2019-07-12 - A beautiful friendship

It's a dark blue truck that pulls into the lot, some time after 10pm. Fairly nondescript, some sort of heavy duty chevy that looks like it's built (and used) for hauling things. The ignition's killed, and the driver leans over to rifle around in the glove compartment for a moment before shoving something into what might be a shoulder holster under his battered leather jacket, and climbing out. Door's slammed, hands are pushed into jacket pockets, and he sets off across the parking lot for the club proper.

Brief words are exchanged with the bouncer, and the cop has his eyes and ears open for anyone who looks at him wrong or approaches him from a funny angle. Might be he's a paranoid son of a bitch, or might be Felix's reputation precedes him, and he isn't taking any fucking chances.

The question's expected, and instead of answering verbally, he lifts his hands so that his open jacket fans out around his body. A sig sauer P220 tucked against his ribs. If he's got more than that, it isn't visible. His eyes remain on the guy, steady. No challenge there, he's simply waiting to be waved through. And fully expects to be. Because what crimelord doesn't anticipate a veteran soldier bringing a gun with him?

Ruiz is a patient man, generally speaking. He'll continue watching the guy while he tries to figure out what to do with him, then drop his hands once he wanders off to confer with his boss. He's standing right where the bouncer left him when the guy turns to beckons him in, and gives a little roll of his shoulders before ambling up those stairs. Could be any number of things going through his head right now, but none of it's telegraphed in his body language.

The office is noted first, with a slow sweep of his eyes as he steps through the doorway. Hands still shoved into the pockets of a jacket that could be charitably termed lived in. Leather, has a few faded patches sewn in here and there. Tee shirt left untucked over dark jeans, scuffed hiking boots, and whatever heat he's packing that isn't immediately obvious. Edge of a shoulder holster might be spotted though, suggesting the man's bouncer wasn't full of shit.

The offered seat is considered, sized up for a beat or two, then settled into slow. Elbows braced against spread knees, hands loosely clasped as he regards Felix across from him. Silence.

The lingering bouncer is given no further attention from Ruiz. Certainly he's aware of his relative position, and seems to never quite put his back to the man, but it's Felix Monaghan who has his eyes at any given time. Like a an animal who hasn't eaten in a few days, sizing up a rival on his own turf, and trying to decide how hungry he really is. How much he wants to fight. How far he's willing to go.

"I wouldn't mind an Old Fashioned," is his eventual reply, as to what he'd like to drink. He doesn't look like an Old Fashioned man. And he doesn't shift as Felix settles in and gets comfortable. Big shoulders still slouched; tension stitched throughout his bulky frame. "Do you mind if I smoke?" His tone is flat, and his accent is unmistakeably Mexican Spanish, if diluted somewhat by years spent in the States. There's a slight smile then as the other man opts to get down to business without any preamble; it's gone by the time the cop himself speaks. "Perhaps I can make this easy for you. I have the cocaína. Most of it, anyway. Would you like it back, Mr. Monaghan?"

Shitty drinks are no laughing matter. Or at least, so says the cop's face when that frankenstein of an Old Fashioned is set down in front of him. The irony's probably not lost on him.

"Changes in your favour." He ducks his head and lifts the glass to his lips, taking a tentative sip. It tastes about as good as it looks, and after a little sniff to clear his nose, he sets it back down again. Soft crunch of his jacket as he shifts to tug out a pack of cigarettes and extract one. "I'm not too sure what that means. You'll have to be more specific." He lights up, takes a pull off the smoke that settles his nerves a touch. Then his eyes drift back up to the other man, expectant. Nothing's said, for now, of secrets.

"I have a hard time believing you don't already have someone under your thumb at the precinct, willing to do just that," replies the captain, his tone skeptical. His manner guarded, tense. He knows, surely, that he walks a fine line by speaking to the man this way. Feeling him out with pokes and prods to see where his boundaries are. To see how he behaves under duress. And, probably, to establish whether there's anything he isn't saying.

As to the last, "Depends on the people. And the things they did not do." He pulls from his smoke, and has barely enough manners to exhale away from Felix. "You do seem very fond of.. your boys." He gestures vaguely with his cigarette, as if it should be clear he's referring to Graham and Andre. "It is a lot of trouble you are going to. For a pair of small time thugs."

And de la Vega is not a man accustomed to not being in control. The steady look from the man across from him is held for a beat. Two. And then with a flicker of something over his expression that resembles a brief baring of teeth, he glances away. An astute observer might notice the measured breaths he takes, the deliberate effort not to lose his cool, which is channeled into a long pull from his smoke. It's a long while before he speaks again.

"Si. I understand." And he does. He sees through that flimsy pretense of an out, because he's known enough people like Felix, and he knows how they work. He looks back up eventually, and holds the other man's gaze while he knocks back the rest of that Old Fashioned. All of it, right in one go. "I look forward to working with you, Mr. Monaghan." Which is a lie. But he smiles a little anyway, wolfish.

There's no warmth in his smile, and it lingers a moment at the edges of his eyes before disappearing completely. His empty glass is set down, his cigarette brought to his mouth for a long pull, and again he exhales away from Felix, smoke sifting out of his mouth and nose and making the air around him a little hazy. "I don't know what statement you're talking about," he murmurs, holding the other man's gaze steadily.

To the remainder of the instructions, he tries not to chuckle. Courteous. Yeah, this is a pair of real courteous men. He drags off his smoke once more before dropping it in his empty glass, and leaning in to clasp the man's hand. His grip is firm, though not overcompensating. Ink on the backs of his fingers, odd little letters and symbols that may or may not have significance beyond aesthetics. "Si," is his only response, brisk and unsmiling now.