2019-09-05 - The Call No One Wants

Joey's shoe kicks the door closed to what is now his office and he fishes up the phone and- can someone drop some horizontal blinds with some mad aggression? Well this is as close to angrily letting go of a string as he's been in a while. FWEEEEE! Bianca and Itzhak can flatter themselves thinking this is all about them all they want. There are bigger problems in the damn world he's been given. De la Vega always pinch hitting with the bad news in an otherwise fine day. He grabs up the phone in hand, an old handset that's been there since '73 still tethered to the damn wall left there by his grandfather. He holds onto it for now ad looks up at the ceiling fan as rage slowly craws up in his chest; malice escaping the pit.

If he had a direction to unleash it in that'd be great. He intended on just making a call but once the phone got in hand all he really wanted to do was start being the hell out of the office with it and maybe start turning the world into paste so it leaves people the fuck alone. It won't solve anything, it'll just cost a lot both in dignity and petty cash.

His hand tightens on the phone and finally with futility catching up with a sting in his eyes his add drops down hard in his chair and the debate is weighed and reality falls away a bit around the edges like an old photograph de-laminating. Calloused fingers punch the buttons with some practice. Those same fingers slowly push the hair and sweat away from his face waiting for a familiar voice to pick up. God damn he hates giving bad news. Granted it does it all teh time for a fucking living for Felix but that's people deciding to break a contract. That ain't this.

That ain't it.

His voice rumbles with the distant thunder that's heralding day plans getting cancelled. "Hey. IT's Joe. Somethin happened and... I wanted you to hear it from me." Tired green eyes find the holes in the ceiling tiles above listening to the voice on the line.
Behind him the hoarse voice of a much older man speaks out in the office, "Rip the band-air off kid." Hand lifts with fingers hovering in the air flicking one to indicate give me a god damn second already.

It's not often there's regret in his tone. He doesn't do regret or apology. You choose something you eat that choice and own it without going back on it. And then there's this he couldn't do shit about or hit anyone or anything into compliance to fix it. "Yeah Chris Tegan, you remember em? Yeeeeah he and Mark Davies had a go around couple weeks ago preparing for States." What happened? was the voice on the other end of the line. Yeah, indeed right? "Davies dropped his guard ad Teag' came in with a fucking Hail Mary of a right cross and KO's like a dead fish. Took a while to get him up too. We called EMS to be safe and he...looked fine."

The voice burbles at the other end of the line like Charlie Brown's teacher while the pro-thug leans forward in his chair, elbow to desk, forehead to fingertips noting how much that office smells like dust, mothballs, and coffee. The light sheen of sweat clinging to his body starts to get that chill with the blood pressure drop that letting go of fury slowly brings. "Yeah we thought he was fine. Police Captain was just in here telling me... he is laid up in General last night after collapsing from a seizure-" The words come clipped and fierce as a defensive bark, "Yeah I fucking have all the paperwork protecting our ass from this. Police got i, but... yeah Davies is out-out. He sure as shit ain't boxing again. Fucker was good too."

The words, less sharp babble on the phone, and that gruff voice comes from behind him. *"Ain't your fault kid."

He murmurs, "yeah, I know. I wanted to see him do something with it. 22 he's got more exciting shit to do than be a fucking vegetable." There's a pause and the frustration digs in in the corns of his tone, chest and fist slowly tightening. "Yeah I mean I can grab Poe or something to fill in... yeah he's back but it ain't about the fight it's about the fighter... Yeah. Marc's in 217. You got the address? Cool." He didn't train up Marc from scratch but he can hear the disappointment on the phone from the man who did, Uncle Jimmy.

There's no fanfare to hanging up the phone. Kellys are simple creatures where if you have to do something just fucking do it. Not really huge on discussion. He sets the phone receiver back down. The voice behind him says "You going to sit there like a little bitch or go get shit done. Grab the next opportunity."

He yells, "I GET IT." Snapping a look behind him with a slow simmering warning the door creeks open and there's his shop guy standing there leaning on the frame looking confused, "Kelly... everything alright? Who you talking to?"

The room, devoid of party #2 leaves Joe Kelly zero energy to explain that Duarte needs to spend more time worrying about getting the dirt of the gym and less time worrying about the ghosts that are not new fucking news. He can so rip Duarte a new asshole right now and tear the smug off his face but really he doesn't deserve it and he's one of his own. He's just hungry for a fight right now with no one to blame. Digging out his wallet he fishes out a twenty and passes it to him, "Do me a favor and hit up the Subway. Get me an Italian Nightclub and an iced tea and grab yourself something."

He taps his thumb against the side of the plastic receiver where he's not leg go of that ancient-ass phone, and then pushes himself to a stand. His gloves come off the hook on the wall. Duarte takes the money, folds it in half and stuffs it in his wallet looking confused and concerned. "You good, boss?"

Brushing past him thoughts entirely elsewhere, and specifically all the possibility now thrown away in 217 of Grey Harbor General Hospital he murmurs, "Yeah I just need to get on bags for a while. Go get lunch before you become it." Time to beat the world until it pays up. It might be a while.