2019-09-06 - Life After Strippers

The thump of bass from the club can be felt as much as heard out here, interspersed with the occasional bout of applause or raucous laughter. The (very) off duty cop is hunkered under the dubious cover of the club's awning and illuminated in a diffuse, painterly fashion by the flickering neons as the rain slants nearly sideways. Cigarette in one hand, cell phone in the other, he prowls to and fro slowly like a caged lion while smoke sifts from his mouth and nose.

Itzhak is out just a couple moments later, getting out his smokes and lighting up as soon as he's two steps away from the door. He exhales gratefully, eyes closing. When he opens his eyes again, he catches Ruiz's motion. Quietly he watches him pace. Eventually he strolls over, a saunter in slow motion, and upnods to him. Itzhak's hand shakes ever so slightly as he flicks the ash from his cigarette.

Somehow, Ruiz is able to pick out the cadence of that lanky fellow's stride amongst the various and sundry other things vying for his attention out here. Moreover, the slight shake of his hand is noted, and lingered on a moment, before his eyes tick up to the younger man's face. Twinge of a smile at the upnod. Nothing particularly friendly, but it's not a back off, either. "You all right?" he offers after a too-long pause, thumb swishing a reply to something on his phone before the thing's shoved into his jeans pocket.

Itzhak watches Ruiz's mouth when he speaks, then hitches his shoulders. "Yeah, just, yannow, spent way way too long in there. Accidentally had fun I guess? But I already had one meltdown today so I'm too tired to have another one." Ironic smirk. He fumbles at his ear and takes out a clear silicon earplug from first it, then the other ear. These he tucks in a pocket.

Mention of a meltdown, and the earplugs being tugged out seem to add up to something in the cop's mind. He seems to consider something for a long moment, eyes slightly squinted as the rain slants in again and peppers his scruffy cheek and tee-shirt clad shoulder. His arm is all choppy, roiling waves, upon which a fishing trawler struggles to stay above water. "Cannabis," he offers eventually. "You've got to get the right combination of THC and CBD. But it.." Why the fuck is he saying this. The guy did not ask for his advice. He drags again off his cigarette, and turns his head to exhale away. Improvement over last time they met, at least.

Itzhak doesn't meet Ruiz's eyes; he never does. Only maybe twice or three times in all their different interactions. He'll fake it, and Ruiz will have seen him do it, looking someone in the forehead or chin, but he's not doing that either. Instead he's studying the fishing trawler on the roiling sea. "S'beautiful," he says, jerking his chin towards it. "...Well, don't leave me hanging, Cap, finish what you were sayin'." He gestures at Ruiz with the cigarette, cherry bobbing in the damp night.

Ruiz, oddly enough, doesn't push it tonight. The eye contact. He likes to push, and prod, and make people uncomfortable. But tonight, just the thud of that too-loud music like a heartbeat, and the rain lifting some of the heat from the asphalt, and he glances briefly at his arm when it's noted. Like he had to remind himself of his own tattoos. No verbal response, just a huff through his nose and a flick, flick of ash off the end of his smoke. "It might help," is all he was going to say. "My kid was, you know." He indicates with his chin. "Like you." Something crawls into his voice there. Warm and fond and not at all the brutish asshole he generally is.

Itzhak glances up at that. His stressed out scowl-smirk fades to something kinder, in response to how warm Ruiz's tone grows. The lines perpetually on his face lighten. "Yeah? Autistic, you mean?" He takes a drag and lets out a plume of smoke. "Didn't know you had a kid. How they coping?"

"Autistic," Ruiz confirms, hesitation as he repeats the word. Like it isn't something he's accustomed to saying out loud. He watches Itzhak's face shift slightly, shedding some of his ill mood that he wears like a mantle. Takes a few years off, that does. He starts to say something; his lips part, his eyes come up, and silence. What he manages eventually is, "He's not." Flick, flick as the filter burns down some more, ash peppering the wet pavement. "Died a few years back. But seriously, cannabis. You should give it a try. Podría ayudar con la ansiedad."

Ruiz and Itzhak stand a little way off from the Cabaret though still partially sheltered from the rain, smoking and talking.

Joey took off on teh bike. That Harley 880 Iron. It ain't expensive but damn it suits him. he pulls it back to teh club making sure people to and from alright and too damn wired to let up. He's a conundrum: either hte reason why people are very hurt or very safe. Sometimes it's the same damn person. Seriously, Lyric still has his shirt. He is playing a dangerous gambit with no rash guard even, but it's a lifestyle that suits him like a 10 year pair of Docs. Seeing the cop and the crook he parks his bike a lil ways off and kills the engine. He unlocks his saddlebag, leaves the piece in there and digs out his smokes jamming them in his back pocket. he tamps hte pack and pops one out plodding over like vice in boots and offers the pack to the usual suspects not saying a damn word as they are talking.

Itzhak huffs a tiny near-laugh. "S'okay, you can say it." He goes on smoking, thumb hooked in a pocket, looking at Ruiz's tattoo, until Ruiz tells him what happened. Then he sucks in a breath between his teeth like he's been burned. "Shit." Itzhak shakes his head, wincing. "Fuckin' awful. Sorry to hear it, man." He looks up, silently watching Joey clomp over, accept the offer of a cigarette to tuck behind his ear. "Thanks, pal. How you doin." Seems like Itz was getting wound the hell up inside, but he's a lot calmer now.

There's nothing to say to that, so the surly Mexican opts for silence. Particularly with Joey rolling up on his bike, and tromping on over to join them. Not a talkative sort, is the captain, at the best of times. Not without a lot of alcohol to lubricate things. He does accept the offer of another smoke though, and chain-lights it using what's left of his current one, before flicking it to the ground and grinding it out under the heel of his boot. The churning waves aren't his only ink, of course; the edges of a darkling sugar skull can be seen under the sleeve of his shirt, and an assortment of symbols and numbers scrawled up the backs of his knuckles. Dead ringer for gang tattoos, for anyone even passingly familiar. A murmur of thanks goes up to the gym boss, though it's Itzhak he's watching with those hooded eyes.

Did he catch the end of that. Was it even for him if it was? He says nothing and indicates nothing. He offers the pack to Itzhak. How's he doing gets an arch of both eyebrows. He reasons, "Mae had her hand down my damn pants I can't complain. Usually when I have to collect money it's never that exciting." Well there's some potentially dark connotations to that if once considers him not just collecting his gym dues. He knows they know but it's also not a thing people talk about. That shit can get held against you. "He takes a drag off his cig murmuring something about casual fucking Friday."

Itzhak picks now to get shy with Ruiz. The way he's looking at him... he shifts his weight and looks down to fidget with the cigarette. It's cool and dark, at least, so any color changes aren't too obvious. Then he snorts out a cloud of smoke, surprised into a laugh. "Ya incorrigible, Kelly. ...Cannabis, huh?" he adds, casual, finding a way to get his gaze to ooch back over to Ruiz. "It's legal in this state and everything."

Nope, not gonna comment on Joey's debt collecting or its many implications. Its many, many implications. The guy knows that he knows. They all fucking know. Felix calls the shots, though de la Vega doesn't have to like it. And he doesn't have to play nice. "Si." That's to Itzhak, whom he's still watching like a wolf with his potential dinner. "There's a dispensary or two in town." It's offhanded, like his mind's on something else. Then with a drag off his smoke, he turns dark eyes back on Joey. Little smile, though it's mostly canines. "You weren't half bad tonight, Kelly. You and your brother. Not considering a change of occupation, are you?"

Joey shrugs with entire indifference at being called incorrigible "That's that thing you do with carboard right?" It's like he makes these little jokes just to punch Ruiz's buttons with a heavy left cross to remind him they're within reach, but then the shit doesn't DO anything with them. Guess who he picked that one up from? You leave too good an example like some battle of chess that has no endgame.

A slow nod of gratitude comes and the question brings a wry dimpled grin; the amusement squinting his eyes as he ashes. "Naaaah not closing the gym. Don't worry. I'd do it again though. why the hell not. It's like hittin the Firefly, but no one's crowdin your fucking dance floor." He takes another drag from his cig and moves around a little bit because September, and he jsut rode his bike doing 55 covered in a light sheen of sweat with no shirt. Life's slightly chilly. "Good night though for you guys?"

"Hey I came to see ya mostly naked and not tryin' to knock my block off, I got what I wanted," Itzhak tells Joey with a sly twist of his expressive mouth. Then he shoots him a puzzled look. "Cardboard? What's cardboard--oh. That's 'corrugated', ya yutz." He pitches the butt of the cigarette into the steel bucket handily provided for such a purpose. "You looked like you were havin' fun, and every girl and some guys in the place were drooling."

Oh, to be young and stupid again. Ruiz has the look of a man who milked his twenties and thirties for all they were worth, and somehow managed not to kill himself in the process. That nose of his, alone, looks to have been broken a good three or four times. He chuckles at the I'd do it again, and corroborates Itzhak's assessment of the striptease's reception with a murmured, "El tiene razón." Has it been a good night for him? Jury seems to be out still on that. Might be something on his mind, or he just hasn't decided yet.

Joey arches an eyebrow considering that as if everyone was telling him about new promotions. For all the world knows he might be legit considering something but who has that kind of regular time when trying to hold down a serious business. "Good. I mean a good time's a good time right? Everyone wins." He pauses almost taking a drag off his cig and his expression breaks into a wry grin with a laugh, "Fucker, you know I don't speak Spanish. I'm a make you and Duarte teach me. I mean I know you talkin some mad shit but it's wrong not to support the arts." And talking shit is, in teh highest eschelon, an art of itself. Looking up to Itzhak, "and seriously you are stressin way to far out about what 5 shorts of good tequilla and a $50 will persuade me to fuckin do. How you think I learned to do math?"

Joey looks at the club and then to Ruiz and Itzhak not quite believing the words coming out of his mouth. "I am hungry as hell. You guys wanna kick this place and go grab a huge slab of ribs?"

Itzhak snorts, laughing again, grinning lopsided to himself. "I'm gonna remember that." He lights up the cigarette Joey gave him. "A'ight, that's enough strip club excitement for one autistic Yid tonight." He hitches his eyebrows at Joey, and the grin is definitely for him now. "What the hell. Let's do it." He glances over at Ruiz and gives him a little 'c'mon' beckon of the head, invitingly.