7/22/06 - Vincent, Eve, Isabel, Storm, Jackson
---
Clinton
Clinton, or Hell's Kitchen as it is commonly known as by the locals, is definitely one of the worse neighborhoods of New York. Although crime rates have been cleaning up in this section as opposed to what they used to be, it is still not uncommon to hear the explosion of gunfire out in the alleyways at night or the occasional prostitute leaning in wait against a graffiti'd wall. The rent here is low, and only a few brownstones don't lend it a particularly homey feel. However, if you're looking for somewhere cheap and have the guts, well...Hell's Kitchen is it.
Even in holding the door of Paradise Found, Vincent manages to keep his hand where it matters most - on the curve of Isabel's hip, so that he can continue to direct her on down the sidewalk - not so much as a glance thrown back for Eve all the while. "Is she still following us?" isn't asked until they're a good twenty or thirty feet away from the bar entrance.
Isabel tips her head backwards, the check masked by the bottle of tequila rising to meet her lips. She looks for Eve, casting a judgemental glance into the night behind her.
Eve strolls along behind the pair, leaving ten feet or so between them and her. Hands are shoved into pockets and her gaze is angled upward, casually examining the sky.
"Phallic," remarks Vincent, and rather suddenly, the caress of his hand at her hip braces and stiffens into a shove aimed to throw Isabel at the brick wall to their right. "Eve!"
"Yup, an' she tryin' ta be casual-like 'bout- Hey!" she ends up crying pout as her small body is tossed to the wall. She grins lopsidedly at Vincent and throws Eve a sidelong glance.
Eve is quick to respond, handcuffs already released from their clip as she jams a hip against Isabel's body. A metallic snap sounds as the cuffs swing shut around one of the girl's arms, then the other. Eve tugs the cuffs to check that they're secure and steps back, releasing her pressure against Isabel and nodding at Vincent with a grim smile.
The rake of headlamps spots a nearby wall, swinging across bodies with a broad, yellow glare. Purring to itself in mechanized self-satisfaction, a large Buick swings into a angled stop beside the ranks of parallel parked cars. The driver side's door clicks open; a lean, lazy body drags itself out of the driver's seat to stand. "Yo, Lazzaro." A Brooklyn baritone, curt and crisp. "What's up?"
"/Eve/, get them around back, god dammit!" Vincent, charming officer that he is, has already reached into his coat and is in the process of withdrawing a glock of his very own. "You have the right to remain silent, if you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. What the fuck are you doing here, Rossi? If you cannot afford an attourney..."
Isabel does not look particularly surpised by the handcuffing and settles for an exasperated look thrown at Eve as she throws her arms over Vincent's neck, pulling him in closer to her warm body. "Ya know," she says to Vincent, ignoring the pushy woman and the guy exiting the car. "If'fn ya wanted me in cuffs, all ya had ta do was ask. An' if its' yer damn /evidence/ yer lookin' fer, then by all means, take it." She pushes her chest forward expectantly.
"/Fucking/ hell," Eve curses. She glances briefly at Vincent's ready gun, and reaches between Isabel and Vincent to pluck the posters from Isabel's cleavage, which she tucks away into a pocket in exchange for a set of keys. The cop grabs Isabel's wrist and unhooks one of the wrists, shouldering Isabel roughly around to reclasp it behind her. "Sorry," she mutters, Vincent-wards, her hand still resting on Isabel's re-cuffed wrist.
"I couldn't stand the thought of another night without seeing your hot, balding head, asshole," Rossi mocks, the door slamming shut as he prowls to investigate. The motor, cut off, leaves peace in its wake; the headlamps, left on, frame the detective's path from car to group. One hand slides under the open jacket, reaching for the glock. "Jesus, Lazzaro. Serious step down from your usual, isn't she?"
"Well that was no fun," Izzy pouts, a lazily glare sent Eve's way. "I didn't really want /her/ diggin' 'round in there. She new 're somethang?" Izzy's gaze turns from Eve to Vincent, then past him to the new guy. "Gonna be a party I take it." she comments, bottle of tequila still held in her cuffed hands, black stetson still covering half her face in the shadows.
Vincent's neck and upper back flexes stiff against the cuff-linked loop of Isabel's arms - his reflexive reaction to jerk back against the restraint proving a little unnecessarily painful, even as he's confronted with the swell of her breast, and more unfortunately, the stink of her tequila breath. Gun still only half out, he scuffles with it a bit before comprimising to swing an elbow into the smaller woman's gut before he's able to disentangle himself. Gun held a little awkwardly away from his side, he breathes hard and glares harder at Rossi. "It's ok."
Eve's hand remains on Isabel's wrist, grip tight. "Fucking hell," she repeats, though with much less force. "You alright?" She glances toward Vincent with mild concern. She grabs the tequila out of Isabel's hand and holds it out toward Rossi. "Here, do something with that."
An empty hand accepts the tequila with the bare tips of fingers, distaste thinning the humorous slant of mouth. "Great," Rossi says, glock tucking warily back into its holster. "And here I was just thinking I needed more germs to make my day complete. --Yo, Laszlo."
Isabel takes the pitiful shot to the stomach and looks down at the offending elbow, eyes then sliding back up to meet Vincent's. "Please," She says with a roll of her shaded eyes, tone more condecsending than hurt or pleaing. "'Re they /both/ new?" she quips to Rossi, Texan accent falling a bit thicker on her language with the tequila running through her system.
"/Fine/," Vincent assures a little sharply as the blunt of his glock is pushed firmly back into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He certainly looks fine enough - right hand then rubbed over the back of his neck, before it's clenched into a fist and driven with a great deal more 'oomph' into Isabel's diaphragm. Quick, someone hold him - he's winding up again.
"Yo," Eve answers Rossi. "Hey --" She pulls Isabel backwards abruptly, holding up a hand toward Vincent. "/Chill/," she says sharply. One hand still grasping Isabel's arm, she glances at Rossi with a 'do something' sort of expression, her other hand hovering rather uselessly in the air between Vincent and Izzy.
The punch was not taking off guard, and Izzy tenses her muscles to take the blow. Years of cage fighting have given her a hard, if willowy body and she spits out at him, "At least /that/ one felt like a real man hittin'. So this is what ya like? Beatin' up on cuffed girls, makin' yer partner hold 'em down. I mean shit /city boy/, I'm up fer a lot, ya just gotta give me good 'nough notice." Taked a step backwards with Eve's tug, however the tequila is not affecting her nearly as much as it should for someone her size. Her step is solid and bracing, not in the least bit unsteady.
Rossi rushes to the rescue. Watch him, rolling an eye at Vincent before checking the label on the tequila. "Crap," he says with some resignation. "I'm more a beer guy. Or whiskey, if it has to be the hard stuff. --Just throw the bitch in the wagon, if you brought it. It never ceases to amaze me, how everyone wants to be the-- hey, check it out. Learned a new word today. Mary Sue. Off the Internet."
Vincent hits her again - one more time, and apparently, he's done. Still breathing hard, still furious - but no longer violent, he takes a few hard steps away and rubs his right hand up over his face. "Rossi, you're a fucking idiot," is muttered first, then, "Did you get the posters, Laszlo?"
Eve drops her hand, eyes scanning Vincent's face. "Got 'em both," she says with a nod, tapping her pocket. "Where you want to put her?" She glances aside at Rossi's car, and the firm hand on Isabel's wrist guides her roughly toward it.
"/You're/ the stupid fuck," Rossi slaps back in amiable, masculine retort, the tequila tipped over and emptied onto the pavement. "Not in my car. Not my collar. Throw her in Mr. Clean's over there. --What're you running her in for, Lazzaro? Wanting to kiss you?"
"Whiskey!" Izzy pipes up. "Now /there's/ a good drink. But ya gotta take what ya can git. And please, is it really necessary to go /all/ the way down ta yer rinky dink station just fer some questioning? Ya know, ya eva heard of ya scratch my back an' I'll scratch yers? Maybe that might 'ply ta this little situation." She tenses again at the second hit, face and body not moving at all with the impact, allbeit she's sure that Vicnent tried his best. "Ya need to work on that. Ya still not usin' all yer potential power. Ya know, /sweetheart/, ya can just tell me where ta go. Ain't like I'm really strugglin', 're ya just like th' power 'f havin' someone in yer cuffs?" She turns her head and chuckles at Rossi. "Pretty much. I offered ta go ta his place at discuss somethangs that came up, all quiet like and everythang. I didn't know that /cooperatin'/ got ya in trouble now too. Did you?"
"Public intoxication and resistance to arrest." Voice still at a mutter, Vincent knits his brows into the rub of his hand and nods over to Eve. "I'll call for a black and white and pull my car around." And so he does, producing a cell phone as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.
"Shut the fuck up." Eve scowls scornfully at Isabel and nods back at Vincent. Her grip is still tight on Isabel's wrist but she glances lazily aside at Rossi. "What, you just come for the entertainment factor?"
Teeth flash white, cut in a crooked grin that bypasses Isabel altogether. "Nothing but," Rossi drawls, pale gaze sliding across the woman in handcuffs without interest. "Actually, I'm meeting a guy about something else down the street and thought I recognized the reflection off Lazzaro's head. This the sort of place he takes you out on, Laszlo? Because I gotta tell you, no guy's /that/ cheap with a real date."
"When did I eva resist? /I/ said I thought th' handcuffs would be kinky," Izzy says with a smirk and a wink. "An' as fer bein' drunk, do I look drunk ta ya? It's gonna take more 'n that lil bit 'f tequila ta git me reelin'." She looks to Rossi and snickers at his quip, then turns her head back to Eve. "Naw sug, I think he just likes ta rough people up. An' he's pissy that I don't squeal like a schoolgirl in a fight in th' sandbox cause he shoves a hand 'r two at me. But please, don't let me tell ya 'bout yer /friend/. I'll go 'long just happy 's a peaches. Our secret, right?"
In this part of town, it doesn't take long. Flashing lights color the street almost before Vincent's grey Buick has pulled up behind Rossi's. It is, indeed, very clean. The door opens, and out he steps, composed enough to handle the two dark-uniformed cops that step out of the freshly arrived unit.
Eve snorts a response, "Yeah, well like you said, he's a keeper." Brown eyes drift in the direction that Vincent disappeared, before flicking back to Isabel. "What is your damage?" She shoves Isabel toward the newly arrived uniforms, handing her off to them with relief.
"She was pining without you," Rossi tells Vincent, tossing the emptied bottle towards the nearby alley and its high-piled dumpster of trash. A thumb jerks to the two women: which of them he refers to, he leaves it to Lazzaro to decide.
Isabel goes towards the two uniforms, waiting outside the back of the cruiser patiently for one of them to open the door. She turns her head back and sneers at Eve, releasing a light snort. "Head ova heels, I bet," she mutters to herself.
"Oh yeah? You must be losing your touch." A backhand thumped into Rossi's middle, Vincent stops next to the taller man to regard Eve a little uneasily. "You still need a ride home?"
Eve rubs the back of her neck, watching Isabel tiredly for a moment. "Yeah," attention shifts to Vincent, her expression equally uneasy. "If you wouldn't mind. I don't relish the idea of the subway in uniform, this time of night."
"You got paperwork," Rossi tells Lazzaro, kindly. /Helpfully/. "I can give her a ride after I meet my snitch." He is so nice. Nice man. Oblivious, nice man. Green eyes glitter with sardonic mockery.
Though Izzy may not look it, she is indeed somewhat intelligent, and thanks to her advance, not poor. She mentally flips through numbers, settling on the one she wishes to call for spotting the bail money and puts it in the foreground of her mind. She eyes Eve and Vincent, an odd look shadowed by her stetson. She senses a very strange relationship, judging by the recent exchange. Ah well, even if he /did/ do it just to impress her, Vicnent can rest safely with the assumption that Izzy is no longer as interested in offering informationa bout the flyers as readily.
"Yeah, sure." Paperwork. Vincent looks like he is really, really, /really/ excited about the prospect. Brows lifted, he looks tired more than anything now that the worst of the situation has passed. "That okay with you, Laszlo?"
Eve flickers a glance between the detectives, face unreadably flat. "Sure. That works." Pause. "Sorry about the --" she waves a hand toward her neck, indicating Isabel and Vincent's little snuggle.
"Mind waiting in the car, Laszlo?" Rossi fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses it to Eve, already sauntering away towards the alley that runs beside the main building. "I'll be back in a few."
"Well boys, ya gonna open th' damn door fer a lady, 'r I gotta do that m'self too?" Izzy asks the two uniforms, apparently bored now.
"Not a big deal, Laszlo. She doesn't look the violent type." Self-aware enough to know that forcing a smile is probably a bad idea, Vincent lifts an awkward hand in farewell instead, and turns to walk his way back to his own car. "I'll see you around the station." Uniform #1 opens the car door - Uniform #2 pushes a hand down over Izzy's head and shoves her down into the darkness within. The door slams, and so does Vincent's a few seconds later.
Eve catches the keys, looping the keyring around a finger. "Right," she replies to both statements. A raise of her hand, and she turns to let herself into Rossi's car.
[Log ends]
Rossi cuts in on Vincent and Eve feeling up some random chick. The things that cops find hot. Really. Kind of sick.
---
Saturday night is college night at Heaven, and though Jackson is in college himself it is very much not his scene. The younger crowd tends to be full of harder substances than alcohol, and though the boys he serves have the same thing on their mind that the men do /every/ night, they are far less subtle about their advances. Falsely cheerful smile plastered on his face, he focuses on the throbbing beat coming from the DJ booth. The mirrored ceiling of the dance hall. Anything but the mass of half-naked youths clamoring for a spot at the bar.
Into this riot of hormones and youthful, hard bodies, Rossi's passage through the crowd -- arrogance bone-deep; clothing meant for work, not display -- is an abrupt, purposeful thing, a prowl for more satisfying meat than simple sex. Dark coat closed, cheap tie loosened around his throat, he bears his escort with him on a sanguine hand: an open palm pressed to a back, the other hand wielded brutally enough to get them where they intend to go.
The throng of desire, drugs and drunks, heat and more heat -- there is a detached air to Rossi's companion, in her (his?) bearing, a queen's poise somehow maintained even in such tumult (though ribs whine and creak protest every now and again, especially when someone jars them (accidentally, on purpose) on their path. She shows willing: the shining crest of loose white hair has been threaded through with glitter in blue and silver, a cheap dollar store's contribution for a last minute, uhm, 'fun'. The clothes might not work, close-fitted sleeveless scarlet with a high collar, clinging to telltale curves at breast, at hip; black leather frames long legs, and more black leather in boots with impressive heels -- although surely they see plenty such boots around here. She has got glitter on her shirt too, but it is probably an accident. She clings a bit close to her escort. She is a little baffled, a little amused; the idea that she might recognize someone here has simply not occurred to codeine-addled Ororo Munroe.
A rail-thin, blond-haired boy leans over the bar. He is declaring, vociferously, his love; whether it is for Jackson or for the beer he was just served, Jackson has no idea. He nods politely, accepting the crumple bills the boy pushes towards him. Wrapped up in the bills is a slip of paper with a phone number on it, one of several he has received this evening. He shoves it into his pocket, thanking the boy solemnly. Another couple offers him a generous tip if he will come home with them when he gets off his shift. Jackson winces. This night is /never/ going to end.
It's about to get longer. The shoulder that pushes aside more clamorous suitors is strong, and used to the exercise; the hand that slaps onto the bar is webbed with thin white scars, fingers broad across a blurry snapshot of a young blond man. "Hey." Loud though the bar is, Rossi's voice carries: Brooklyn baritone, New York brashness. He leans into the bar with Jackson's old History teacher, elbow hooking on the smudged counter. "You. C'mere. I need you to look at something."
His old history teacher, indeed. With glitter. In her hair. She does not lean, exactly; she keeps herself straight to the best of her ability, a flicker of pain biting through codeine-laced fog. She eyes a pair of young men -- no, trio. There's three of them. They are grinding. It is not really in time to the beat, either. She puzzles over their absence of rhythm for a moment, not because she is naive but because she is loopy; her brow knits, her mouth parting slightly. "Huh," is voiced, though hardly loud enough to be overheard in this cacophany. When her gaze skims back over Jackson, it is with a somewhat distracted air, such that recognition -- in /such/ an out of context environment -- does not at all occur.
Jackson turns quickly towards Rossi, needing little excuse to avoid the attentions of intoxicated college boys. The man calling to him certainly doesn't look like a typical patron of the club, his clothes alone setting him apart from the crowd. Looks can be deceiving, though, and men older than this one have tried picking him up here before. "Yessir?" He rests his hands on the bar in front of Rossi, fingers drumming nervously on the wood. His nails are painted bright blue, to match the streaks in his hair. "Can I help you with - " Eyes (the eyeshadow covering them, here, blue as well) widen in surprise, noticing Rossi's companion. "/Professor Munroe?/" His gaze takes in the glitter. Incredulity spreads over his features, but manners dictate that he be respectful. "Can I get you something to drink, miss? It's on the house."
There is a matching flash of surprise to cut through the cynicism of Rossi's face, mouth opened on an interrupted thought -- gaze turned from Jackson to Storm in a brow-lifted glance. "Professor?" he repeats, the title carrying over the background thrum of inchoate music. "Don't tell me. He's one of your-- You're one of hers?" The deep voice cuts across the bar, rough timbres edged with incipient amusement.
Ororo says, "Uhm." She cants a wide-eyed stare across the bar at Jackson, fighting the fog. Her head lifts, regal even in surprise (as regal as one can be -- well, never mind; the /grasp/ is made for elegance, anyway). It is so few students she has that memory comes swift enough to bring a name, an assocation -- a smile. "Mr. Holland," she says, loud enough to carry. "Jackson. What," no, that is the wrong question. He works here. He is the bartender. "It's been awhile," she adds, voice lightening. This is not a question. It is, however, reasonably safe. "I wouldn't say no to an ice-water, but nothing stronger tonight, I think."
"Yessir." He answers Rossi as he retrieves a glass of ice water for his former teacher. "Used to be one, anyway. I've graduated." He sets the glass down in front of Storm. "It's been too long, miss. I always mean to come back and visit, but things get so busy between school, and work. But I miss it there." There is a pause, as he shifts uneasily from one foot to another. Curiosity finally wins out over manners. "What are you doing here, Professor? I mean. It doesn't seem like the kind of place you'd hang out." Not that he ever truly gave much thought to where his teachers might spend their time out of class. Did teachers even /exist/ outside of class?
"She's on a date. With me," Rossi says, cheerfully perjuring himself with a tap of forefinger to the photograph under his hand. "Living the exciting life on the edge and helping an honest cop get by. Not to mention she's high as a kite. Jackson. That your name? You didn't see her here, right, Jackson? Not like you'd go spreading rumors with her little kiddies. You're not that guy, are you?"
"I am not a kite," Ororo sees fit to defend herself, although her methods perhaps leave the certainty in doubt. "Or ... kite-like. There are some painkillers." She picks up her water for a grateful sip of its cold clarity and then tells Jackson seriously, "If you can ever find the time I'm sure we'd all more than welcome the visit." Another sip. "I've never been here before," she adds. "Excuse me," she says, with more than a flicker of irritation for a man who has jarred her by sitting too far backwards on his barstool while another man leans over him to press a glass to his lips. She nudges closer to Rossi's protective bulk, since there's not really any subtle way to hail on people until they leave you alone. "I am just following him around," she concludes.
"Painkillers? Are you hurt, miss?" Concern flickers across his face briefly, but he concludes that she must be doing somewhat alright if she is in the club. "I'm here every night we're open. Unfortunately." His attention turns to Rossi. "This job, sir, you wouldn't believe some of the things I see. And hear. It's amazing what people will tell you when they've had a few too many." He shrugs. "I don't spread rumors. Can I get you anything, sir?"
Humor broadens, layering warm under the glance Rossi turns down to Storm. "Like a poodle," he tells that fuzzily medicated head, arm wrapping (protective, yes. Possessive--) around the stiff brace. Back to Jackson then, and a mellow: "She had a thing the other day. Rough work, being a schoolteacher. I'm good, kid. Can I get you to look at a photograph and tell me if he's been around?" Again that forefinger taps; the picture twirls under it, spun by a thumbnail's edge to halt face-up and beamish in the bartender's direction.
A glittery poodle. Ororo tips her head, smiling up at him; warm, affectionate, medicated. She breathes laughter through the repetition, "Poodle." And then she says, "Rough /work/," sensible enough for a voice dry as desert wind, and rolls a wry look at Jackson. Despite the necessity of stiff-backed posture warranted by brace and bones, she does not seem to have any objection to the positioning of that warm arm. She sips her water. "Few broken ribs. I'll live. -- It's not rumors when you're helping the authorities, it is -- er, helping the ..." Ororo stops, looking momentarily perplexed, and then sighs. She tells Rossi, "Maybe I /am/ a kite."
This is a side of his professor that he never saw in class. "Well, miss, you are quite a lovely kite tonight, if I may say so." Glitter, medication, and all. A smile plays around Jackson's lips, and he looks down at Rossi's photograph to keep from laughing. He studies the photo for a long moment. The boy in the picture is blond, smiling, perhaps Jackson's age. He turns the picture back towards Rossi. "Yessir, he comes in here sometimes. Mostly Friday nights. Likes vodka tonics. Is he in trouble?" Professor Munroe, a kite. The rumor mill at Xavier's would have had a field day.
"A gorgeous kite. With ribbons. Told you I'd take you places," Rossi reminds Ororo, adding with a reflection of that same perplexity, "Didn't figure you'd get there without me, though. --He's not in trouble. Just looking for him." Trouble with a capital T. The saturnine face, its harsh planes eased by the lingering grin, turns back to Jackson with a wry twist of lips; the free hand taps the line of gold shield barely visible beneath the jacket. "I tell you what. You see him, keep our little talk to yourself. Mind?"
It would be hard to instruct upon, for example, the merits of the American Constitution while doped up on codeine and covered in glitter. Also, there is a point on which Rossi is mistaken. "I don't have ribbons," Ororo says. "/And/ I can't fly." This is spoken sullenly, and also she probably shouldn't have said it in public, which occurs to her an instant after it leaves her mouth, and she makes a face, nose crinkling, before her expression relaxes into the smooth plane of solemn serenity. "But thank you. You are both flatterers. For all that I have never been compared to a flat rhombus before." She seems pretty stuck on the kite thing. She has realized this too, but she doesn't know what to do about it really. Ah. Perhaps if one stopped talking. She takes a much longer drink of her ice-water.
"What talk, sir?" Jackson asks cheerfully. "You know, ribbons probably wouldn't look half bad. I bet I could fix them up in your hair real nice, miss. And some kites are more boxy than flat." The conversation, inane as it may be, is a welcome respite from cliched pick-up lines and inebriated sexual advances. If only former teachers frequented gay nightclubs more often.
If only. How different the world of education would be. How /spritely/. "Pigtails," Rossi suggests, mouth taming itself to a grave, straight thing, devoid of humor. The green eyes laugh above. "Little braids behind her ears. You know most chicks don-- sorry, /women/. Most women don't like to be told they're boxy. Or flat," he supposes, turning a critically appreciative eye down to Ororo. Neither boxy nor flat. Something in between. Geometric.
Geometric. There are arcs. Angles. Curves. Especially those. "Pigtails." Through the silly haze of drugs, this thought apparently penetrates. Storm turns a look of cool reproach upon her escort. "/Pigtails/?"
"Professor Monroe certainly isn't either of those things, sir." Not that Jackson's opinion is the most reliable, when it comes to feminine beauty. "Maybe not pigtails, miss." His voice is soothing. "Not if you don't like them." Further down the bar, boys are signaling for his attention. Sigh. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I do have to get back to work. It was really nice seeing you." Even in your kite-like state. "If there's nothing else you need help with, sir -?"
A forefinger flips gently at that exotic white hair. "Pigtails," Rossi says with solemn sympathy. "Yeah, no. That's all I need. I'll see you around, Jackson. Thanks." The photograph, scissored up between index and middle fingers, gestures in a mug shot wave before being tucked into the recesses of the cheap suit. The cop jerks his chin towards the peremptory customers down the line. "Have a good one, kid. --C'mon, Cadbury. Let's get the fuck out of here. Number of hands patting my ass is starting to seriously honk my goose."
Storm sets down her mostly empty glass on the bar. "Thank you, Jackson," she says with a smile. "Come by sometime." She does not lean into Rossi -- that would hurt! -- but she does wind an arm around his waist for support's sake and the better to not be separated in the crowd. "Let's go, then. -- Honking the goose is bad, right?"
"Bad," Rossi agrees, his own arm sliding lightly across Storm's back. "Tell you what. I'll drive you back to the school. We can't sneak you in, you can crash on my bed. I'll take the couch--" Bodies part to the cop's push out; like an irreverent Moses with a flaming Red Sea, he guides his one flying soul through the press, stiff-arming as he goes. Back at the bar, voices rise in a needy wail for attention. Love me! Lube me! Liquor me! New York medley, Heaven-style.
[Log ends]
Rossi takes complete advantage of Ororo's medication and takes her to play drag queen at a gay bar, where they run into one of her old students.
Clinton
Clinton, or Hell's Kitchen as it is commonly known as by the locals, is definitely one of the worse neighborhoods of New York. Although crime rates have been cleaning up in this section as opposed to what they used to be, it is still not uncommon to hear the explosion of gunfire out in the alleyways at night or the occasional prostitute leaning in wait against a graffiti'd wall. The rent here is low, and only a few brownstones don't lend it a particularly homey feel. However, if you're looking for somewhere cheap and have the guts, well...Hell's Kitchen is it.
Even in holding the door of Paradise Found, Vincent manages to keep his hand where it matters most - on the curve of Isabel's hip, so that he can continue to direct her on down the sidewalk - not so much as a glance thrown back for Eve all the while. "Is she still following us?" isn't asked until they're a good twenty or thirty feet away from the bar entrance.
Isabel tips her head backwards, the check masked by the bottle of tequila rising to meet her lips. She looks for Eve, casting a judgemental glance into the night behind her.
Eve strolls along behind the pair, leaving ten feet or so between them and her. Hands are shoved into pockets and her gaze is angled upward, casually examining the sky.
"Phallic," remarks Vincent, and rather suddenly, the caress of his hand at her hip braces and stiffens into a shove aimed to throw Isabel at the brick wall to their right. "Eve!"
"Yup, an' she tryin' ta be casual-like 'bout- Hey!" she ends up crying pout as her small body is tossed to the wall. She grins lopsidedly at Vincent and throws Eve a sidelong glance.
Eve is quick to respond, handcuffs already released from their clip as she jams a hip against Isabel's body. A metallic snap sounds as the cuffs swing shut around one of the girl's arms, then the other. Eve tugs the cuffs to check that they're secure and steps back, releasing her pressure against Isabel and nodding at Vincent with a grim smile.
The rake of headlamps spots a nearby wall, swinging across bodies with a broad, yellow glare. Purring to itself in mechanized self-satisfaction, a large Buick swings into a angled stop beside the ranks of parallel parked cars. The driver side's door clicks open; a lean, lazy body drags itself out of the driver's seat to stand. "Yo, Lazzaro." A Brooklyn baritone, curt and crisp. "What's up?"
"/Eve/, get them around back, god dammit!" Vincent, charming officer that he is, has already reached into his coat and is in the process of withdrawing a glock of his very own. "You have the right to remain silent, if you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. What the fuck are you doing here, Rossi? If you cannot afford an attourney..."
Isabel does not look particularly surpised by the handcuffing and settles for an exasperated look thrown at Eve as she throws her arms over Vincent's neck, pulling him in closer to her warm body. "Ya know," she says to Vincent, ignoring the pushy woman and the guy exiting the car. "If'fn ya wanted me in cuffs, all ya had ta do was ask. An' if its' yer damn /evidence/ yer lookin' fer, then by all means, take it." She pushes her chest forward expectantly.
"/Fucking/ hell," Eve curses. She glances briefly at Vincent's ready gun, and reaches between Isabel and Vincent to pluck the posters from Isabel's cleavage, which she tucks away into a pocket in exchange for a set of keys. The cop grabs Isabel's wrist and unhooks one of the wrists, shouldering Isabel roughly around to reclasp it behind her. "Sorry," she mutters, Vincent-wards, her hand still resting on Isabel's re-cuffed wrist.
"I couldn't stand the thought of another night without seeing your hot, balding head, asshole," Rossi mocks, the door slamming shut as he prowls to investigate. The motor, cut off, leaves peace in its wake; the headlamps, left on, frame the detective's path from car to group. One hand slides under the open jacket, reaching for the glock. "Jesus, Lazzaro. Serious step down from your usual, isn't she?"
"Well that was no fun," Izzy pouts, a lazily glare sent Eve's way. "I didn't really want /her/ diggin' 'round in there. She new 're somethang?" Izzy's gaze turns from Eve to Vincent, then past him to the new guy. "Gonna be a party I take it." she comments, bottle of tequila still held in her cuffed hands, black stetson still covering half her face in the shadows.
Vincent's neck and upper back flexes stiff against the cuff-linked loop of Isabel's arms - his reflexive reaction to jerk back against the restraint proving a little unnecessarily painful, even as he's confronted with the swell of her breast, and more unfortunately, the stink of her tequila breath. Gun still only half out, he scuffles with it a bit before comprimising to swing an elbow into the smaller woman's gut before he's able to disentangle himself. Gun held a little awkwardly away from his side, he breathes hard and glares harder at Rossi. "It's ok."
Eve's hand remains on Isabel's wrist, grip tight. "Fucking hell," she repeats, though with much less force. "You alright?" She glances toward Vincent with mild concern. She grabs the tequila out of Isabel's hand and holds it out toward Rossi. "Here, do something with that."
An empty hand accepts the tequila with the bare tips of fingers, distaste thinning the humorous slant of mouth. "Great," Rossi says, glock tucking warily back into its holster. "And here I was just thinking I needed more germs to make my day complete. --Yo, Laszlo."
Isabel takes the pitiful shot to the stomach and looks down at the offending elbow, eyes then sliding back up to meet Vincent's. "Please," She says with a roll of her shaded eyes, tone more condecsending than hurt or pleaing. "'Re they /both/ new?" she quips to Rossi, Texan accent falling a bit thicker on her language with the tequila running through her system.
"/Fine/," Vincent assures a little sharply as the blunt of his glock is pushed firmly back into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He certainly looks fine enough - right hand then rubbed over the back of his neck, before it's clenched into a fist and driven with a great deal more 'oomph' into Isabel's diaphragm. Quick, someone hold him - he's winding up again.
"Yo," Eve answers Rossi. "Hey --" She pulls Isabel backwards abruptly, holding up a hand toward Vincent. "/Chill/," she says sharply. One hand still grasping Isabel's arm, she glances at Rossi with a 'do something' sort of expression, her other hand hovering rather uselessly in the air between Vincent and Izzy.
The punch was not taking off guard, and Izzy tenses her muscles to take the blow. Years of cage fighting have given her a hard, if willowy body and she spits out at him, "At least /that/ one felt like a real man hittin'. So this is what ya like? Beatin' up on cuffed girls, makin' yer partner hold 'em down. I mean shit /city boy/, I'm up fer a lot, ya just gotta give me good 'nough notice." Taked a step backwards with Eve's tug, however the tequila is not affecting her nearly as much as it should for someone her size. Her step is solid and bracing, not in the least bit unsteady.
Rossi rushes to the rescue. Watch him, rolling an eye at Vincent before checking the label on the tequila. "Crap," he says with some resignation. "I'm more a beer guy. Or whiskey, if it has to be the hard stuff. --Just throw the bitch in the wagon, if you brought it. It never ceases to amaze me, how everyone wants to be the-- hey, check it out. Learned a new word today. Mary Sue. Off the Internet."
Vincent hits her again - one more time, and apparently, he's done. Still breathing hard, still furious - but no longer violent, he takes a few hard steps away and rubs his right hand up over his face. "Rossi, you're a fucking idiot," is muttered first, then, "Did you get the posters, Laszlo?"
Eve drops her hand, eyes scanning Vincent's face. "Got 'em both," she says with a nod, tapping her pocket. "Where you want to put her?" She glances aside at Rossi's car, and the firm hand on Isabel's wrist guides her roughly toward it.
"/You're/ the stupid fuck," Rossi slaps back in amiable, masculine retort, the tequila tipped over and emptied onto the pavement. "Not in my car. Not my collar. Throw her in Mr. Clean's over there. --What're you running her in for, Lazzaro? Wanting to kiss you?"
"Whiskey!" Izzy pipes up. "Now /there's/ a good drink. But ya gotta take what ya can git. And please, is it really necessary to go /all/ the way down ta yer rinky dink station just fer some questioning? Ya know, ya eva heard of ya scratch my back an' I'll scratch yers? Maybe that might 'ply ta this little situation." She tenses again at the second hit, face and body not moving at all with the impact, allbeit she's sure that Vicnent tried his best. "Ya need to work on that. Ya still not usin' all yer potential power. Ya know, /sweetheart/, ya can just tell me where ta go. Ain't like I'm really strugglin', 're ya just like th' power 'f havin' someone in yer cuffs?" She turns her head and chuckles at Rossi. "Pretty much. I offered ta go ta his place at discuss somethangs that came up, all quiet like and everythang. I didn't know that /cooperatin'/ got ya in trouble now too. Did you?"
"Public intoxication and resistance to arrest." Voice still at a mutter, Vincent knits his brows into the rub of his hand and nods over to Eve. "I'll call for a black and white and pull my car around." And so he does, producing a cell phone as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.
"Shut the fuck up." Eve scowls scornfully at Isabel and nods back at Vincent. Her grip is still tight on Isabel's wrist but she glances lazily aside at Rossi. "What, you just come for the entertainment factor?"
Teeth flash white, cut in a crooked grin that bypasses Isabel altogether. "Nothing but," Rossi drawls, pale gaze sliding across the woman in handcuffs without interest. "Actually, I'm meeting a guy about something else down the street and thought I recognized the reflection off Lazzaro's head. This the sort of place he takes you out on, Laszlo? Because I gotta tell you, no guy's /that/ cheap with a real date."
"When did I eva resist? /I/ said I thought th' handcuffs would be kinky," Izzy says with a smirk and a wink. "An' as fer bein' drunk, do I look drunk ta ya? It's gonna take more 'n that lil bit 'f tequila ta git me reelin'." She looks to Rossi and snickers at his quip, then turns her head back to Eve. "Naw sug, I think he just likes ta rough people up. An' he's pissy that I don't squeal like a schoolgirl in a fight in th' sandbox cause he shoves a hand 'r two at me. But please, don't let me tell ya 'bout yer /friend/. I'll go 'long just happy 's a peaches. Our secret, right?"
In this part of town, it doesn't take long. Flashing lights color the street almost before Vincent's grey Buick has pulled up behind Rossi's. It is, indeed, very clean. The door opens, and out he steps, composed enough to handle the two dark-uniformed cops that step out of the freshly arrived unit.
Eve snorts a response, "Yeah, well like you said, he's a keeper." Brown eyes drift in the direction that Vincent disappeared, before flicking back to Isabel. "What is your damage?" She shoves Isabel toward the newly arrived uniforms, handing her off to them with relief.
"She was pining without you," Rossi tells Vincent, tossing the emptied bottle towards the nearby alley and its high-piled dumpster of trash. A thumb jerks to the two women: which of them he refers to, he leaves it to Lazzaro to decide.
Isabel goes towards the two uniforms, waiting outside the back of the cruiser patiently for one of them to open the door. She turns her head back and sneers at Eve, releasing a light snort. "Head ova heels, I bet," she mutters to herself.
"Oh yeah? You must be losing your touch." A backhand thumped into Rossi's middle, Vincent stops next to the taller man to regard Eve a little uneasily. "You still need a ride home?"
Eve rubs the back of her neck, watching Isabel tiredly for a moment. "Yeah," attention shifts to Vincent, her expression equally uneasy. "If you wouldn't mind. I don't relish the idea of the subway in uniform, this time of night."
"You got paperwork," Rossi tells Lazzaro, kindly. /Helpfully/. "I can give her a ride after I meet my snitch." He is so nice. Nice man. Oblivious, nice man. Green eyes glitter with sardonic mockery.
Though Izzy may not look it, she is indeed somewhat intelligent, and thanks to her advance, not poor. She mentally flips through numbers, settling on the one she wishes to call for spotting the bail money and puts it in the foreground of her mind. She eyes Eve and Vincent, an odd look shadowed by her stetson. She senses a very strange relationship, judging by the recent exchange. Ah well, even if he /did/ do it just to impress her, Vicnent can rest safely with the assumption that Izzy is no longer as interested in offering informationa bout the flyers as readily.
"Yeah, sure." Paperwork. Vincent looks like he is really, really, /really/ excited about the prospect. Brows lifted, he looks tired more than anything now that the worst of the situation has passed. "That okay with you, Laszlo?"
Eve flickers a glance between the detectives, face unreadably flat. "Sure. That works." Pause. "Sorry about the --" she waves a hand toward her neck, indicating Isabel and Vincent's little snuggle.
"Mind waiting in the car, Laszlo?" Rossi fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses it to Eve, already sauntering away towards the alley that runs beside the main building. "I'll be back in a few."
"Well boys, ya gonna open th' damn door fer a lady, 'r I gotta do that m'self too?" Izzy asks the two uniforms, apparently bored now.
"Not a big deal, Laszlo. She doesn't look the violent type." Self-aware enough to know that forcing a smile is probably a bad idea, Vincent lifts an awkward hand in farewell instead, and turns to walk his way back to his own car. "I'll see you around the station." Uniform #1 opens the car door - Uniform #2 pushes a hand down over Izzy's head and shoves her down into the darkness within. The door slams, and so does Vincent's a few seconds later.
Eve catches the keys, looping the keyring around a finger. "Right," she replies to both statements. A raise of her hand, and she turns to let herself into Rossi's car.
[Log ends]
Rossi cuts in on Vincent and Eve feeling up some random chick. The things that cops find hot. Really. Kind of sick.
---
Saturday night is college night at Heaven, and though Jackson is in college himself it is very much not his scene. The younger crowd tends to be full of harder substances than alcohol, and though the boys he serves have the same thing on their mind that the men do /every/ night, they are far less subtle about their advances. Falsely cheerful smile plastered on his face, he focuses on the throbbing beat coming from the DJ booth. The mirrored ceiling of the dance hall. Anything but the mass of half-naked youths clamoring for a spot at the bar.
Into this riot of hormones and youthful, hard bodies, Rossi's passage through the crowd -- arrogance bone-deep; clothing meant for work, not display -- is an abrupt, purposeful thing, a prowl for more satisfying meat than simple sex. Dark coat closed, cheap tie loosened around his throat, he bears his escort with him on a sanguine hand: an open palm pressed to a back, the other hand wielded brutally enough to get them where they intend to go.
The throng of desire, drugs and drunks, heat and more heat -- there is a detached air to Rossi's companion, in her (his?) bearing, a queen's poise somehow maintained even in such tumult (though ribs whine and creak protest every now and again, especially when someone jars them (accidentally, on purpose) on their path. She shows willing: the shining crest of loose white hair has been threaded through with glitter in blue and silver, a cheap dollar store's contribution for a last minute, uhm, 'fun'. The clothes might not work, close-fitted sleeveless scarlet with a high collar, clinging to telltale curves at breast, at hip; black leather frames long legs, and more black leather in boots with impressive heels -- although surely they see plenty such boots around here. She has got glitter on her shirt too, but it is probably an accident. She clings a bit close to her escort. She is a little baffled, a little amused; the idea that she might recognize someone here has simply not occurred to codeine-addled Ororo Munroe.
A rail-thin, blond-haired boy leans over the bar. He is declaring, vociferously, his love; whether it is for Jackson or for the beer he was just served, Jackson has no idea. He nods politely, accepting the crumple bills the boy pushes towards him. Wrapped up in the bills is a slip of paper with a phone number on it, one of several he has received this evening. He shoves it into his pocket, thanking the boy solemnly. Another couple offers him a generous tip if he will come home with them when he gets off his shift. Jackson winces. This night is /never/ going to end.
It's about to get longer. The shoulder that pushes aside more clamorous suitors is strong, and used to the exercise; the hand that slaps onto the bar is webbed with thin white scars, fingers broad across a blurry snapshot of a young blond man. "Hey." Loud though the bar is, Rossi's voice carries: Brooklyn baritone, New York brashness. He leans into the bar with Jackson's old History teacher, elbow hooking on the smudged counter. "You. C'mere. I need you to look at something."
His old history teacher, indeed. With glitter. In her hair. She does not lean, exactly; she keeps herself straight to the best of her ability, a flicker of pain biting through codeine-laced fog. She eyes a pair of young men -- no, trio. There's three of them. They are grinding. It is not really in time to the beat, either. She puzzles over their absence of rhythm for a moment, not because she is naive but because she is loopy; her brow knits, her mouth parting slightly. "Huh," is voiced, though hardly loud enough to be overheard in this cacophany. When her gaze skims back over Jackson, it is with a somewhat distracted air, such that recognition -- in /such/ an out of context environment -- does not at all occur.
Jackson turns quickly towards Rossi, needing little excuse to avoid the attentions of intoxicated college boys. The man calling to him certainly doesn't look like a typical patron of the club, his clothes alone setting him apart from the crowd. Looks can be deceiving, though, and men older than this one have tried picking him up here before. "Yessir?" He rests his hands on the bar in front of Rossi, fingers drumming nervously on the wood. His nails are painted bright blue, to match the streaks in his hair. "Can I help you with - " Eyes (the eyeshadow covering them, here, blue as well) widen in surprise, noticing Rossi's companion. "/Professor Munroe?/" His gaze takes in the glitter. Incredulity spreads over his features, but manners dictate that he be respectful. "Can I get you something to drink, miss? It's on the house."
There is a matching flash of surprise to cut through the cynicism of Rossi's face, mouth opened on an interrupted thought -- gaze turned from Jackson to Storm in a brow-lifted glance. "Professor?" he repeats, the title carrying over the background thrum of inchoate music. "Don't tell me. He's one of your-- You're one of hers?" The deep voice cuts across the bar, rough timbres edged with incipient amusement.
Ororo says, "Uhm." She cants a wide-eyed stare across the bar at Jackson, fighting the fog. Her head lifts, regal even in surprise (as regal as one can be -- well, never mind; the /grasp/ is made for elegance, anyway). It is so few students she has that memory comes swift enough to bring a name, an assocation -- a smile. "Mr. Holland," she says, loud enough to carry. "Jackson. What," no, that is the wrong question. He works here. He is the bartender. "It's been awhile," she adds, voice lightening. This is not a question. It is, however, reasonably safe. "I wouldn't say no to an ice-water, but nothing stronger tonight, I think."
"Yessir." He answers Rossi as he retrieves a glass of ice water for his former teacher. "Used to be one, anyway. I've graduated." He sets the glass down in front of Storm. "It's been too long, miss. I always mean to come back and visit, but things get so busy between school, and work. But I miss it there." There is a pause, as he shifts uneasily from one foot to another. Curiosity finally wins out over manners. "What are you doing here, Professor? I mean. It doesn't seem like the kind of place you'd hang out." Not that he ever truly gave much thought to where his teachers might spend their time out of class. Did teachers even /exist/ outside of class?
"She's on a date. With me," Rossi says, cheerfully perjuring himself with a tap of forefinger to the photograph under his hand. "Living the exciting life on the edge and helping an honest cop get by. Not to mention she's high as a kite. Jackson. That your name? You didn't see her here, right, Jackson? Not like you'd go spreading rumors with her little kiddies. You're not that guy, are you?"
"I am not a kite," Ororo sees fit to defend herself, although her methods perhaps leave the certainty in doubt. "Or ... kite-like. There are some painkillers." She picks up her water for a grateful sip of its cold clarity and then tells Jackson seriously, "If you can ever find the time I'm sure we'd all more than welcome the visit." Another sip. "I've never been here before," she adds. "Excuse me," she says, with more than a flicker of irritation for a man who has jarred her by sitting too far backwards on his barstool while another man leans over him to press a glass to his lips. She nudges closer to Rossi's protective bulk, since there's not really any subtle way to hail on people until they leave you alone. "I am just following him around," she concludes.
"Painkillers? Are you hurt, miss?" Concern flickers across his face briefly, but he concludes that she must be doing somewhat alright if she is in the club. "I'm here every night we're open. Unfortunately." His attention turns to Rossi. "This job, sir, you wouldn't believe some of the things I see. And hear. It's amazing what people will tell you when they've had a few too many." He shrugs. "I don't spread rumors. Can I get you anything, sir?"
Humor broadens, layering warm under the glance Rossi turns down to Storm. "Like a poodle," he tells that fuzzily medicated head, arm wrapping (protective, yes. Possessive--) around the stiff brace. Back to Jackson then, and a mellow: "She had a thing the other day. Rough work, being a schoolteacher. I'm good, kid. Can I get you to look at a photograph and tell me if he's been around?" Again that forefinger taps; the picture twirls under it, spun by a thumbnail's edge to halt face-up and beamish in the bartender's direction.
A glittery poodle. Ororo tips her head, smiling up at him; warm, affectionate, medicated. She breathes laughter through the repetition, "Poodle." And then she says, "Rough /work/," sensible enough for a voice dry as desert wind, and rolls a wry look at Jackson. Despite the necessity of stiff-backed posture warranted by brace and bones, she does not seem to have any objection to the positioning of that warm arm. She sips her water. "Few broken ribs. I'll live. -- It's not rumors when you're helping the authorities, it is -- er, helping the ..." Ororo stops, looking momentarily perplexed, and then sighs. She tells Rossi, "Maybe I /am/ a kite."
This is a side of his professor that he never saw in class. "Well, miss, you are quite a lovely kite tonight, if I may say so." Glitter, medication, and all. A smile plays around Jackson's lips, and he looks down at Rossi's photograph to keep from laughing. He studies the photo for a long moment. The boy in the picture is blond, smiling, perhaps Jackson's age. He turns the picture back towards Rossi. "Yessir, he comes in here sometimes. Mostly Friday nights. Likes vodka tonics. Is he in trouble?" Professor Munroe, a kite. The rumor mill at Xavier's would have had a field day.
"A gorgeous kite. With ribbons. Told you I'd take you places," Rossi reminds Ororo, adding with a reflection of that same perplexity, "Didn't figure you'd get there without me, though. --He's not in trouble. Just looking for him." Trouble with a capital T. The saturnine face, its harsh planes eased by the lingering grin, turns back to Jackson with a wry twist of lips; the free hand taps the line of gold shield barely visible beneath the jacket. "I tell you what. You see him, keep our little talk to yourself. Mind?"
It would be hard to instruct upon, for example, the merits of the American Constitution while doped up on codeine and covered in glitter. Also, there is a point on which Rossi is mistaken. "I don't have ribbons," Ororo says. "/And/ I can't fly." This is spoken sullenly, and also she probably shouldn't have said it in public, which occurs to her an instant after it leaves her mouth, and she makes a face, nose crinkling, before her expression relaxes into the smooth plane of solemn serenity. "But thank you. You are both flatterers. For all that I have never been compared to a flat rhombus before." She seems pretty stuck on the kite thing. She has realized this too, but she doesn't know what to do about it really. Ah. Perhaps if one stopped talking. She takes a much longer drink of her ice-water.
"What talk, sir?" Jackson asks cheerfully. "You know, ribbons probably wouldn't look half bad. I bet I could fix them up in your hair real nice, miss. And some kites are more boxy than flat." The conversation, inane as it may be, is a welcome respite from cliched pick-up lines and inebriated sexual advances. If only former teachers frequented gay nightclubs more often.
If only. How different the world of education would be. How /spritely/. "Pigtails," Rossi suggests, mouth taming itself to a grave, straight thing, devoid of humor. The green eyes laugh above. "Little braids behind her ears. You know most chicks don-- sorry, /women/. Most women don't like to be told they're boxy. Or flat," he supposes, turning a critically appreciative eye down to Ororo. Neither boxy nor flat. Something in between. Geometric.
Geometric. There are arcs. Angles. Curves. Especially those. "Pigtails." Through the silly haze of drugs, this thought apparently penetrates. Storm turns a look of cool reproach upon her escort. "/Pigtails/?"
"Professor Monroe certainly isn't either of those things, sir." Not that Jackson's opinion is the most reliable, when it comes to feminine beauty. "Maybe not pigtails, miss." His voice is soothing. "Not if you don't like them." Further down the bar, boys are signaling for his attention. Sigh. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I do have to get back to work. It was really nice seeing you." Even in your kite-like state. "If there's nothing else you need help with, sir -?"
A forefinger flips gently at that exotic white hair. "Pigtails," Rossi says with solemn sympathy. "Yeah, no. That's all I need. I'll see you around, Jackson. Thanks." The photograph, scissored up between index and middle fingers, gestures in a mug shot wave before being tucked into the recesses of the cheap suit. The cop jerks his chin towards the peremptory customers down the line. "Have a good one, kid. --C'mon, Cadbury. Let's get the fuck out of here. Number of hands patting my ass is starting to seriously honk my goose."
Storm sets down her mostly empty glass on the bar. "Thank you, Jackson," she says with a smile. "Come by sometime." She does not lean into Rossi -- that would hurt! -- but she does wind an arm around his waist for support's sake and the better to not be separated in the crowd. "Let's go, then. -- Honking the goose is bad, right?"
"Bad," Rossi agrees, his own arm sliding lightly across Storm's back. "Tell you what. I'll drive you back to the school. We can't sneak you in, you can crash on my bed. I'll take the couch--" Bodies part to the cop's push out; like an irreverent Moses with a flaming Red Sea, he guides his one flying soul through the press, stiff-arming as he goes. Back at the bar, voices rise in a needy wail for attention. Love me! Lube me! Liquor me! New York medley, Heaven-style.
[Log ends]
Rossi takes complete advantage of Ororo's medication and takes her to play drag queen at a gay bar, where they run into one of her old students.