2019-07-09 - Beachfront Breakdown

Just off the rocky beach's entry, near the boardwalk, is a broken down and steaming vintage 1966 Mustang convertible, soft top down, glossy black paint spattered with bug carcasses all along the front end. It's obvious a few things have happened: 1) a recent long road trip, that was 2) too much for the engine, or 3) something internally has melted/blown/cracked, which 4) is probably going to be expensive to fix, so 5) "Fuck."

Yes, the convertible is a choice utterly unsuited to the region most of the time, but it's sunny today. At least she broke down by the beach, right? Love sits on the car, perched on the body above the rear driver's side tire, a clove cigarette tucked at the corner of her lips. Her burgundy, patent leather Chucks kick lightly, heels bouncing off the tire, knees wide, skinny jeans and knotted tee the ultimate in road-trip casual. She looks almost like she meant to park it here. If not for the steaming engine. Her shades are in place. Anytime a motorist honks, she lifts a hand in a lazy wave.

There are definitely worse stretches of road she could have found herself on with a busted vehicle, even if the chances of someone stopping to help in this town are slim to none. The sun is a relentless thing today; it's hot enough to make the road shimmer as it reaches off into the distance, though those clouds on the horizon suggest rain might be in the forecast for tonight.

A semi-trailer headed out of town blows by, wafting bits of straw and the scent of farm animals in its wake. It's two minutes before another vehicle approaches; this one, a black charger with bull bars mounted on the front. Looks like a cop car, in the way of undercover squad cars that are meant to evade notice. After throttling down from a speed that was undoubtedly pushing the limit in this area, it swings over onto the shoulder and draws to a halt behind the smoking mustang. And sits there for a minute before the engine's cut. Driver's side door cranks open, and a uniformed cop climbs out. Looks like he's alone at the moment; no partner waiting for him in the car. He's fairly well-built, though nothing impressive in the height department.

Despite her pale skin, the grey-haired woman seems pleased to be out in the sun, so she tips back a little, though the car's paint heats up pretty fast. She sits there baking in the sunlight, no water, no food on hand. The empty Espresso Yourself cup rests in a little cup holder clipped to the door the old fashioned way, long ago finished and empty.

She waves a hand in front of her face once the smell of pig shit and exhaust blows by, brushing her face with those inked fingers before she sighs. Of course her phone battery is dead. Of course she left her charger somewhere. Of course she's broken down with a dead phone. But she's broken down in full view of the ocean, so that's something. She knew it was coming. Who else is going to stop and help aside from a biker or a cop? She watches the uniform approach, ashing her cigarette before she tucks it back into her mouth. The smoke is sweetly scented of spicy clove. In the reflection of her aviators a tiny cop gets bigger and bigger as he approaches.

Despite the heat - or perhaps because of it - the cop seems in no particular rush to get where he's going. He's sporting a standard-issue firearm, taser, and cuffs in his duty rig; along with a slightly less standard-issue quantity of ink running down both arms that might seem excessive to some. Normally it would be covered up under a long-sleeved shirt, but with this heat, there's simply no other option.

Goggle-style shades protect his eyes from the sun, and look utilitarian enough to do double duty against things being hurled at him; they're tipped up as he draws within a few feet, causing him to squint while he looks over her car. "Need some assistance, ma'am?" Slight understatement there, officer. She may or may not notice the way his nostrils flare slightly at the scent of clove, or the subtle little once-over he gave her on approach.

Love doesn't, at first, appear to be smoking her cigarette so much as letting it burn down slowly in the corner of her mouth, where it's lightly tucked between black-painted lips. She watches him come, and though her posture doesn't change, no tensing, she does seem to be waiting for him to speak first. And he does! He does while she's visually inspecting his ink. Only a slight tip of her head indicates she may be looking down. Thank you, mirror shades. She rubs a hand up her arm, fingers skimming across all manner of tattoo. "Captain." She looked at his collar at some point.

"I thought I'd just catch some sun while my baby thinks about what she's done." Love pats a hand against the side panel of the Mustang. "I'm sure it'll, you know, work itself out." She reaches up to pluck the clove from her lips, hand going again to rest by the edge of her palm against the glossy paint, which has to be hot. She flashes him a wide, toothy smile.

Ruiz takes a good long gander at the mustang, which looks like equal parts appraisal and diagnosis. He wanders in closer, movement slow and prowlish like an animal that hasn't eaten in a few days; hale enough to look a little vicious, hungry enough to be efficient about it. "Might be a torn gasket or a coolant leak," he surmises, still squinting into the sun. His accent is thick; Mexican Spanish, if Love has any familiarity.

After a time, his attention turns back to the grey-haired woman perched on the trunk of her car, and his eyes trace the line of her shoulder and inked arm until they reach the clove sitting at her lips. Her smile isn't returned. "You're lucky it's a nice day for it." To be broken down on the side of the road, presumably. "Like me to call a tow truck for you?" His radio goes off, and he turns his head slightly without taking his eyes off the woman, to speak into it: "Unit three three seven, ten fourty-six. Copy."

Love does have some familiarity. She watches him prowl around her car, and remains as she is, sedately perched atop it at the shoulder, where she likely pushed it herself. Good thing she's wearing Chucks today. Strands of dyed grey hair flutter around her face in the ocean breeze. "Any day with this view is a good day for it, don't you think?" She glances over her shoulder at the expanse of dark blue water. Her profile remains his to view, or not, while she gazes out at the waves. "I wouldn't care if it was storming. Though it might tempt me into the water." Her upholstery might, though, if she didn't get the soft to up fast enough.

A moment later, well after the polite pause in conversation has elapsed, she finally says, "I would very much like for you to call a tow, if it's not too much trouble." Seems she's in no hurry either.

"Yes ma'am," agrees the officer politely enough, though his tone is devoid of much more than that; maybe he's just humouring her, and couldn't give a shit about the view. He completes his circuit around the mustang, and pauses in the relative shade on the side closest to Love, to put in the call to dispatch. Something about requesting a tow service from the roster, followed by an approximate location.

That done, he indicates his cruiser with a hitch of his chin. "Get you a bottle of water while I take a look?" At her car, one presumes. "If you don't mind popping the hood, ma'am."

Well. What a nice town. The smile doesn't fade so much as close to something still amused yet not so cheshire, more friendly. Just a tattooed girl sitting on her gorgeous, non-functional classic car beside the ocean... with a cop, who is eye-fucking her wheels. "Yes, Captain. Please." To the water. And then she slides off the car to move around to the front, moving just past the uniform. She smells like clove and coconutty suncreen when she passes by. Tucking the cigarette into her mouth, she reaches under the hood ledge, sweeping her fingers over to the release. She pulls the hood up, leans in, and reaches for the long metal rod to prop it up. She tips back as the steam disperses.

Yeah, he's a regular Mr. Personality, this one. Looks like Love drew the short straw on cops today. He turns his head briefly to watch the younger woman pass by; she's a tall drink of water, which draws his gaze to her legs. Subtle, that glance. With her back to him, she probably doesn't notice. And though they stand roughly level, toe-to-toe, he's got a fair amount of weight on her. Some of it courtesy of break room donuts, no doubt; much of it looks like solid muscle mass though.

His boots hit the asphalt with a brisk report as he moves off to fetch the bottle of water. Once inside his cruiser, one leg in and one leg out, a short conversation with dispatch ensues. Something's checked on the digital display mounted on his dashboard, and then he collects the water and swings back out.

"License and registration, ma'am?" is asked with the slightest suggestion of a smile once he's in range to hand over the water bottle. "Shouldn't be too long for a tow."

There's a long pause in which Love watches her engine do things it shouldn't. She sighs, then steps back to look at the water, though she does watch the cop walk away for a moment, to fetch the water he offered her, which was unexpected. She reaches up to rub the side of her neck, stretching her arms up over her head to tip back in a long, standing stretch of her back. She may never recover from sleeping in that thing two nights in a row. She glances over her shoulder, then turns to the cop when he hands over the bottle.

"Really?" She shouldn't be surprised he's asking for her identification. She cracks open the water bottle, taking a sip before she complies, tucking the cap into the little watch pocket in her skinny jeans. That hand hooks back to her rear right pocket, slipping out a slim, about-to-expire Hawaii license. It has a rainbow on it, and the top is mostly pink. She holds it out, scissored between two fingers. "Thanks for the agua and the call." She drains half of the bottle there. Must have been thirsty.

Yes, really, says the look on his face, though he doesn't actually answer that verbally. Once the documentation is handed over, he turns it around and flips it open to peruse it for a few moments. He looks up at the tattooed woman. Then back down again, working his jaw slightly. "Hawaii, yes? Long way from home. You're going to need to renew this." A pen is slid out of one of his gear's several pockets, along with a small notepad. Something's scrawled on the top sheet, and then it's torn off and passed back with her license. "DMV's a little hard to find." He's drawn a little map on it. Isn't he helpful.

After watching her for a moment with the water bottle, the cop sidles over to the front of the car to have a look at the engine. He's no trained mechanic so it takes a few minutes and some fiddling, but he does seem pretty sure that, "It's your fan belt. Right here."

"I am and I'm not," Love replies, to the long way from home comment. She faces the ocean. "I was born about twenty miles that way," she points South. "And I currently live about... two hundred and fifty miles that way." She points North. "But I lived about... five miles that way," she points Southeast, "When I was a kid, though my heart will always belong to..." She points to the water. Hawaii's about a 6 hour flight Southwest-ish from here, of course. Maybe she means the big island.

The tall woman takes the license and the folded paper, which she flips open briefly to glance down at before she slides it into her back pocket. "Sensible advice."

Love leans in a little when he mentions what's going on with her engine. She glances from it to Ruiz and says, "Is it? You wouldn't happen to have a fan belt in your trunk?"

Ruiz has half an eye on the woman appropriating a human signpost as she details her travels, and half an eye on the road they're standing on the shoulder of. First rule of first responders: secure the scene. You know, just in case some distracted driver decides to smoke them on his way by. "You're a Harborite, then," he surmises with a fleeting smile, dark eyes shifting to Love's face, though both sets of gazes are obscured behind shades at the moment. "Not any relation to Silas, are you?"

The hood, he pushes off of eventually, a little grease on his hands brushed off on the thighs of his pants. His radio goes off again, but is left alone. "Fresh out of fan belts, I'm afraid." The colloquialism is a little stilted, with English not being his first language. "I will wait with you for the tow truck, though." Her clove is eyed, unsubtly. "What brings you back to town?"

Oh, good god. Her expression barely shifts, but there is a minute clenching of her jaw. Thank god for the shades.

Love, unlike Captain de la Vega, has her back to the road, though she does keep her face turned toward oncoming traffic, at least peripherally. Still could be a walking oblivious accident-waiting-to-happen though. "No, I'm not really. I almost was, but only for a few years. So... not really." She clears her throat and says, "Yeah. Some relation to Silas. The fact that the first cop I run into knows his name just about sums it up, doesn't it?"

She slides off her shades and squints at the water, turning her pale grey eyes to the Captain. They're almost exactly her father's eyes. "He's not... dead, is he?" The tone is guarded. She should know if her own father's dead or alive. When he eyes her clove, she lifts her hand, and offers it, fingers loosely curled over her palm, aviators dangling from the same hand. She finishes off the bottle of water in one long go, tipping her head back, the long line of her tattooed throat on display for six seconds, gem encrusted and decorated with large moths and blooming roses.

Ruiz doesn't argue the nitty gritty of what makes someone qualify as a townie. Either he's not in the mood to argue it, or his mind's on other things. Like not getting smoked. Like his cruiser not getting smoked. In fact, the only thing he plans on smoking is that luscious-smelling clove, which he gratefully accepts with something close to a real smile and a murmur of, "Haven't had one of these in years." It's cupped to his lips for a count of three, and the fragrant smoke exhaled toward the water Love's been gazing so fondly at. The intricate ink at her throat is perused as he hands the clove back.

"Haven't heard from him in a little while now. But I'll put in a welfare check, just to be sure." Personable and warm he may not be, but he does seem to give a genuine shit. He's not given his own name, but his ID badge clearly reads 'J. R. De la Vega'. "How long are you planning on being in town for, then, Ms. Liven?"

"They're terrible for you." Love observes, reaching up to slide her shades up into her hair. She brushes a few escaped strands of hair off of her cheek, where they tickle when a breeze blows. Her fingernails are painted a glossy black, a few stained with streaks of gold paint. "I adore them." She reaches over to take the clove back, tucking it into the corner of her mouth. It bobs when she speaks. "I couldn't say." How long she'll be in town. Couldn't, won't, same difference, really. "That depends entirely on Silas." And the mess he's made.

Love takes a pull on the cigarette finally, tip flaring orange. She exhales through her nose, her Chucks scuffing some gravel as she glances down and straightens up. She holds the empty water bottle with her index finger jammed into it. Lightly, she taps it against her thigh. "The welfare check isn't necessary. I'll be along that way as soon as this is... sorted out." She nods to her car. "He'd probably just answer the door with peanut butter in his hair. Nobody needs to see that."

Ruiz might have some additional thoughts on things that are terrible for you, and very, very enjoyable. But if he does, he isn't sharing them; only a hint of warmth that briefly shows at the corners of his mouth as the clove is reclaimed.

The sound of tires spitting gravel as a vehicle veers onto the shoulder of the highway is heard momentarily, and a glance would easily place it as the promised tow truck. "Looks like your ride is here. Good luck with your friend." Clearly not her 'friend', but he doesn't say this either. "And welcome to Gray Harbour." Two steps back, and then the cop pivots and prowls off, brisk words pitched into his radio as he passes the scrawny mechanic and heads for his cruiser.

"Mmm." Love takes a drag, then reaches up to remove the cigarette from her mouth. She ashes into the gravel and steps back from the Mustang a pace to watch the tow truck roll in. Good luck. She's probably going to need it. She doesn't say that, but her brows rise slightly. "Yeah." A puff of smoke escapes with the word. Acknowledgement, not so much affirmation by the tone of that word. She blows the rest out of her lungs, then bends to stub out the cigarette on a hunk of roadside rock. She tucks the filter behind her ear.

Any thanks she may have had for for him is quieted as he turns his back, though she does watch for those two steps when he first retreats. "Vaya con dios, De la Vega." For a hot second, it probably sounded like a native speaker firing some Spanish at his back. Little pale for that level of fluency, but there it is anyway.

The Spanish gives him pause, but it's brief. "Adios," is returned with that lingering hint of warmth, and then he's off. One last look - either at mustang or girl, difficult to say with those shades on - and then he swings inside the charger and keys the ignition with a low purr. The door's slammed, and by the time the tow truck driver is pulling up to Love with the required paperwork, the cop is gunning it for the highway with a relatively controlled skid of tires and growl of the engine as the unmarked car streaks away.