2019-07-30 - Changing Stories

The voice on the other end of the line is brisk, Mexican-accented English. "It's de la Vega." He sounds like he might be slightly irritated. Slightly. "I need to see Monaghan."

Ruiz is accustomed to dealing with blunt instruments and those for whom mental fortitude and quick wits are perhaps not their strongest suit. It doesn't stop him from heaving a very world weary sigh as he's put on hold and treated to string quartet. Which isn't half fucking bad. He's humming along with it by the time the guy gets back to him, though whatever he might have said is obliterated by Andre hanging up on him. Lovely.

Ten o'clock rolls around though, and a familiar blue truck pulls into the lot right on time. Well, plus or minus a few minutes. The cop climbs out, makes his way inside, and raps his knuckles on the bar to gain the 'tender's attention. Andre? Yeah, sure, gimme a minute. Hands shoved in his jacket's pockets, Ruiz meanders off from the bar a short way. Watching, as always, for anyone moving toward him in a manner that's less than friendly. Exits enumerated, sight lines calculated.

Ruiz doesn't even bother trying to disabuse poor Andre of the notion that Della is his first name. Though there is a brief flicker of something that could be amusement across his features, when Andre turns up and realization as to precisely who this fucking cop is, sets in on his face. He even offers a slight smile, and lifts his hand palm up as if to say, lead the way.

"Mr. Stewart," is his candid greeting for Graham on his way by, unaccompanied by a pause or glance. Then up the stairs and into his 'employer's' office, and yes. That very much is a gun tucked in tight against his ribs. Left side, under his jacket. He'll even show it to the man, just so they're clear on that, when he steps inside. "I didn't think you were in the business of sending little girls in to do your dirty work," is what he leads with. And then, "I don't have the cocaina. And we had an understanding."

The silence stretches on between the two men. Prickly and uncomfortable, and yet the cop seems loathe to break it. He asked his question, he waits for his answer. There's a twinge of something in his upper lip that wants to become a baring of teeth, but settles for a flare of nostrils and audible, measured breathing as the moment stretches into a minute, and then two. "Do you mind if I smoke?" Same question as last time. He knows enough about Felix not to make assumptions that what was acceptable last time, is acceptable tonight.

It's hard to say if Ruiz is irritated by the answer he gets. Considering he always looks vaguely irritated with life, and the people who inhabit it. He takes a step closer to Felix, though still well out of range of what might be considered an aggressive intrusion. "I don't have. The cocaina," is repeated, as if he's uncertain whether the man heard him the first time. He pronounces the word 'cocaine' with the Spanish inflection.

It's not quite amusement on de la Vega's face. He knows better than to laugh at a man like this. It's not quite amusement, but it is wry. "I think you know what happens to cocaina, Mr. Monaghan." It's not a challenge, and it's not a threat. Just a flat observation of factual information. Sell it, snort it, I don't care what you do with it. There's perhaps a smidgeon of tension in his shoulders when he hears Andre moving in closer. A half-turn of his head to note where the man is standing relative to himself, then back to Felix.

There's really nothing to be gained by playing coy, and so the Mexican runs his tongue along his upper teeth slowly before replying carefully and without inflection, "I used most of it. Sold the rest." He's careful to position himself so as to make it much harder for Andre to get the jump on him. A little shift of his bulky frame; not nearly so menacing as the other man's, but Ruiz looks like he could still deal some serious pain if he threw his weight into it. "I am very sorry, Mr. Monaghan." Is he though?

Ruiz's hands never actually leave his jacket's pockets. He must have some sense of what's about to happen, because he is many things, but not a fool. He must have some idea that one does not lie to Felix Monaghan and get out of it unscathed.

The fist cracks him in the nose, with an actual audible crack like something broke when bone met bone. One mercy, no matter how small, is that that punch is likely to have hurt Andre almost as much as it did the Mexican on the other end of it. The cop buckles forward slightly, a hand clamped to his profusely bleeding face, and a few steadying breaths sucked in. Fuck, that hurts. Does he want to retaliate, with every fibre of his being? Of course he fucking does.

"Eres un pequeño matón, Monaghan, que sueñas con ser un perro grande," is what he murmurs, swiping blood off his face with the back of his hand, and wiping it on the thigh of his pants. More pours out, of course, trickling through his beard and generally making a mess of his face.

It always hurts Andre. That's why Andre says, "Sorry, really sorry," both while punching people and after he punches them. He does that to Ruiz right now, though he pitches his voice low, like maybe Felix doesn't like it when he apologizes to people he's been tasked with punching? Anyway, the punch does what it's supposed to: makes Ruiz bleed a bunch. So Andre does what he's supposed to: holds Ruiz by the back of his shirt with one hand, grabbing the man's bicep with the other. His knuckles are bruised, but Andre'll cope somehow.

"Time for you to go on downstairs, Mister Vega. Can you walk okay?" He looks worriedly at Ruiz, the worry intensifying when the man speaks Spanish. "Are your brains hurt? Sometimes, people's brains get hurt instead of just going to sleep." When he punches them in the face with all his strength.

Felix sits and watches this impassively. The number of people that have been punched in the face in this office while he just sat there...

"Get your fucking hands off me." The gruff murmur is paired with a jerk of the Mexican cop's arm away from Andre's grip; his hand balls into a fist, muscle tense where he was touched. But it does not resolve into anything. Assuming Andre does in fact release his jacket, de la Vega backs away two steps, eyes on Felix the whole time. Then pivots and shoulders his way back through the door, wiping blood off his face a few more times as he goes.