there's even play named after it." Lark sets the pad and pencil down on the the table to take a wallet out of her back pocket. As she stands up she checks its contents, counting to herself. "..16! I'm practically rich." She glances at the coffee cups the other two are holding. "I'm going to go get something very sugary and bad for me. Either of you want anything?"
Rossi says with some cynicism, "Smart guy. Can't say I'd picture myself-- sorry, /hear/ myself," he corrects with a glance at Lark, "as a string quartet. What is that, a few violins, a cello, add soda and blend? That's that stuff they play in expensive restaurants, right?" Man of culture, Det. Rossi. He slumps forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and squints up at the girl. "I'm good. Can you afford to treat people on a musician's salary?"
"I'm good," Andre responds to Lark's question with a gesture toward his mostly-full cup of coffee. Which he proceeds to lift and sip after acknowledging his existence. "Yeah, two violins, viola, and cello. Restaurants, wedding gigs, museums...all the stuff they /never/ ask the percussionists to do." His other hand swats at the air. "Cellists'd be able to treat more often with the extra gigs." He nods solidly.
"Ah, I'm feeling particularly rich right now too." Lark smiles proudly "The New York Phil pays a lot better then what I was making back in Chicago. I'll be right back." She nods to the two men and walks over to the cash register. Things have quieted down a little and she orders quickly. Waiting for her cup of sugar and milk with a hint of coffee, she leans back on the counter and appreciatively watches the girls Steve is still flirting with. Then after the call of "Luck!" --which she astutely recognizes as intended to be her name-- she collects her coffee and slowly heads back to the table, sipping as she walks.
"Money," Rossi says, scrubbing a hand through black hair streaked with thin strands of grey. He crimps his mouth and glances askance at Andre, quizzical under the wrinkled brow. "They really make that much? A detective's salary can go pretty far, if you're living my lifestyle. Eat out cheap, rent, movie once in a while-- Christ," he realizes to no one in particular. "I'm a pretty boring guy. What do percussionists do for extra cash, anyway? Drive taxis? Deliver pizzas? Porn?"
"Last one's /still/ trombonists," Andre keeps up the thread of mockery. "They learn to play in terms of positions, after all..." He raises one eyebrow, then quickly adds, "as they boast themselves!" He takes another sip of his coffee, drumming two fingers against the side of the cup as he sets it back down. "Non-classical gigs," he answers the question in earnest, "though the orchestra I'm in actually pays ok. Though not as well as the /Phil/. /Jeez/!" The final phrase is inflected more intensely, impressed and jealous at once, as Lark approaches the table once more.
"Only last chair, bottom of the pile. Still, I just moved for the job and I am indecently excited. It's pretty much my dream job." Her eyes are lit and sits straight when she sits down in her chair. "I'm surprised the concert master is so nice. The last one I had was a complete bitch to everyone but her darling first violins." She takes a pull at her coffee and makes a face. "whew, this is disgustingly sweet even for me. I'll have to run it off in the Park tomorrow morning."
Rossi's harsh face, relaxed briefly by a smile at the trombone sally, scratches at the hollow of his cheek. Nails scrape against stubble. "What the hell's a non-classical gig?" he asks. "Jazz bands, rock bands, garage bands, that sort of thing?" He tracks Lark's return with upraised brows, straightening a bit to reclaim his coffee cup. "Not much call for cello in any of those."
"It's /still/ the /Phil/!" Andre insists, shrugging and facing both palms toward the ceiling. The rhyme, it appears, was unintentional, though he reacts to it with a quiet, "Heh." His hands fall back to the table and resume their silent tapping. "Even last chair's pretty much a lifetime goal. Even /triangle/ is a lifetime goal there. Man." The tapping really should be making noise at the rate it's going, but it doesn't. "That about covers it," he notes to Rossi. "I have a bad band," the word bad is used lovingly, "we do some gigs. And when I was still in California, there was the occasional small film soundtrack. Once or twice."
"You should know detective there's an important distinction between a /percussionist/ and a /drummer/. Andre is clearly a percussionist." She nods to Andre, giving it as the compliment it is. "A drummer on the other hand is even even worse than a trombonist. They only play drums, not any of the other percussion instruments, and pretty much every other musician makes fun of them." She smiles, lightening the stricture to joking. "By the way a cello can do some non-classical music too. I play Jazz. Some cellists also play double base and that's in great demand."
"Shut down," Rossi says with an entirely false chagrin, his eyes grinning over the tip of the coffee cup. He tips back the last of the drink and sets it back on the table, a glance at Steve confirming that the man is, indeed, striking it lucky with at least one of the girls at the neighboring table. The cop makes a sound of mixed exasperation and amusement. "Jazz is my thing. You want to write me into music, make it jazz. --This isn't one of those whack things where you'll write my soul into it and the first time it's performed I'll die, right?"
Andre beams toothily as Lark upholds his position in the orchestra against his more common drumstick-wielding peers. "Not to mention /percussionists/ can do a better impression of /drummers/ than the drummers themselves can!" He nods, eyes partly lidding in joking smugness. His expression recedes to something less exaggerated as he adds, "I kinda wish I hadn't bypassed the chance I had to do some jazz stuff when I was earlier on in learning to play. It seems like the kind of thing that comes more naturally the earlier you start it."
Lark Lark looks over to Rossi and raises an eyebrow. "Uh...no? As far as I know I'm not either good at stealing souls or bent on bringing about your death." Turning back to Andre and letting the eyebrow fall she replies "I guess I started pretty early. My dad was really into old jazz records when I was growing up and I pretty much backed my cello teacher into a corner, made him teach me how to play. I tried to pick up double bass, which is a much better or at least /easier/ jazz instrument, but I'm uh, not quite tall enough." She smiles wryly at that mental image. Rubbing her arms and making a little hiss of cold, she pulls on her oversize sweater, which unintentionally emphasizes her small size.
Rossi leans slowly towards Andre, head tilting. "It's possible my job's making me paranoid," he confides. "You think?"
"I'd say it's a justified paranoia," Andre responds in a stage-whisper, tilting his own head back toward Rossi. His voice comes back up to its normal tenor as he suggests to Lark, "You could get one of those special bass stools?" He lifts one hand from the table and holds it at an estimated height level for one of those stools. "And yeah, I didn't grow up around the jazz stuff, which is why I didn't think to take the opportunity. My dad's an ethnomusicologist who does stuff about drums, but not drumset-type."
Lark pulls her braid from behind her should and strips off the hair band at the end. She puts in on her left wrist where it joins a collection of several similar ones. As she talks she starts to unbraid her hair. "It's unfair how much our parents influence the course of our lives when we're little. There's several things that I would have make me learn when I was little, if I were, you know capable of time travel." She finishes pulling the braid apart and runs her fingers through her hair, playing with it absently. "You two aren't quite the demographic I try for, but maybe you could give me an opinion. I'm trying to decide whether or not to cut all this hair off and go for a pixie cut or something."
"Don't look at me," Rossi demurs with haste, lifting both hands to ward off the question. He unfolds to stand; beside him, Steve glances up, eyebrows arching, only to grin when the other man waves dismissively: stay. "I don't offer opinions on chicks' looks. I'm heading out. Luck," he tells Lark, touching two fingers to his temple in a lackadaisical salute. Eyes flick towards Andre. "You too. See you around. Say hi to Becks for me."
"I know--" Andre begins as Lark mentions time travel, then cuts off quickly, following up with, "My mom's a geophysicist. Aheh." He shuts his eyes, raises his eyebrows, mock-frowns, and shrugs. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then taps the table some more. The expression that follows his swallowing is blanker than before. "Really can't say. I mean, my girlfriend has red dreadlocks. And yeah, I'll be sure to say hi!" He nods to Rossi on the last sentence, lifting one hand and waving it, a motion from the wrist. "Seeya around!"
Lark raises a hand in farewell. "It was fun. Maybe I'll run into you again sometime." Turning back to Andre she says "What's she like? Your girlfriend, I mean." Looking genuinely interested, she starts braiding her hair into a pair of pigtails.
One last, backhanded gesture of farewell and Rossi heads out, his stride long and even. Left behind, Steve scoots his chair closer to join the girls at the next table: his preferences is obvious enough.