Wouldn't dream of it. [ A quick flash of a grin, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes-- turning it into something vaguely more impatient, though the easy laugh from the other man does get his attention again, from where he'd turned back to look over the room with a general kind of smirk. ] Is that a yes? [ The crooked smile-- close-mouthed, this time-- is turned on Charles, and though Erik appears to be able to move from his usual threatening poise to something quite the opposite in an absurdly short space of time, he retains a degree of that enigma. ]
That is a yes. [ He makes a soft humming noise of amusement but it's apparent that the other isn't going to go away till they go get a drink. He softens the tune, using a bit more peddle than he had before till it drawls into a light tone and then into silence. He gently lowered the cover on the keys, sliding along to the edge of the bench and then to a stand. He was surprisingly neat for someone in a speakeasy, cleanly pressed shirt tucked into his pants, hair combed politely to the side, shoes polished. A bit short but stood with the posture of a taller man, ] Alright, you're distracting anyway.
[ There's a brief flicker of interest from Erik as the other man stands up, and he considers his tidy appearance; but looks away soon enough and heads towards the bar, always keeping half his attention on the movements of the rest of the room and the other patrons. Leaning against the countertop, he waits for the pianist to catch up, something undeniably jaunty in the quirk of his eyebrow. ] Well, seeing as I'm unable to read your mind, you're just going to have to tell me your preferred drink.
[ His head cants to the side, partly questioning, but partly that oddly searching look that he's been throwing at the other man since they met. It's possibly still a hint of his earlier suspicion-- because Erik's met undercovers with stronger cover stories than this guy's, and he could have sent any number of his lackeys to check out the references and still have come up with no trace of a lie. So Erik is still cautious, and it's a hunch, possibly-- that would explain why he wanted to know more, to buy him a drink. He doesn't follow the trail
( ... )
Haven't perfected mind-reading yet? That's too bad, it'd be a useful skill to have. [ The return of his sly smile is to be expected, standing perhaps a foot away from Erik he offers Armando a friendly wave when he glances over. The man was his favorite bartender, efficient and surprisingly friendly, his skin color of little interest to Charles. The man had quite interesting theories on evolution last he and Charles had talked. ] I'd like a scotch, if you please?
[ He shakes his head, giving a quick glance back to the office, ] I won't be fired, it's almost time to close up shop anyway, at worst I'll get a talking-to, but seeing as Shaw hasn't left his office for the duration of the evening I think it's safe to say even a talking-to is probably unlikely even that is going to happen. [ It's when he finishes talking that Armando actually makes his way down, taking Charles' order for 'the usual' and cleaning a glass while he waits for Erik's. ]
[ Holding up two fingers he signals for a second Scotch, not giving much notice to the bartender-- particularly when he picks up the name Shaw. There's an abrupt tensing, and a sharp flicker of interest across his face-- there was history there.
Shaw and he-- the man had been one of his compatriots, back when he'd first started with the mob; a lowly gunman, neither had any particularly important tasks other than the odd killing and murder to cover up, sometimes required to play at being a lookout or a bodyguard. However, after working their way up the ranks, the inevitable falling out had occurred, due to contention over a cut in a diamond heist. Shaw had limped out of the warehouse with a bullet wound in each shoulder, and three weeks later, Erik's parents were shot dead in their Brooklyn brownstone. Having taken over, he'd learned that Shaw was championing a mob faction of his own-- sparking the old rivalry once again; though from Erik's end, he had more on his mind that taking the man's job. ] Shaw, you say? Sebastian Shaw? [
( ... )
Yes, that would be him. [ It was a curious expression, the mobsters-- which is what Charles could easily guess he was by looks alone, their conversation aside-- as if there was a familiarity with his boss. Not that Charles would be surprised, the man tried to have his hands in everything; and it was something Charles had gone out of his way to avoid the man-- if he were to be honest, Shaw had always given off an... uncomfortable vibe. But he was willing to pay Charles, and at his age and with his inexperience he was grateful for whatever job he could get; so he kept to himself and picked his cash up at the end of the week. ]
Do you two know each other? [ He asks as if it isn't a bit obvious already; he has to wonder if he's one of Shaw's many business partners-- the man was always bragging about the people he knew and Charles was never sure how much of it was true. ]
Intimately. [ Erik studies a nail, seeming to increase his composure; a snap in his posture-- something not rigid, but rather coiled entering it, possibly an old sort of anger, but possibly not-- because he's immediately more suspicious of this pianist. Shaw tended to use the most obscure of men in his ploys, and a lowly musician would be an ideal candidate. He continues as if oblivious, however-- but can't quite stifle that initial recoil of instinct. A look towards the doorway assures him that Summers and McCoy are attentive as always; their tommy-guns kept on hand, just covered enough by the black overcoats to be threatening; hats obscuring as much of their faces as is possible; given that they're wanted by the police in more states than Dillinger. ]
So tell me, Charles-- how long have you been working for Mr. Shaw? He give you any jobs to do outside of entertaining the lackeys? [ The sneer is impossible to disguise, it's on the edge of his lips; dragging them upward in a snide look; and he knocks back the second glass of scotch,
( ... )
[ He frowns a little bit at the change in posture, his own a bit more defensive against such a blatantly aggressive sort of attitude. Charles hadn't thought he'd done anything worthy of earning the man's ire; and his simple association to Shaw hardly seemed reason enough for Erik to be so on edge. Still, he hefts a sigh, sounding more put-upon than anything else, ] I told you, seven or eight months. [ His lips thin out a bit, and it's hard to tell if Erik's tone or the fact he simply hadn't been paying full attention annoyed him more-- though, with the way the man had kept looking around the bar he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised.
He lifts his own glass of scotch, sending a smile to Armando who seemed to have noted the change in conversation himself. There was no need for anything to get out of hand. ] No, I told you, I'm not interested in that sort of thing. Sure, he's offered this or that, for more money, but I prefer the honest sort-- the kind that doesn't put me or my family in any kind of trouble. [ He purses his lips
( ... )
[ There's more than interest motivating him to talk to Charles-- there had been a tip-off, some subtle murmurings through his ranks that Shaw had this particular bar under his control; that the piano player was a large part of his seeming omnipresent observations-- and while under the usual circumstances he would just have the man taken out, sent off with out so much as a second glance, he huffs out an irate breath-- instead ordering a third glass of scotch. ] Quite a while to be associated with such a shady character. You're comfortable with the the cloak and dagger dealings that he's so famous for? Or do you like to plead ignorance and go on earning an honest paycheck?
[ Another switch in Erik's posture accompanies the first one; as instantaneous as a passing whim; he leans closer to Charles-- conspiratorially, but not lacking in something magnetic. There is a reason that Erik's at the helm of his establishment; men followed him without much question, he knew what they liked to hear, what could inspire loyalty or fear. It was a
( ... )
Comfortable with them? [ He scoffs gently, ] Of course not, but I have-- [ He cuts himself off, realizing mentioning his sister might be a dangerous idea and corrects himself, ] --bills to pay among other things, and with jobs the way they are I don't have much of a choice. It's work here, slave away somewhere else or starve. And I can tell you, I've never been fond of starving. [ Had it just been him, though, he might have-- simply out of morals, but Raven needed food and there was no way he could abandon her like her real parents had. ]
[ He shifts, just a tad uncomfortable with the man who had been so aggressive getting close to him like Erik seemed keen to. The last thing he wanted was to get hurt and put out of work. ] I somehow doubt you're that interested in having a man come play piano for you. [ His tone is dry, but wary, ] What is it you would want?
Charles, [ He purrs the name, every ounce of that considerable persuasion behind it; licking each consonant with the faintest drawl. He’s decided on the spot that he wants the man to work for him-- sees the seeds of opportunity. The slick shine of his gelled back hair is evident in the dimness, curling devilishly in the nape of his neck: everything unlawful, thieving and indisputably free. ] My car is waiting outside. I could use you, someone like you. Shaw’s a bad man, and he’s done me no favours. I’d pay you, and I’d pay you well, so are you going to stand here at this bar, or are you going to follow me and hear me out?
[ In the light of the bar, as he leans forward, the shine highlights a thin scar on the mobster’s jaw; following the line of his cheekbone. It’s disfiguring in a way, serving to sharpen the diagonals of his already angular face, harshening it and giving him a current of something alien. Behind them, the old jukebox croons miserably, bye bye, Blackbird. ] What do you say? [ Sliding back the hem of his overcoat, the
( ... )
You're quite persuasive, what can I say. [ His lips pull into a bit of a frown but otherwise he tries to keep his coutenance as neutral as possible. He doesn't want to alarm Armando and cause anyone else in the bar to get hurt. ] Thanks for the drink. [ He slides back from the bar before turning toward the heavy front doors of the speakeasy. Hands tucked in his pockets and a hunch to his shoulders-- not that anyone else wouldn't be nervous, he had half a mind to believe the man was going to take him out back and have him shot. Pretty words hardly even meant much to mobsters and people of that ilk; though he supposed he should have expected it at some point considering where he worked, but usually he was better protected than that.]
I really don't know what you expect to gain from this. [ He mutters, sucking in a breath of cold air and not looking back, he had left his jacket inside but he didn't dare diverge to grab it-- he wasn't sure what would cause a commotion anymore. ]
You're welcome.[ Intimidation had not really been the intended angle; the reveal of the gun's expensively crafted handle had been an instinct, above everything else-- and Charles would be spared any dimly-lit interrogations for the time being. He liked what he could see of the man thus far (both figuratively and not) and though the tip-off had explicitly stated that there was a cop amongst Shaw's ranks, as well as a carefully placed staff member, Erik's not unreasonable and is willing to give the younger man a chance to either explain himself or to switch teams; the latter being the more heavily encouraged. Once they're outside, the wind howls down the New York street, and the ruffle of the pianist's hair catches his eye. The mobster's own coat is slung over his arm; and he shakes it out-- stepping disinterestedly over towards Charles and slipping it around the other man's shoulders with a sort of detached economy to his movements
( ... )
[ He might have thanked him for the coat, his mouth even opens to do so, before he thinks better of it. Erik is the reason he's out in the cold to begin with; he hardly finds the momentary reprieve something to be thankful for. He nods, easing himself down and into the car and sliding across the seat with a simple sigh passing his lips-- he'd never thought he'd have much hassle as a piano player. Turning his attention toward Erik, watching the tall mobster ease himself into the car, taking a moment to observe him in an almost clinical sense. The sharp angles of his face, the dangerous looking scar, the tip of his hat and fit oc his clothes; all indicating what sort of man he was. ]
Where are we going? [ He's not entirely sure he'll get an answer, but he doesn't seem the harm in asking-- he hasn't been blindfolded or anything like that yet, which he supposes, is a good sign. ]
You'll find out, won't you? [ He says it with a smirk, and it's not cruel-- because he's looped an arm around the back of the car seat; the door slamming behind him as the driver gets in and starts the engine-- the car sputtering loudly to life. It's all very-- companionable on Erik's end, there's still that possibility for a sudden shift, because it had come easily enough; crossing his eyes with a learned aggression that stemmed from life as an outlaw. ] And you won't tell anyone, else you'll wind up dead as Dillinger. [ For a silent beat, his face remains passive. He cracks a wide smile. ] Or not. Don't look so worried, you're not going to find yourself six feet under tomorrow. [ Head tipped back, the scar is caught by every passing neon sign; lit by the primary tones of speakeasys and gentleman's clubs. ]
We're going to my apartment. Mob headquarters, secret lair. For questioning. [ He seems uproariously relaxed for someone about to initiate any kind of questioning-- arm draped nearly about the piano player's shoulders. ]
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[ His head cants to the side, partly questioning, but partly that oddly searching look that he's been throwing at the other man since they met. It's possibly still a hint of his earlier suspicion-- because Erik's met undercovers with stronger cover stories than this guy's, and he could have sent any number of his lackeys to check out the references and still have come up with no trace of a lie. So Erik is still cautious, and it's a hunch, possibly-- that would explain why he wanted to know more, to buy him a drink. He doesn't follow the trail ( ... )
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[ He shakes his head, giving a quick glance back to the office, ] I won't be fired, it's almost time to close up shop anyway, at worst I'll get a talking-to, but seeing as Shaw hasn't left his office for the duration of the evening I think it's safe to say even a talking-to is probably unlikely even that is going to happen. [ It's when he finishes talking that Armando actually makes his way down, taking Charles' order for 'the usual' and cleaning a glass while he waits for Erik's. ]
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Shaw and he-- the man had been one of his compatriots, back when he'd first started with the mob; a lowly gunman, neither had any particularly important tasks other than the odd killing and murder to cover up, sometimes required to play at being a lookout or a bodyguard. However, after working their way up the ranks, the inevitable falling out had occurred, due to contention over a cut in a diamond heist. Shaw had limped out of the warehouse with a bullet wound in each shoulder, and three weeks later, Erik's parents were shot dead in their Brooklyn brownstone. Having taken over, he'd learned that Shaw was championing a mob faction of his own-- sparking the old rivalry once again; though from Erik's end, he had more on his mind that taking the man's job. ] Shaw, you say? Sebastian Shaw? [ ( ... )
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Do you two know each other? [ He asks as if it isn't a bit obvious already; he has to wonder if he's one of Shaw's many business partners-- the man was always bragging about the people he knew and Charles was never sure how much of it was true. ]
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So tell me, Charles-- how long have you been working for Mr. Shaw? He give you any jobs to do outside of entertaining the lackeys? [ The sneer is impossible to disguise, it's on the edge of his lips; dragging them upward in a snide look; and he knocks back the second glass of scotch, ( ... )
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He lifts his own glass of scotch, sending a smile to Armando who seemed to have noted the change in conversation himself. There was no need for anything to get out of hand. ] No, I told you, I'm not interested in that sort of thing. Sure, he's offered this or that, for more money, but I prefer the honest sort-- the kind that doesn't put me or my family in any kind of trouble. [ He purses his lips ( ... )
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[ Another switch in Erik's posture accompanies the first one; as instantaneous as a passing whim; he leans closer to Charles-- conspiratorially, but not lacking in something magnetic. There is a reason that Erik's at the helm of his establishment; men followed him without much question, he knew what they liked to hear, what could inspire loyalty or fear. It was a ( ... )
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[ He shifts, just a tad uncomfortable with the man who had been so aggressive getting close to him like Erik seemed keen to. The last thing he wanted was to get hurt and put out of work. ] I somehow doubt you're that interested in having a man come play piano for you. [ His tone is dry, but wary, ] What is it you would want?
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[ In the light of the bar, as he leans forward, the shine highlights a thin scar on the mobster’s jaw; following the line of his cheekbone. It’s disfiguring in a way, serving to sharpen the diagonals of his already angular face, harshening it and giving him a current of something alien. Behind them, the old jukebox croons miserably, bye bye, Blackbird. ] What do you say? [ Sliding back the hem of his overcoat, the ( ... )
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I really don't know what you expect to gain from this. [ He mutters, sucking in a breath of cold air and not looking back, he had left his jacket inside but he didn't dare diverge to grab it-- he wasn't sure what would cause a commotion anymore. ]
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Where are we going? [ He's not entirely sure he'll get an answer, but he doesn't seem the harm in asking-- he hasn't been blindfolded or anything like that yet, which he supposes, is a good sign. ]
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We're going to my apartment. Mob headquarters, secret lair. For questioning. [ He seems uproariously relaxed for someone about to initiate any kind of questioning-- arm draped nearly about the piano player's shoulders. ]
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