Business, Pleasant or Not
Harper's got some sort of affection for Rossi, it looks like - I'll ask her about it when her hackles are less up. Or I won't - it frustrates me that that arrogant greaseball worms his way into my territory. What makes him so likeable? I have my flaws, perhaps, but he's no less an asshole than I am.
Regardless, other things feel like they are moving in a positive direction - I've started to refocus my public persona, and after I find the presence of mind required, I'm going to reach out to Lensherr and see what advances I can make in that directon. We have a dog to wag, after all.
=NYC= Black King's Office - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
"...so regardless, let's keep an extra eye there for the time being, Harper," Shaw says as he concludes discussion on that particular item. It's a routine meeting - early evening, after work and before dinner - in Shaw's office, with the Black King chomping on a cigar and pacing and Sal wherever it is she can settle most comfortably. "Next... I want you to take a look at promoting one of the security guards."
"Understood," Sal murmurs, lifting her head from the page where she takes careful and meticulous -- if only to her -- notes during such meetings. There is a slight easing of her shoulders as she settles back against her chair's back, though it's quickly gone. There's a ripple of surprise in her voice as she focuses on Shaw's pacing form, eyebrows lifted briefly. "Oh?"
"Avon Rikers," Shaw says. Black man - one of the team leaders on the grounds detail. "He responded to that trespass call the other night with the bounty hunter, and I invited the man to play pool after. Seems a sharp cat."
"Ah, yes. Rikers." There's a flicker of a smile as she dips her head, touching pen to paper once again. "He's a good man. Level enough head on his shoulders. Were you thinking pawn, or simply moving him upward in the ranks of security personel?"
"I'll leave that to you," Shaw says. "Mostly -" and here he starts towards Sal, so he's standing behind her and filling the area, generally, with smoke, "I want you to know I noticed him and approved."
"Note made -- we'll see how he handles being given a little more authority. Control over a few more people, and the like." Sal purses her lips for a moment, and taps the non-ink end of her pen against them. The moment passes, and she cranes her head and leans forward in the chair so she can turn around and look at him. "Was there anything else, Shaw?"
"What, Harper," Shaw asks with a tone of dry amusement. "You want to fly out of here so quickly?" He doesn't move - just stands there, towering. "Too much of a gilded cage?" It's a wry smile. "We should discuss a potential upcoming problem."
"Our business here is not all that clamors for my attention during the day," Sal points out mildly, turning back around to settle back into the chair. While he looms, she lounges in deliberate counterpoint. "Which of the many would that be, then?"
Shaw's hands settle on the back of Sal's chair, his fingers nearly touching her hair. "You got the report from Brand about my little encounter with Christopher Rossi the other day?" he asks. Playing pool - with Rikers, no less - and Rossi and his posse swaggers in. Words are exchanged, which Brand was good enough not to repeat, though the tone was not pleasant.
This time, Sal's smile is warmer -- and there is a note of proffesional kinship in her voice when she answers. "Det. Rossi -- I've met the man, before." Her glance flickers upward to Shaw again, and she remarks, "He would be a wise man not to continue to cross, in my opinion -- but you probably aren't looking for my opinion, are you?"
"I'm not a man to cross, Harper," Shaw says with a disagreeable tone in his voice. The tip of his fingers just touch her hair, now. "And he seems determined on it - and frankly, I'm not afraid of him, at all." A beat. "Regardless, steps are already being taken... one of Bahir's specials is going to give him a little surprise." His timbre is positively nasty, now.
At the note in Shaw's voice, Sal's smile turns -- the expressive lips thin down into a hard-pressed line, and she pulls away from him. It is a small motion, unconcious in its delivery. "A little surprise," she echoes with distaste evident in her voice. "How quaint."
"You're fond of Rossi." Shaw's words aren't a question. "So, apparently, is the White Queen - and really, I thought Emma had more class." The Black King tries to keep a note of jealousy out of his voice, and he's almost entirely successful as he straightens and goes back to smoking his cigar. "He'll know it was me behind it - he won't be able to prove anything, but..."
"We have met once, he and I -- there was professional courtesy. He is a man who does his job, and does it as well as any man can, given what he has been give -- human genetics -- to work with." Sal's expression does not clear. It does not ease, it does not clear, if anything the line of her lips goes just a little bit flatter than before.
"Respect has nothing to do with genetics," Shaw says. "Regardless, I can't imagine he's going to take it very well." His gaze is pointed. "We should be prepared. Also..."
Sal sets her teeth. "No. It does not. But he is, point in fact, a man for whom I have a great deal of respect." Her point made, she scribbles a note on her page. 'Angry cop,' it reads. Sal is grarful. "Also?"
Shaw's are are black. "Would it be that the man had respect for me, Harper - but he doesn't does he?" A beat, a breath, then smoke exhaled and the stub of his cigar ground out with force in an ashtray. "I'd like you to recommend someone trustworthy we can detail along with Bahir's man," he says. "Someone to ride shotgun and clean up the scene. Doesn't need to be one of your people - I know you're not happy with this - and they probably will need to leave town, after."
A drawn-out breath is her only answer for a time, as Sal flips through mental lists of names and files. Eventually, she comes up with one. "David Larson," is the name, followed by a brief run-down of his accomplishments so far. "He wants to move, anyway -- leaving town afterward wouldn't be a hardship. I'll make sure he gets a bonus." There is the implication of 'hazard pay.'
Shaw smiles. "I'll let you go, then," he says quietly, turning away from Sal. "But, Harper?"
"Yes, Shaw?" she answers, caught in motion as she leans forward to collect her things.
Shaw still doesn't look at Sal, paused instead in the door to his quarters. "When you're over the thing with Rossi, let me know." That's all - nothing more, and he disappears inside.
Regardless, other things feel like they are moving in a positive direction - I've started to refocus my public persona, and after I find the presence of mind required, I'm going to reach out to Lensherr and see what advances I can make in that directon. We have a dog to wag, after all.
=NYC= Black King's Office - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
"...so regardless, let's keep an extra eye there for the time being, Harper," Shaw says as he concludes discussion on that particular item. It's a routine meeting - early evening, after work and before dinner - in Shaw's office, with the Black King chomping on a cigar and pacing and Sal wherever it is she can settle most comfortably. "Next... I want you to take a look at promoting one of the security guards."
"Understood," Sal murmurs, lifting her head from the page where she takes careful and meticulous -- if only to her -- notes during such meetings. There is a slight easing of her shoulders as she settles back against her chair's back, though it's quickly gone. There's a ripple of surprise in her voice as she focuses on Shaw's pacing form, eyebrows lifted briefly. "Oh?"
"Avon Rikers," Shaw says. Black man - one of the team leaders on the grounds detail. "He responded to that trespass call the other night with the bounty hunter, and I invited the man to play pool after. Seems a sharp cat."
"Ah, yes. Rikers." There's a flicker of a smile as she dips her head, touching pen to paper once again. "He's a good man. Level enough head on his shoulders. Were you thinking pawn, or simply moving him upward in the ranks of security personel?"
"I'll leave that to you," Shaw says. "Mostly -" and here he starts towards Sal, so he's standing behind her and filling the area, generally, with smoke, "I want you to know I noticed him and approved."
"Note made -- we'll see how he handles being given a little more authority. Control over a few more people, and the like." Sal purses her lips for a moment, and taps the non-ink end of her pen against them. The moment passes, and she cranes her head and leans forward in the chair so she can turn around and look at him. "Was there anything else, Shaw?"
"What, Harper," Shaw asks with a tone of dry amusement. "You want to fly out of here so quickly?" He doesn't move - just stands there, towering. "Too much of a gilded cage?" It's a wry smile. "We should discuss a potential upcoming problem."
"Our business here is not all that clamors for my attention during the day," Sal points out mildly, turning back around to settle back into the chair. While he looms, she lounges in deliberate counterpoint. "Which of the many would that be, then?"
Shaw's hands settle on the back of Sal's chair, his fingers nearly touching her hair. "You got the report from Brand about my little encounter with Christopher Rossi the other day?" he asks. Playing pool - with Rikers, no less - and Rossi and his posse swaggers in. Words are exchanged, which Brand was good enough not to repeat, though the tone was not pleasant.
This time, Sal's smile is warmer -- and there is a note of proffesional kinship in her voice when she answers. "Det. Rossi -- I've met the man, before." Her glance flickers upward to Shaw again, and she remarks, "He would be a wise man not to continue to cross, in my opinion -- but you probably aren't looking for my opinion, are you?"
"I'm not a man to cross, Harper," Shaw says with a disagreeable tone in his voice. The tip of his fingers just touch her hair, now. "And he seems determined on it - and frankly, I'm not afraid of him, at all." A beat. "Regardless, steps are already being taken... one of Bahir's specials is going to give him a little surprise." His timbre is positively nasty, now.
At the note in Shaw's voice, Sal's smile turns -- the expressive lips thin down into a hard-pressed line, and she pulls away from him. It is a small motion, unconcious in its delivery. "A little surprise," she echoes with distaste evident in her voice. "How quaint."
"You're fond of Rossi." Shaw's words aren't a question. "So, apparently, is the White Queen - and really, I thought Emma had more class." The Black King tries to keep a note of jealousy out of his voice, and he's almost entirely successful as he straightens and goes back to smoking his cigar. "He'll know it was me behind it - he won't be able to prove anything, but..."
"We have met once, he and I -- there was professional courtesy. He is a man who does his job, and does it as well as any man can, given what he has been give -- human genetics -- to work with." Sal's expression does not clear. It does not ease, it does not clear, if anything the line of her lips goes just a little bit flatter than before.
"Respect has nothing to do with genetics," Shaw says. "Regardless, I can't imagine he's going to take it very well." His gaze is pointed. "We should be prepared. Also..."
Sal sets her teeth. "No. It does not. But he is, point in fact, a man for whom I have a great deal of respect." Her point made, she scribbles a note on her page. 'Angry cop,' it reads. Sal is grarful. "Also?"
Shaw's are are black. "Would it be that the man had respect for me, Harper - but he doesn't does he?" A beat, a breath, then smoke exhaled and the stub of his cigar ground out with force in an ashtray. "I'd like you to recommend someone trustworthy we can detail along with Bahir's man," he says. "Someone to ride shotgun and clean up the scene. Doesn't need to be one of your people - I know you're not happy with this - and they probably will need to leave town, after."
A drawn-out breath is her only answer for a time, as Sal flips through mental lists of names and files. Eventually, she comes up with one. "David Larson," is the name, followed by a brief run-down of his accomplishments so far. "He wants to move, anyway -- leaving town afterward wouldn't be a hardship. I'll make sure he gets a bonus." There is the implication of 'hazard pay.'
Shaw smiles. "I'll let you go, then," he says quietly, turning away from Sal. "But, Harper?"
"Yes, Shaw?" she answers, caught in motion as she leans forward to collect her things.
Shaw still doesn't look at Sal, paused instead in the door to his quarters. "When you're over the thing with Rossi, let me know." That's all - nothing more, and he disappears inside.