2019-08-23 - Ossifer Friendly

Despite the late hour, the air is sticky and hot. A smart person would be holed up in air conditioning, but no one has ever accused Cristobal of being smart. Instead, he's driving around the lazy town of Gray Harbor with the windows of his dark blue '66 Ford Fairlane rolled down and his arm draped out the opening. A cigarette smolders from beneath the pinch of his fingers. From his seemingly random turns and occasion to double back on the same street, he either has no idea where he's going, or he's just cruising the streets to whittle away the time. The radio is blasting, some local station that plays a mix of 80's and classic rock, his fingers beating out the rhythm to an Erasure song on the steering wheel.

The first indication that Cristobal's not alone on this lonely little stretch of road would be the glint of lights in his rearview mirror. Not just any old lights, mind, but the telltale red and blue of his friendly neighbourhood police. There's a low warning whoop of a siren triggered for just a moment or two, and then a car swings into view. Black, low-slung, some variety of American muscle. No markings, but it has that look of a cop car about it.

"Son of a bitch." Cristobal swears under his breath with a glance in the rear view mirror. The disco of lights play off his arm as stubs out his cigarette in the silver pull out ashtray on his dash, and with a mutter, he pulls his car off to the side of the road and glides it to a stop. He slams his vehicle into park as his head thumps back against the vinyl headrest, waiting for the officer to approach his window.

The car that pulls up behind Cristobal has a V8 HEMI under the hood. Nasty little piece of work. It likes to go fast, and it especially likes when people try to make a run for it. Alas, tonight, its quarry behaves. The tires kick up a shower of gravel as they pull to a halt, and a fine cloud of dust billows out slowly well after it's stopped moving. The driver's side door swings open and it is indeed a cop that climbs out. Looks sort of bulkily built, but it could just be all that gear; black on black on black, short sleeves in keeping with the weather, tactical vest and gun rig over top.

He trudges on over after a quick check to make sure Cristobal's the only occupant of the car. Then a couple of short raps on the window.

With a sigh, Cristobal reaches down to turn the old-fashioned crank once more, lowering the window again to release of puff of cigarette smoke the night air that curls up and through the opening. "Something I can help you with, Officer." The way he says the man's occupation/title is enough to indicate his irritation, pronounced and snarky as if he has the urge to buck the authority despite his seemingly compliant words.

The Officer in question is no fresh-faced rookie. He looks like he doesn't have time for anyone's shit, and will cut the next person who tries any. He's also sporting some serious ink; two full sleeves by the looks of it, black and grey ink scrawled up both arms and extending to the knuckles of his right hand. He tilts his head slightly to one side to speak into his radio, while keeping his eyes on the younger man's the whole time. "Aware you've got a taillight out, sir?" is offered after a moment. Accent's some flavour of Spanish; he sounds like the slums, under a paper-thin tracery of Southern drawl that inflects the occasional word.

"Are you aware that you're a bored ass podunk cop who has nothing better to do with his life than pull over people with busted tail lights?" Cristobal has a bit of a hispanic air to him, though it's clear he's made great strides in obliterating that part of his accent and now he just sounds like an amalgamation of Texan southern and something Else. His gaze sweeps down Ruiz' form, getting in an eyeful of ink and seemingly overkill uniform.

Oh, look, signs of life. Ruiz's eyes come up from their study of something on the old car's mostly analog dashboard, when Cristobal sasses him. He meets the younger man's gaze for a beat, like he's making some sort of assessment. Deciding how much of a shit he really gives. Is there a box of donuts on his desk calling his name? There'd better be. "License and registration please, sir." His expression remains impassive, though there's a flicker of something in his slate greys. Amusement? Challenge? Who the hell knows.

"Whatever." Cristobal's eyeroll is verbal, because he can't be assed to add the physical one. The man keeps his hands on the steering wheel despite the orders and Andy Bell drones on in the background about giving a little respect to him. "Look, I tossed my wallet in the glove compartment. Along with my piece. My registered piece. Help yourself, Officer, but if you think I'm reaching for it just to give you an excuse to drill two into me and play the part of hero later so your wife'll give your droopy ass dick a blow job, forget it."

The eyeroll, verbal or otherwise, seems to roll off the cop like water off a duck's back. Not the first time he's been sassed by a motorist with issues with authority. Won't be the last, either. When he's informed that the guy's carrying, there's a flick of his eyes to said glove compartment. Then back to Cristobal with his hands dutifully on the steering wheel. His cruiser's lights continue their sweep, bathing the darkness alternately in blue and red. "All right. Out of the car. Slowly. Hands on the roof where I can see them, sir." He steps back so Cristobal can comply, jaw tight. This is definitely not how he wanted to end his fucking night.

Maybe Cristobal is used to dealing with cops or he's seen enough movies to know to explain his actions as he goes. "I'm going to put my hand out of the window, open the car from the outside, and step out. But I swear to fuck if you plant anything in my car, my lawyers will have a FIELD day with you, so that the next year's budget for Gray Harbor PD won't even be enough to cover the rent on that stick up your ass. Officer." And Cristobal has the audacity to deliver all of that with a smile as he sticks his left hand out and pops open the latch to the car and steps out, moving to turn slowly to put his hands on the top of his ride.

The bait is offered, but not taken; Ruiz is also used to dealing with those with a tendency to run at the mouth when panicked, and both of them know full well where the balance of power lies in this situation. Cristobal can try to even things out by attempting to throw the older man off his game, push him to do something reckless. Lose his cool. But instead, the lip is suffered in silence. The moment the other man has his back to him, hands on the roof of the car, out come the cuffs. Is he going to fight? If not, a firm grip is taken on his left forearm, and it's pulled around behind his back and locked up tight. Then the right. No unnecessary roughness, just enough to get the job done.

Despite his mouth, Cristobal is actually rather compliant, letting Ruiz take his hands down off the roof of the car at his own pace and secure his pretty new silver bracelets on. It's not like anything he's done so far is an arrestable offense, only guarantee he'll get a ticket for that broken tail light because of his lip. But hey, at least he's getting entertained out of it. "Too bad. I like it rough." Commented when it's done so run of the mill.

When Ruiz goes to search the car, everything is above board. No drugs or open containers. No dead bodies. And as promised, in the glove box is a Walther PPK with an ejected magazine next to it, papers for registration and a leather bi fold. Inside the bifold is his permit for the weapon as well as gold shield, the type the give retired cops. It means nothing legally. But it might mean something professionally.

Nope, Ruiz has no intention of being slapped with an assault charge over a broken fucking taillight. "Que bien para ti," he murmurs right in the man's ear, once he finishes getting his wrists secured. He sounds like he smokes too much; his voice is thready and low, with the consistency of fine sandpaper. Swinging inside the car, he leans over to the passenger side and takes a quick lookabout before popping the glove compartment. The gun is noted, the magazine. His inked fingers snag the wallet and flip it open briefly, then collect the registration papers. A brief pause while he reaches up to flip on the cabin light so he can check the veracity of the guy's paperwork, not at all bothered by making him stand and wait out there while the occasional motorist blows by.

There is a snort from Cristobal as Ruiz basically gives him a 'good boy' pat on the head with those words, his head tilting back to look at the night sky with a bored air as the officer paws through his car. A different song comes on the radio, because as he switched his engine off, he didn't turn it the final click to shut off the electronics. The newly arrived outsider starts singing along, swaying a little dance with his arms cuffed behind his back, "More than feeling, when I hear that old song they used to play...Todo está bien, oficial, ?o estás frotando uno en mi asiento delantero? Ai ai ai."

The captain shakes his head slowly at the continued mouthy commentary from Cristobal. A slight smirk makes its way across his mouth, but he still offers no snappy retorts. Nope, the irritation just gets stuffed down deep where some lucky person gets to deal with it later. Once he's convinced himself that everything's in order, he tosses the various paperwork back into the glove compartment and bumps it shut, then slides back out of the guy's car. His radio goes off again, and he keys his mic and speaks into it briefly as he looks the younger man up and down. "I've got a 10-28 here, over." Followed by a rattling off of some numbers as he grips the driver's side door and keeps an eye on traffic. Cristobal may notice him moving a bit stiffly, as if from a recent injury. While he waits for dispatch to reply, he notes offhandedly, "That badge yours, Mr. Cruz?"

Cristobal is far too young to have received that retired officer's badge from aging out, so that limits the reasons he might have down to: stolen, forced, or injured out. "Oh yes, by all means, check to see if I forged all that paperwork. Like I'd spend the energy and then risk getting pulled over by the Barney Fife of Gray Harbor for a broken tail light." His feet shuffle in the gravel, but he basically stays with his stomach up against the car. "What of it?" The badge of course. "Or are we just pointing out obvious things, like you shouldn't be having such vigorous sex if you're going to risk throwing out your hip." Yeah, he noticed the stiff movement alright, and didn't pass up on the chance to make a joke.

Ruiz is about to respond to something the man's said. Probably the bit about the badge, though not necessarily. He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by dispatch getting back to him about the registration. "Looks like you're in the clear." The continued lip? Ignored. Again. "You're free to go, Mr. Cruz." He'll even helpfully unlock the handcuffs, give them a tug to set the guy free, and hook them back on his belt. "You have yourself a good night. And get that tail light fixed. I'd hate to have to write you a ticket, next time I see you."

Cristobal says, "Really? And here I was gonna offer a reach around to spare me from the write up. Must be my lucky day." That toothy grin has anything but mirth in it as he rubs his wrists once the cuffs have been removed, not yet moving to get back in the car even though he's been released. Instead, he just leans his hip against his fender and digs a pack of smokes out of his pocket seeming how he was so rudely interrupted from his last one.

The cop is about to move off when Cristobal offers that little gem. His slow, prowlish gait is arrested, and he half-turns to regard the man and his toothy grin. Is he thinking about booking him anyway, just on the basis of that alone? Maybe he's considering breaking his other taillight, to make it a perfect pair. Or, perhaps the smell of cigarette smoke's reminded him that he's standing on the shoulder of the fucking highway, taking lip from someone who clearly hates cops, when he could be doing just about anything else. He stares at the other man for a few long seconds, then turns and makes his way back to his cruiser, boots crunching the gravel as he moves.

"Have a good night, Officer!" Cristobal calls cheerily after Ruiz, and then, muttering something under his breath, pops back open his car and slides into the seat. The engine turns over with a healthy growl, but he'll wait inside with the music turned up until Ruiz rolls away."