2019-07-03 - A Piteousness of Doves

The blue-haired, bird-named young woman who was working with August and Ignacio removing damaged trees downtown is kind of hard to forget. Well if you see her. But it's probably not til she mentions the hair and name over the phone that she's recognizable to the mechanic she calls. She got Itzahk's shop number from August and with Ignacio's thumbs up, decided to call him about looking at her Gran's ancient car in the garage. It's dead as a doornail, but if it can be revived enough to be semi-reliable, she'll be able to drive places instead of take the bus. Considering the disaster at the Elm street bus stop a week ago, this has become a priority for Finch.

She waits for the man's arrival, sitting on the crumbling and partially broken steps leading to the porch of Mallard House. It was probably an amazing mansion once, now it looks like the set for a Halloween haunted house. Finch is in combat boots and purple tights, under pink shorts, with a black tee shirt bearing a rainbow-colored heart on it, and a sparkly silver belt. Her hair is still blue today, and her goggles are still on her head.

Itzhak had not seemed thrilled to get the call. He's kind of a dick like that. But he'd agreed, and shows up on time. Precisely on time. Not one minute under or one minute over. He pulls up, his own car rumbling like a purring tiger. Whatever is under that hood sounds like it could power a rocket.

He's wearing the tanktop-jeans-boots combo and the mirrored sunglasses. Swinging out of the car, he grabs his toolbox from the passenger side. Then he takes a minute, looking at the house, frowning. Eventually he strides on up. He's tall. "Hell of a place ya got here. Finch, right? The little stripey ones, they hop around going beep."

"It used to be," Finch says with a slightly sad lilt to her voice as she looks back over her shoulder at the boarded up windows and ivy claiming the stone. She puts her hands on her thighs and shoves herself up to a standing. "Thanks for coming, garage is this way." She heads past the front of the house along a gravel drive that leads to an old wooden garage that is more like a carriage house. It likely started out as one.

As she sticks an ancient looking key into an equally old lock holding the doors closed, her hair moves, and from it emerges a little white and grey head with a twitching pink nose. It's a rat. And it's wearing a lovely little Kentucky Derby worthy hat with daisies on it.

Itzhak sneakily glides his fingertips along the side of the old mansion as they go. He shivers, all the hair on his arms standing up, and takes his hand away, shaking it out. Then there's a rat emerging from Finch's hair and Itzhak curses, surprised. "...You got a rat." He solves the mystery, sighing in veiled relief. "Hey, do you actually, like, live here?"

Finch swings the doors open and they creak with ages of rust caking the hinges. Inside it's dark and dust motes dance in the beams of light from outside. Finch looks back at Itzhak and nods. "Yeah, family's place. Just me and my Gran there now though. We use like a third of the place, the rest is closed off to keep the heating bill down to something less than titanic." She smiles in reference to the rat who is perched happily on her shoulder in full view now, and also wearing a delightful polka dot backpack. "This is Magdalena Heinroth, or Mags. She's way more of a lady than I am," she explains.

She steps into the garage and flips a switch, turning on the overhead lights. Along with what you'd expect in an old garage like canisters and tools, there is a vehicle. A very old vehicle. It's a 1961 Lincoln Continental in what was likely a fashionable dove gray in the mid-century, but is now rusted in places, covered in dust and leaves, and clearly buried under decades of neglect.

"Hi, Mags." Itzhak unbends enough to almost smile. His face relaxes a little, anyway. The urge to offer the rat his finger to make introductions is strong, but, he doesn't, as she is sitting on Finch. Too close, for a guy like him to risk getting touchy with a girl like Finch. "Cute, ain'tcha."

He lifts the sunglasses up to rest them in his curly black hair, and his expression is extremely dubious. "Place is a wreck, it ain't so safe." But he lays eyes on the Lincoln and suddenly he grins. "Oh wow. ...Oh, man, she's in rough shape." He looks at Finch. "Not gonna lie to ya, this is probably a lost cause."

As Finch walks around the side of the car, she plucks the keys from a wall hook and tosses them towards Itzhak. "I tried her the other night but she was dead, so at the very least, the battery is toast. But I don't think it's been driven since my mother was born so it's probably been sitting here like this since the US Bicentennial." 1976. "So I get it if it's a lost cause. I mean, everything here pretty much is," she says with a smirk.

She sets the rat into the roof of the vehicle so she can see what's going on the like queen of all she surveys. Mags stands up on her hind legs, sniffing the air curiously, then letting out a sneeze from the dust. Finch looks over Itzhak's tattoos curiously. "Pomegranates, eh? Got a thing for Persephone? Or Hades?"

Itzhak snatches the keys out of midair. "You jokin' me'?" he says, giving Finch a hell of a dubious look. "Forty years? Oy gevalt." He shakes his head. "You shoulda called a junkyard." Nevertheless he goes to feel around under the hood and open it up. Which it does with a squeal of rusted springs and a fall of dust. Itzhak rears back. "Ugh. She been started at all?" He almost doesn't answer the question about his tattoo, already leaning into the engine, but he pauses and glances up, eyes narrowed against the floating debris. "Perseph--oh. No, pomegranates are one of the Seven Species of Israel."

"Oh cool. Didn't know that. Took a couple mythology classes as an undergrad though, and it was the fruit Persephone ate some of the seeds out of in Hell, so she had to stay there for half the year with Hades, and spent half the year with us up here." The interior of the car is in excellent condition except for the dust.

"She may have been started regularly by Abernathy when he was still with us, the butler, but I think he left when I was 13 or so." Right after her mother tried to murder her. Even the help decided the house wasn't a good place. "I was really hoping you could resurrect her. I'm so tired of taking the bus." Finch sighs and reaches over to pet Mags with a fingertip, which the little rat seems to enjoy.

"Pomegranates, figs, dates, wheat, barley, grapes, and olives. Free lesson with your car service." Itzhak doesn't say that last part playfully at all, but rather pretty damn annoyed. With who, exactly, isn't clear. He snorts, hidden by the car hood. "The butler." Derision.

Straightening up and dodging the edge of the hood without thinking about it, he goes around to peer inside. "Her interior's pretty cherry," he says, grudgingly. "You could sell those seats for a lot of money. Authentic parts like that from a car this old and in this good condition, they're real valuable." Itzhak looks over at Finch. His long fingers fidget at his sides. Then he huffs a huge sigh. "Well, let me take another gander." Back under the hood he goes!

Finch folds her arms and leans against the side of the car, taking in the information thoughtfully. "Huh, well that's a bit of trivia I can ferret away for when I am, you know, the next Jeopardy champion." At the comment about the butler, a brow arches. "Yeah we used to have money and we used to have a huge number of family living here so there were servants. We don't have either anymore. Shit happens." She shrugs and looks out the doors with a distant expression. "Not mine to sell, though I could ask Gran when she gets back from her trip. I know she'd let me drive it though, and that would really make my life less crappy."

Ignacio comes limping up the drive to the back with that slow cowboy stroll that is really his right leg pulling him forward more than a mosey. A decent sized navy duffel is slung over his shoulder and he just stands in the drive before commenting with that matter-of-fact casual tone he always seems to have weather invite commentary or not, "Eeeh they said I was a lost cause too. Anyone can put Humpty Dumpty back again I figured is you. Thanks f'makin it out." He looks over to Finch and says "Borrowed Raf's car so we can save you from Hot Pockets."

Itzhak mutters, "Yeah. Shit happens," with the tone of one who knows. He just grunts back at Ignacio when he comes moseying up. Cheerful as always. Itzhak flips open his toolbox, grabs out a wrench, reaches wayyyy into the engine and starts tweaking, making faces as flakes of rust and dirt drift down on him.

Then he whole-body jerks and nearly bangs his head on the hood. He ducks it at the last second and cranes around to look at Ignacio, scowling. A beat. "...Don't sneak up on me like that," he says, although there was no sneaking, and turns back. "C'mere, take these and when I tell you, try to turn 'er over." He holds out the keys blindly, uncaring of who takes them.

Finch gives Ignacio a warm smile as he shuffles up. "Thanks Ig, my intestines thank you too. Hopefully I won't burn down the kitchen in that cooking class next week." She could you know. She really could. Magdalena makes an excited squeak at Ignacio's arrival. He is clearly her pal since he fed her. "The old land yacht may be beyond saving but we'll see if your friend here is a miracle worker."

She takes the keys when Itzhak hands them over, and she plucks Magdalena off the roof and hands her to Ig to protect while she is in the ancient vehicle. With the criiiiiiick sound of an old metal car door, she opens the drivers side and climbs in, sticking the keys in the ignition. "Ready when you are!"

Ignacio warms a lopsided easy grin and answers Itzhak, "I can't help I'm a stealthy mother fucker." In absolutely zero senses of the word. His hand goes out to take Mags and turns to head back out of the enclosed space before the engine turns over, coughs up ghosts, explodes, or does nothing sending anyone into a fits of swearing. Hey, rodents have good hearing and a sense of smell and the exhaust can't be good on her tiny little lungs. "You're coming with me lil lady. Ey, Finch, house open yeah?" No she hermetically locked herself out. "I'm a go drop some things off in the livin room and be right back."

Itzhak is already swearing, little cuss explosions popping out from under the hood of the car. He retreats, covered in smudges of dirt and rust and oil, a mechanic's natural camouflage. Now he's ignoring Iggy with a strenuous kind of ignoring, like the guy is just way too distracting. "A'ight, give 'er a go."

"Yeah it's open Ig!" Finch calls after him. "You can put Mags in her little house while you're in there, can ya?" It's a rat cage, but it is designed to look like a sort of doll house, with ramps and a wheel and feeders and other fun things for her to play with. It even has doll furniture in it. The rat lives better than any of them!

At Itzhak's order she turns the key in the ignition with a whispered chant of 'Come on old girl, you can do it."

Ignacio calls back, though he's talking to Mags really, "She's trying to keep us apart again. You notice that?" He hollers back, "It won't work forever, Finch!" His fingers scritches the top of Mags' head "C'mon. You can make sure I don't get lost. Hell we can put you in the car and if you stay in it then we know it's not sinking. See? You're helping already. She got a little captain's hat for you already for the land barge? ¿No haga? Tendremos que conseguirte uno." Well that's settled. Into the house Iggy goes to drop off his stuff and cruise a look at teh kitchen to see what they have to work with.

Nothing happens when Finch turns the key. Nothing at all. Itzhak's scowl grows thunderous. "Keep turning it!" He spits something in Yiddish, hauls off and kicks the car in the undercarriage so hard that all the metal of it rings.

The old car starts. Coughing, choking, the engine shaking, but it starts. So much dust and smoke plumes out that Itzhak has to step back in a hurry. He's grinning though, his face transformed. "Hell yeah!"

Magdalena goes happily into her high class home and yes, there is a little closet beside it with the outfits Granny Dove makes for her. The kitchen does have plenty of staples in a large butler's pantry. Canned goods, various dry goods, dry pastas and such. The refrigerator has the basics, and some veggies and proteins. Clearly Gran stocked some things before she left, in the hopes Finch would magically learn to cook with something that isn't solely made in a microwave.

Finch curses under her breath at the first attempt, but as the kick knocks loose whatever was blocking things, she lets out a whoop of victory. "YES! Rosencrantz the MIRACLE worker! Woo!" Then she's coughing from the smoke and dust.

Ignacio takes his time poking around not judging it. The house is haunted. No one has enough time on their hands to judge this poor house and he has other things to do than freak himself out. For now he can just appreciate why Finch doesn't want to tackle repairs on it by herself. His hand pats the wall. "Cocina, vamos a llegar a un acuerdo, ¿sí?" Looking around as he addresses the kitchen he gets a short inventory of pans and things on a quick pass through. Most people case a join for valuables, Ignacio cases it for cutlery. Eh, could be worse.

Itzhak waves Finch down, "Let 'er rest." More like let them rest from the frankly awful amount of aerial debris now floating around the garage/carriage house. There's more dead spiders per liter in here than he cares to really contemplate. He plasters his handkerchief over his mouth and nose, but he's still grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling into crow's-feet. "I think I can save her. It's gonna take some time."

When Ignacio pokes about, he can see there is plenty of cookware and bakeware, and it's mostly very fine quality if from an earlier time than he's used to. They clearly had money once, so everything is sturdy and well made, so there is that. The kitchen knives are a bit dull and need sharpening, some of the lids are missing for pots and pans, but overall, not too shabby.

Finch shuts off the ignition at the order and emerges from the car with her goggles down over her eyes. See! They're handy! "No shit, really? That would be great. How much though. I have a job now so I can pay you a bit at a time if that's ok?" It'll slow her school funds but she's not entirely sure she's going back to finish at this point. She knows the pull of the town and she can feel its hooks deep in her now.

Ignacio snags an apple off the counter and comes on back out, free of mousie and liberated from his bag. He makes his way over and leans shoulder to side of the garage snacking on the fruit observing, "Well, sounds like we got something t'work with. You workin on cash or cash an' trade these days?" Munch munch munch. It's a fair question as trades on labor can go pretty far and nothing's ever just free. That's a great way to burn a bridge or wind up in someone's back pocket.

Itzhak eyes the engine. It's not pretty. Everything made of rubber is cracked or dissolving. "You couldn't afford to pay me in cash. Let's do it on trade." He wipes his face, and flashes a proud, open grin at Ignacio. "Not bad, yeah? I still got it."

Finch closes the car door and looks between the two men. "Trade. Not sure I have much to trade, what did you have in mind?" There's a bit of concern in her expression over what they might mean, because she's seen Law and Order SVU.

Ignacio smiles impishly eating his apple assuring, "Never doubted ya, man." He takes another bite of his contraband apple and informs, "Noting I ain't in the biz anymore, what 'chu up to right now ya need?" Because that isn't making things sound more ominous even if Ignacio could announce the end of the world as a footnote. But it is to say, for Itzhak's mind, He doesn't really race so betting o him as an auto jockey isn't something he'd encourage. He pauses and looks to Finch, that expression, and tries hard not to crack up laughing and choking on his apple. "Aww shit that's gotta sound bad. I used to race. Made a good bit of money at it too. I ain't dealin in your garage. Aint' like that it's fine. Seriously, Itz, what'chu workin on these days?" Also not what she was worried about but at least he's aware of the elephant for barter in the middle of the room.

Itzhak tucks the hanky into a back pocket. "I need business," he tells Iggy. Then...he hesitates. Thoughts churn behind his hazel eyes. "...what I could really use is some pictures. You got any?" he asks Finch. "Maybe from around when your ma was born?" Ignacio clarifying things for Finch causes Itzhak to make a horrified face. "I mean, of the car. I can clean her up, take her to car shows, prove she's got a history. People love that shit."

Finch listens open mouthed until everyone clarifies everything. Then she looks relieved. "There are probably some yeah. I can call Gran to see where they might be. You'd really fix her up? Sort of like a rolling ad for your garage?"

Ignacio takes a deep breath, eyes brimming with amusement and adds calmly, somehow not checking on his apple, "Okay, promotional business we can absolutely do. Hell with downed trees and stuff we can also pass collision work on to your way too case someone's got a squashed Buick. Whatevah'." He pauses and considers his words carefully, "so we'll pick up parts. Food and advertisin for labor. It'll be a fun project. You need a second hand let us know. That fair?"

Itzhak gets a little flustered, turning red around the ears. He sniffs and finds something to look at that isn't either Finch or Iggy. Oh no. Finch thought...oh no. He just forges onwards, talking fast and sharp in that New York accent, fidgeting with his wrench. "Yeah, uh, yeah, it's a shame about the rust, 'cuz I'll hafta patch and repaint, and this color's gonna be a bear to match. I can take some pictures of her now, to show what condition she's in, compare and contrast, yannow? Prove I got the chops."

Finally he looks up at Iggy, frowning. "What are you, the lady's negotiator?" he crabs at him. "That works for me." Sometimes, Itzhak gives mixed signals. "You gonna cook for me?"

"A different color wouldn't be so bad," Finch notes. "This one, in the Pacific Northwest? It's like an invitation to slam into it in the fog, ya know?" She grins then. "Ig can cook for you. I'd be more likely to set the kitchen on fire or poison someone. He's trying to help me learn. He was horrified at the sheer magnitude of my Hot Pockets consumption."

Ignacio takes a bite from the apple waving it vaguely with a shrug, "F'the sake a' ahgument?" Oh the accent gets thicker arguing, but varied easily falling into an utterance of Spanish fast and loose as his decision making process. "Yeah ya cantankerous goat. You know ya can't find a decent fuckin falafel anywheah around here. Yeah, baby Consider the food covered." More an expletive of familiarity than at all one of endearment. He takes another bite of the apple, eyebrow arching and looks to Finch, earnestly agreeing, "I fear for you and your pancreas. Sides, that class sounds like fun and it means I don't hafta grocery shop."

"Nah, she's gotta have the same color, it's gorgeous and it's perfect on her. Does kinda blend in with the fog." Itzhak stares at the car, going still as he sinks into visualization. He reanimates, shrugging. "I'll think of something. That's the real cost, you gotta let me do whatever I want. ...With the car." Pronounced 'cah'. He flings a hand at Iggy. "I know! There ain't hardly no decent street carts around here neither! Just these hipster trucks and they wanna charge you twenty bucks for a burrito. If you're cookin' though? You're fuckin' on."

"Ok you've got a deal. Just let me make sure Gran is ok with it. I'll give her a call in the morning. For now though, come on in and Ig can make us some non-hot-pockets for dinner," Finch invites with a grin. She'll lock the garage up for the time being and escort the guys into the house.

Ignacio seems entirely pleased he's still able to pull some esteem off his other trade. Being an author was never something he planned on. Racing? That was his passion and completely out of reach. Cooking? He worked his culo off to get good at that and he enjoyed it. He lets Finch go in and get everything put away while they finish putting things back in the garage. "Ya know my brother's up here too. She ain't wrong. This place is becoming the creepy version of Palm Springs."

Itzhak grunts, futzing with something else in the engine compartment. "Why you guys out here, anyway? Place is spooky as hell." He has to force himself to stop and shut the hood. Which doesn't want to close, and he has to mess with it, grumbling. "This ain't a car, it's a disaster."

Ignacio sighs. There was a question Ignacio still wanted an answer to. He pulls a bottle out of his pocket and spills out a white pill, caps the bottle and pops it in his mouth. Checking his watch he notes the time to himself murmuring, "Question of the fuckin century, pal." Taking a deep breath he shrugs watching Itzhak do clean up as there's really only need for one here. "My pops gave me an ultimatum. I gave him one. Called his bluff soooo I'm here lookin after Raf." The Spaniard shakes his head with a more serious tone, "I got enough shit to worry about without my pops bein an asshole to 'em." Brown eyes drift back to teh car and a slow breath fills his lungs, "Yeah but... ain't we all?"

Itzhak finally gets the hood to shut by bouncing his weight on it via his hands flat on top. Clunk. There he rests a moment, head low, while Iggy tells his story. "That's rough, buddy." He closes up his toolbox, snorts, unamused. "Yeah, guess we are. Hell of a coincidence you 'n ya brother winding up here, but, it ain't really a coincidence, is it?" He's talking as he tidies the toolbox up and wipes car dirt from it. Still crouched, he glances up at Iggy, eyebrows tilted up.

Ignacio shrugs, "If there's a fight I'm pickin my brother first. People don't get to be shitty to em. I don't care if they're fuckin related or not. Just... no." stands there quietly thinking about the whole concept of coincidence and how he used to have faith in oblivious convenience. Somewhere in the last eight years that stopped like he found out there's no Easter Bunny all over again. "Yeah, I don't really think it is either." Holding the apple core in his fingers his opposite thumb itches at his lower lip. Looking back up he asks curiously, "How come you're here?"

Itzhak gets his scowl on, but his heart isn't in it. "I'm takin' over a garage for a family friend." That's his story--and a story it is. He tenses up, he refuses to meet Iggy's eyes, he finds some excuse why he has to mess with his toolbox. He's lying. "What's youse guys fightin' your pops over?" Now he's trying to distract Iggy from his lie with intrusive questions. "I thought Raf was the good kid."

Ignacio arches both eyebrows with a subtle but overwhelming expression of agreement. Flexing his back he gets himself pushed off the wall. Eyes look outside maybe for someone, maybe out of paranoid habit, but the apple core gets chucked off into the foliage for the birds. "I keep tellin people that. They keep not believin me. " He considers his words and finally sums it up as, "Consider it irreconcilable differences. My brother can't not be gay aaaaaaaaaaaaand my pops can't not be a dick about it. Soooo... that leaves me in all ways in the middle of that. Fuck em. He knew half the truth about anything he's really see how fucked this whole situation is for em. But seriously, seems the least of what we got to worry about in this place."

Itzhak makes a scoffing sound of total disgust, lip curling. "Fuckin' for reals? Christ. Ain't none a ya old man's business, and he's gotta throw his sons out over it?" Itchy rolls his eyes and holds up his hands, as if asking God to take a look at this mess. "Buncha nonsense." Folding his arms, he gives Iggy a long searching look, anger still lingering around his expression. "There's a lotta shit going on here, I can tell you that much."

Ignacio holds up a finger. "One son. I left. He told me he wanted me to change some shit. I told him cool. Bring Raf back home. He was like you're not living like ya are under my roof. It's really his ass backwards attempt to make me get some shit together, but I was like well... bring Raf back home. He said no. I called his bluff and moved out." Shaking his head he murmurs in what might be his only direct and entirely BS free words this week, "I don't play that shit. This ain't the old country. The rules don't fit. It's about as useful as worrying about what to wear when the Titanic sinks so they find you in something nice. No one's gonna fuckin care when the world is sinkin, man."

"Good for you, not takin' that shit from nobody, not even ya pops." Itzhak kind of growls the words, getting worked up again about the whole issue. His eyebrows go quizzical, though, when Ignacio talks about needing to get his shit together, then the world sinking. Underneath Iggy's words are a tangle even Itzhak can hear. Yet, he doesn't ask. "Hear ya," is all he says.

Ignacio rubs his hand across the subtly less functioning side of his face enjoying the strange sensation of the slightly numb and familiar as the Vicodin kicks in. "C'mon, let's head inside. Apparently I'm makin lunch out of...whatever's here." That said he's happy for the distraction and avoiding as much as he humanly can, and also? Hell, lunch sounds really great about now.