2019-09-02 - Did You Want Some Salt With That Coffee?

Alistair Carver is a jerk.

It's pretty easy to tell. He's sat on one of the continuous cushioned benches, and doesn't seem to care one jot that he's taking up three seat's worth of places on a relatively busy afternoon with various papers and bound folders spread out around him like the world's most inefficient social-encounter fort. The numerous empty cups on the small table in front of him would suggest he's been here a while, and the somewhat jaunty looking purple iris that someone has placed into the mess of hair atop his head would suggest that despite all the empty cups... he's not had nearly enough coffee.

"The fuck is 'replevin'?" he mutters, flipping a single sheet of densely typed paper upside-down and tilting his head in the hope that might help.

"It's an action to take back private property that was illegally taken or detained" informs a flat-toned voice. "Did you steal one of those teenager's panties?" Jessica studies the flustered Briton with an expression that suggests she is contemplating calling the police. "I thought you skipped town...or that they'd caught you." She never did get his name...or talk to Lillith. "Remember me?"

Jessica blows over the mug of hot coffee in her hand before sitting herself down on the same bench. If folders need to be moved. They're being moved. Would he prefer her to sit on them. "Nice iris. Is that one of those prizes serial killers take from their victims? Though, since it's an iris, maybe you're celebrating a birth?"

Carver gives a little appreciative look to the paper, terms defined and understandable at last. The word really tied the whole piece together.

And then he casts a glance in the direction of the ever-so-helpful source of information. It's quite a miraculous thing to witness, the color and humor draining from someone's face in a little more than an instant. It's like a garage-door of spite shuttering down over his facial features, the sheet of paper being placed down by his side so he's free to rub at his temples in an attempt to stave off a sudden migraine. "Oh. Good. Just what I needed."

It does not sound like this is what he needed. At all. Look, he didn't even try and bullshit. "Haven't you been murdered in an alleyway yet, Ms. Flores?"

"Not yet. I haven't seen you for that to happen. I'm pretty sure that's something you wanted to do yourself." Jessica starts leafing through the papers, curious as to what they may be. "You know, you never did tell me your name." Maybe she can catch it on a replevin order? "And that's just rude." Speaking of rude, she takes out her phone and takes a photo, as best she can, of Carver. "Awww...you needed me? Well, I guess you're only human."

None of the paperwork seems to concern Carver. Unless his name is 'Liven', anyway. For the most part, it's largely just property deeds hastily photocopied, and various esoteric detailing regarding planning permissions and transferal.

"Nope, I didn't." He says, a little more curt than is particularly necessary, the flower in his hair bobbing as he jerks forward to snatch away as many of the papers from her prying hands as he can. "It's almost as if you've done nothing to make me want to, or something. Who would have bloody thought?"

As for the photo? She gets some of his face, at least. A shitload of middle finger, but some face.

Jessica rolls her eyes at the contents of her photo before slipping the phone back into her pocket. "What a shame it wasn't the other side of your finger. Might have been able to get the fingerprint. I'm sure it's on file." A sip of her coffee as she gets herself comfy. Looks like she's staying.

"You didn't give me your name from the moment you met me. I hadn't had time to do anything to make you grumpy at me...though you seem grumpy at everything. Let me explain something. When people meet, the polite thing to do is to exchange names. Even if only the first name." Jessica enjoys another sip. "Let me take you back to the heady days of some time ago, when people were happy, the sun was shining, and a lovely princess was jogging through the woods. That's me. She hurts herself and what she thought was a gentleman, shows up to help her. As befits cultural, social, and polite norms, she introduces herself. He, does not, thus beginning the short trip to the realization he has something to hide. Like mass murder." She smiles sweetly over at him. "So, really, who was the bad person in that story?"

Jessica's free hand rises in mock surrender as Carver retrieves the papers. "So many photocopies. Almost like you shouldn't have them."

"Or, they're private property and you have zero concept of privacy in general." Carver retorts, the lack of eye contact maybe proving that she hit a little closer to the mark than not.

"I told you my name, Ms. Flores. Ever-so-sorry I didn't bow down and unfurl a hand while I was busy making sure you didn't eat even more shit while out for a walk." It's subtle. Very subtle. Ever so subtle, in fact. But with a bit of practice, some wherewithal, and a rough notion of how human beings usually function, Jessica might just be starting to get the idea that Alistair Carver is not having a great week, is a bit pissy in general, and would like nothing else than to prove her right about the whole murderer thing. But then she'd get the satisfaction of being right. Damnit.

"I'm a journalist, we know all about privacy" Jessica says with a straight face. "We help your privacy by illuminating others." She lets Carver take his stolen papers away but she will look into it on her own time.

"Okay, fine, you told me your name was Alistair, but that's all you told me. So, unless you're a sixty year old pop star, you probably have more than one name. I showed you mine, you show me yours." Jessica considers him carefully for a moment. "You're not a sixty year old pop star, are you? It's hard to get a read on how old you are. With all the stress lines and all. Not having a good week, Madonna?" See, she cares.

"Let's see-" Carver ponders, tucking the scooped up papers in the little manilla folders they came with. They've even got the little tying loops of string. They're just that quaint. "I got eaten by worms. Eaten by a spider. My best friend of twenty years is dead, ᴬᵍᵃᶦⁿ, someone I for some reason actually care about is fucking a cop and the only thing that makes me feel any better is that I finally have confirmation that yes, someone makes worse life choices than I do, and, uh..." His eyes narrow a little as he glances up to one side of the ceiling, reaching out a hand that somehow finds the only cup in his little collection that has any coffee left in it.

Which is then sipped from as he watches her face. "Oh, Right. I bought a fucking house. In this nightmare of a town. And I'm pretty sure I bought it out of spite. The name's Alistair Carver, and I'd shake your hand but I feel I need it free in case the urge to drive a bic pen into your temple overtakes me."

"Wow" is Jessica's initial, succinct evaluation of the tirade. "You'd have to get that pen out of your ass first though" she deadpans. "Nice to meet you, Alistair Carver. Welcome to Grey Harbor." And there's a smile there. It almost looks genuine. "You got eaten by worms and a spider?" She slowly looks over him. "You got better though."

"But I am sorry to hear about your friend. Did that happen here?" Jessica is not even sniffing for a story, it sounds like real sympathy. A wince about the person fucking the cop. "At least they're not fucking a journalist" she points out. "And you bought a house? Sounds like a housewarming coming up. Make sure you invite me." Like that will ever happen. She looks at his cup of coffee with some horror. "Let me get you a fresh one." A wave for any staff around to resolve the issue of old beverage.

"I can't hope to compete with that" Jessica smirks, "But if it makes you feel any better, I got dumped before a relationship even started but after my sexuality is now fluid. My best friend of twenty years is dating a neanderthal who threw a salad bowl at my head...one of those thick glass ones. I'm not allowed to write about important news because of pressure from above - I'm not good at being silenced. And I live on a houseboat that the bank owns more of and the ocean levels are rising."

"Yeah, but you live on a houseboat. The banks are stuck on land. Drive past them when the road's a river." See? Carver can look on the bright side of things. Sometimes. Maybe. If you squint. Although, if Jessica decided to do just that, she might miss him waving off the gestures she makes for a refill as he tucks the folders under an arm.

And then unbuttons the top couple buttons of his shirt in the least sexy way any man, woman, ape or creature with opposable thumbs has ever mustered, pulling the fabric aside with a crooked index finger to show off a line of ragged and misshapen scar tissue that can best be described as 'Slowly healed after something took multiple gnawing chunks about a thumb-width wide out of his flesh.' "Yes, I got eaten by worms and a spider. No, not completely sure I got 'better.'"

He doesn't re-button the shirt, but he does at least tuck it closed as he stands, giving the woman a short little nod of the head. Like polite people do. "And sorry about your best friend. But if there's anything I learned from my example..." He shrugs. He shrugs as easily as most people breathe, and at last his face finally settles into a soft, easy smile it's so very used to. "People'll make their own choices, love. Either be around to help pick up the pieces after, or sit and enjoy watching them burn. But you can't do the former when you're thinking about the latter."

"Trust me, my houseboat is more brick than floatation device." The bright side might be that she can use it to hold down papers. Her brow furrows as she inspects the scarring. There's definitely a story brewing now...or something to cover up. "You've been there then. In the 'other' Gray Harbor. Have you seen...them?" Though the topic is like one of Kevin's conspiracy parnoias, she seems quite serious with her questions.

But it seems that Carver is leaving so Jessica relaxes back in the booth. "If you need any help to pick up the pieces, you know where I work" she offers, adding her own version of a dismissive shrug if he finds the thought of talking to her again more horrifying than spiders and cheating 'girlfriends'. "And I'm sorry to hear about what you've been going through. Hey, we can be compatriots in calamity."

"I try not to get people involved, Ms. Flores." Carver lies, running the pad of his thumb over his nose for a second before reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat to pull out a card. It's not handed over, but it is at least placed on the table. There, now she has herself a full name, and even a phone number. That is some excellent journalism. "And no."

His smile's weird.

Actually, no. His smile's smug. It's that bastard smile of 'I know something you don't know', even if that's technically inaccurate. It's more 'Carver knows enough about something you sort of know to make you wish you didn't know either it, him, or anything in general.' Which, when you think about it, is as good a reason to look smug as any. Which would be why his last words before heading for the door, folders under arm, coffee in hand are:

"Ms. Flores. I live there. This town's in for a treat."

At least Jessica got a card. Probably all false information but someone printed it and they'd have info. "This place involves us all, whether we want it to or not." His weird, smug smile gets a smirk in return. Carver has quite the range of facial expressions - who knew a human face could even convey that much? "Bye, Madonna, it was a pleasure. Try not to kill anyone, okay?" 'Especially yourself', she adds in thought - he is way too interesting to lose.