Second Stringer
Guy's a mutant. Has to be. No way a man gets to be that dumb and that rich without something going on in the background. Maybe he's just a front man for something smarter? Like a collie. Hear collies are smart.
Should look her up. Amber. Think her name was Amber. I could use the distraction. Wonder if I have her phone number?
---
Sweet Basil
Undoubtedly one of the finest jazz clubs to be found in the southern sectors of Manhattan, and most definitely in Greenwich, Sweet Basil has seen the faces of some of the greatest jazz legends to cross the planet in its time. A relatively down-home charm manner of club, low-key and looking as though it belongs more in New Orleans than New York, many evenings can simply be wasted away being serenaded within the walls of the Sweet Basil, which, in turn, are plastered with black-and-white photographs of the legends that have graced this club's demure little stage and polished wooden floors.
It is early for such pastimes as Sweet Basil; the lunch crowd has only just begun to dissipate, returning to their mundane lives of business and labor. The jazz that is the restaurant's claim to fame is piped in over the speakers, canned instead of created on that empty, darkened stage. Ensconced in a booth at one side of the floor, Det. Rossi engages in conversation with his partner and a woman, business exchanged over plates of pasta. Discussion sweeps his hands in broad punctuation; the Brooklyn-taught baritone mixes with gentler alto and Midwest bass.
Collins steps in. Perhaps he's late for the lunch rush...but when you own your own company, who tells you when you can and can't eat. He looks arround the room, smirking a bit when he sees the detective, sending a nod in his direction. Casual.
The cop's pale glance catches on that gesture, automatically attracted by its direction, only to skip away again without recognition a moment later. Alto lifts, edged with irritation -- don't have a /motive/ -- and Rossi grimaces, wiping his mouth with a napkin. One hand gestures away, and the detective rises to follow it, cheap dark suit over pale blue shirt and red-touched tie: and the gun underneath, match to the gold badge. He heads towards the bar, irritation springy in his step.
Collins sits at the bar, smileing a little as the other man walks in his direction. "What's the matter detective. Something get your panties in a bunch?" the business man finishes ordering his lunch, smileing at the woman behind the bar.
Green eyes flicker towards Collins, recognition still absent, though its first traces nudge along the slant of a frown. "You got that order for us yet, Kelly?" Rossi asks one of the bartenders, who obligingly drifts off to check. Attention sweeps back to the other man, then, raking him up and down in an indifferent survey. "I know you?"
Collins smiles a little. "Only in passing. I'm good with faces. Last time we met that pretty blonde over thee gave you a beer bath as I recall."
Black brows twitch together, shadowing the half-masted gaze. "That's right," Rossi drawls -- and as abruptly, amusement (remembered heat) curves his mouth into a crooked glimpse of nostalgia. "I remember you now. You were that kid trying to hit on the girl."
Collins chuckles a little bit. "You might say that. You obviously weren't privy to all the pieces on the board, but from your point of view. Yes, that was me. You on duty? i'll buy you a beer, maybe you can get more of this one in your mouth then your uit."
"I'll pass," the cop says, leaning an arm on the bar counter to wait with heavy patience. "Thanks for the offer. What the fuck does that mean, 'privy to all the pieces on the board?'" The glance he directs back at Collins is clinical, professionally speculative; the strong face hardens slightly, jaw defined sharply under the restaurant's lights.
Collins shakes his head slightly. "Lets just say there were forces at work you weren't aware of and leave it at thathmm?" he turns back to look at the man's table. "Just idle curiousity, what is going on?"
A sardonic twist of lips answers the other man. "'Let's just say there are forces at work you aren't aware of,'" Rossi mocks back, his deep voice ribboned with something darker. "What are you, twelve? You taking a course on how to bring yourself to police notice? --Or Federal, if you want," he adds with saccharine kindness. A hand gestures as he turns, to a nearby table occupied by two men in suits.
Collins chuckles slightly. "My life is an open book detective. Notice all you want." He looks at the table, either only feining interest or doing a good job of pretending he is only feining interest. "And your working with them? what happen someone important die?"
"Yeah." The detective turns back to the bar, back set under the sidelong, neutral observation of the FBI. "Me. -- So what's your story? And you can leave out the Time-Life movie version. There isn't anybody here who's gonna be impressed. What was the deal with the girl?"
Collins chuckles slightly... "Lets just say she was more then she seemed. I can't tell you more then that because I'm not 100% sure of more then that... She was trying to take me down a peg, and you were convienant to that end is all."
An eyebrow arches; cynicism -- watchful, light contempt -- darkens the pale eyes. "Yeah? Take /you/ down a peg, huh? Seems a pretty long way to go just to knock you off your little saddle, though I can understand the temptation. So tell me. What happened? You ask God for a bigger dick and he end up making you one instead?"
Collins chuckles. "No. Lets just say that... well here i go with the euphemisms but, we were playing a game. And i cheated." he says with a shrug as his nearly raw it's so rare steak arrives. "So why do you have the FBI on your case?"
"Cheated?" Rossi echoes back, baritone mellow: deceptively so. "So what's your score? You actually get to any bases? Or you still in the dugout? Can't play if they won't even pitch to you." The FBI question he ignores entirely, a glance scything glittering, gleaming amusement at the two agents.
Collins chuckles a little bit. "Lets just say I'm a second stringer that has carried the ball more then once. Baseball is for pussys." he picks up his beer and takes a sip, cutting into his steak. "But at least I know when I'm on the field."
A slow, lazy smile curves Rossi's mouth. He turns back to the bar again, a laugh -- heat again, remembered and febrile -- twining around the rough voice. "Man, I don't think you do. Doubt you've even touched the ball. Second stringer, though. /That/ I'll believe. The Feds are hanging out, looking for Magneto. Don't suppose you've seen him wandering around, have you?"
Collins shakes his head. "No, can't say that I have." and that is undoubtedly the truth. "What makes them think he's even in the city... I mean if I was him, this would be the last place I would be."
"You're not him," Det. Rossi says, straightening slightly as the bartender Kelly returns with several takeout boxes and a bag. "He's the goddamn T-rex in the old joke. --Thanks, Kelly. Which one's the ... think we're missing one."
Collins aknowleges that he is deffinately not magneto... and certainly no athurity on the mans actions. He returns to his steak seeming to be happy to dismiss the police officer at that.
The detective is, at any rate, preoccupied with the payment of his lunches and the tally of his order, settled at last to mutual satisfaction. A familiar, humorous exchange parts him from the bartender; a final nod acknowledges Collins, mated with a courteous enough farewell. "Enjoy your lunch."
At the nearby table, the Feds drop cash on the table and prepare to depart; across the restaurant, Rossi's partner and lunch companion rise as well, shrugging into overcoats and mufflers. Lunch hour is over: it's back to the grind. When one does not own one's own company, one's time belongs to the people. And so it goes.
[Log ends]
Should look her up. Amber. Think her name was Amber. I could use the distraction. Wonder if I have her phone number?
---
Sweet Basil
Undoubtedly one of the finest jazz clubs to be found in the southern sectors of Manhattan, and most definitely in Greenwich, Sweet Basil has seen the faces of some of the greatest jazz legends to cross the planet in its time. A relatively down-home charm manner of club, low-key and looking as though it belongs more in New Orleans than New York, many evenings can simply be wasted away being serenaded within the walls of the Sweet Basil, which, in turn, are plastered with black-and-white photographs of the legends that have graced this club's demure little stage and polished wooden floors.
It is early for such pastimes as Sweet Basil; the lunch crowd has only just begun to dissipate, returning to their mundane lives of business and labor. The jazz that is the restaurant's claim to fame is piped in over the speakers, canned instead of created on that empty, darkened stage. Ensconced in a booth at one side of the floor, Det. Rossi engages in conversation with his partner and a woman, business exchanged over plates of pasta. Discussion sweeps his hands in broad punctuation; the Brooklyn-taught baritone mixes with gentler alto and Midwest bass.
Collins steps in. Perhaps he's late for the lunch rush...but when you own your own company, who tells you when you can and can't eat. He looks arround the room, smirking a bit when he sees the detective, sending a nod in his direction. Casual.
The cop's pale glance catches on that gesture, automatically attracted by its direction, only to skip away again without recognition a moment later. Alto lifts, edged with irritation -- don't have a /motive/ -- and Rossi grimaces, wiping his mouth with a napkin. One hand gestures away, and the detective rises to follow it, cheap dark suit over pale blue shirt and red-touched tie: and the gun underneath, match to the gold badge. He heads towards the bar, irritation springy in his step.
Collins sits at the bar, smileing a little as the other man walks in his direction. "What's the matter detective. Something get your panties in a bunch?" the business man finishes ordering his lunch, smileing at the woman behind the bar.
Green eyes flicker towards Collins, recognition still absent, though its first traces nudge along the slant of a frown. "You got that order for us yet, Kelly?" Rossi asks one of the bartenders, who obligingly drifts off to check. Attention sweeps back to the other man, then, raking him up and down in an indifferent survey. "I know you?"
Collins smiles a little. "Only in passing. I'm good with faces. Last time we met that pretty blonde over thee gave you a beer bath as I recall."
Black brows twitch together, shadowing the half-masted gaze. "That's right," Rossi drawls -- and as abruptly, amusement (remembered heat) curves his mouth into a crooked glimpse of nostalgia. "I remember you now. You were that kid trying to hit on the girl."
Collins chuckles a little bit. "You might say that. You obviously weren't privy to all the pieces on the board, but from your point of view. Yes, that was me. You on duty? i'll buy you a beer, maybe you can get more of this one in your mouth then your uit."
"I'll pass," the cop says, leaning an arm on the bar counter to wait with heavy patience. "Thanks for the offer. What the fuck does that mean, 'privy to all the pieces on the board?'" The glance he directs back at Collins is clinical, professionally speculative; the strong face hardens slightly, jaw defined sharply under the restaurant's lights.
Collins shakes his head slightly. "Lets just say there were forces at work you weren't aware of and leave it at thathmm?" he turns back to look at the man's table. "Just idle curiousity, what is going on?"
A sardonic twist of lips answers the other man. "'Let's just say there are forces at work you aren't aware of,'" Rossi mocks back, his deep voice ribboned with something darker. "What are you, twelve? You taking a course on how to bring yourself to police notice? --Or Federal, if you want," he adds with saccharine kindness. A hand gestures as he turns, to a nearby table occupied by two men in suits.
Collins chuckles slightly. "My life is an open book detective. Notice all you want." He looks at the table, either only feining interest or doing a good job of pretending he is only feining interest. "And your working with them? what happen someone important die?"
"Yeah." The detective turns back to the bar, back set under the sidelong, neutral observation of the FBI. "Me. -- So what's your story? And you can leave out the Time-Life movie version. There isn't anybody here who's gonna be impressed. What was the deal with the girl?"
Collins chuckles slightly... "Lets just say she was more then she seemed. I can't tell you more then that because I'm not 100% sure of more then that... She was trying to take me down a peg, and you were convienant to that end is all."
An eyebrow arches; cynicism -- watchful, light contempt -- darkens the pale eyes. "Yeah? Take /you/ down a peg, huh? Seems a pretty long way to go just to knock you off your little saddle, though I can understand the temptation. So tell me. What happened? You ask God for a bigger dick and he end up making you one instead?"
Collins chuckles. "No. Lets just say that... well here i go with the euphemisms but, we were playing a game. And i cheated." he says with a shrug as his nearly raw it's so rare steak arrives. "So why do you have the FBI on your case?"
"Cheated?" Rossi echoes back, baritone mellow: deceptively so. "So what's your score? You actually get to any bases? Or you still in the dugout? Can't play if they won't even pitch to you." The FBI question he ignores entirely, a glance scything glittering, gleaming amusement at the two agents.
Collins chuckles a little bit. "Lets just say I'm a second stringer that has carried the ball more then once. Baseball is for pussys." he picks up his beer and takes a sip, cutting into his steak. "But at least I know when I'm on the field."
A slow, lazy smile curves Rossi's mouth. He turns back to the bar again, a laugh -- heat again, remembered and febrile -- twining around the rough voice. "Man, I don't think you do. Doubt you've even touched the ball. Second stringer, though. /That/ I'll believe. The Feds are hanging out, looking for Magneto. Don't suppose you've seen him wandering around, have you?"
Collins shakes his head. "No, can't say that I have." and that is undoubtedly the truth. "What makes them think he's even in the city... I mean if I was him, this would be the last place I would be."
"You're not him," Det. Rossi says, straightening slightly as the bartender Kelly returns with several takeout boxes and a bag. "He's the goddamn T-rex in the old joke. --Thanks, Kelly. Which one's the ... think we're missing one."
Collins aknowleges that he is deffinately not magneto... and certainly no athurity on the mans actions. He returns to his steak seeming to be happy to dismiss the police officer at that.
The detective is, at any rate, preoccupied with the payment of his lunches and the tally of his order, settled at last to mutual satisfaction. A familiar, humorous exchange parts him from the bartender; a final nod acknowledges Collins, mated with a courteous enough farewell. "Enjoy your lunch."
At the nearby table, the Feds drop cash on the table and prepare to depart; across the restaurant, Rossi's partner and lunch companion rise as well, shrugging into overcoats and mufflers. Lunch hour is over: it's back to the grind. When one does not own one's own company, one's time belongs to the people. And so it goes.
[Log ends]