2019-11-11 - A Mexican Standoff

It's a rainy, windy, fairly miserable night, and business at the Cabaret has probably been sluggish to nonexistent. A few regulars, one or two out of towners who wandered in to see what a small town strip club could offer, and promptly wandered back out again. And then there's the occasionals; guys like the police captain who come in for a drink, enjoy the eye candy for a couple of hours and tip decently. But even girls without their clothes on can't seem to hold his attention tonight. So he shoulders his way back out into the rain, lights up a cigarette, and prowls under the roof's overhang while the club's neon signage washes over his bulky frame. He's in his usual off duty uniform of faded tee shirt, dark jeans, combat boots. He probably should be wearing a jacket in this weather, but poor life decisions is practically his middle name. Just his ball cap tugged low over his eyes, cigarette touched to his lips while he checks some messages on his phone.

The employees and dancers use a different entrance than the patrons, so it's from around the side of the building that Cristobal emerges underneath the canopy of a large black umbrella. One of the girls is huddled to his side, holding a jacket closed that's just draped over her street clothes. He walks her to a beat up Nissan, exchanging a few quiet words while she fiddles with the keys, giving the man a quick kiss on the check before she slides behind the wheel and motors off. The bouncer waits until she's pulled out of the lot before he turns back to the building, and he must catch the sight of that familiar frame hunkered down out of the rain and having a smoke. He stays paused there for a moment, rain pattering on the umbrella in a sharp staccato before he starts trudging back to the Club.

Five steps, pause, turn, five steps back, like a predatory animal in a zoo, walking the length of its enclosure. His boots scuff the asphalt as he moves, a few bits of gravel skittering from his heel, and smoke from his cigarette winds slow into the damp, chill air as he holds the thing aloft. Message sent, he heaves a breath and shoves his phone back into his pocket, briefly distracted by some girl being walked to her car by a guy with an umbrella. When the man turns to head back to the club, there's a moment where Ruiz is looking right at him. And recognition dawns. His gaze is held steady for a beat or two more, just to make it clear he's seen Cris, and then he ashes his cigarette and resumes his pacing.

Cristobal's long, languid gait eats up the distance across the parking lot without any real hurry. He finally stops near the front door, tucking the handle of the umbrella into a pinch of his armpit to free both hands so he can light up his own cigarette, causing the canopy to shift askew for a moment until it bobs back upright with a successfully lit cancer stick between his lips. Other than the effort require to smoke said cigarette, Cristobal doesn't move, perhaps in defiant contrast to Ruiz' constant pacing. And there he waits.

The cop moves slowly, in no great hurry to get where he's going; which is roughly nowhere. All his pacing seems to serve one purpose, and one purpose alone: to help him think. Eventually he winds up crossing paths with the bouncer loitering by the front door, and comes to a halt nearby. He ashes out his smoke, watches for a moment after the car that speeds off into the night, then addresses Cris finally, "How were the tamales?" Of course, they were intended for the ofrenda, so it's a slightly silly question. But making small talk is not his forte.

When Ruiz finally stops pacing long enough to address him, Cris just slowly looks from the Captain and bodily turns back to the building and the 'No Loitering' sign before he twists back to Ruiz. He doesn't seem anything other than the rather stoic straight faced Cristobal that he normally is when on shift. "What I didn't send back to y'all was delivered to someone else. I'm told they were decent with ketchup, fucking northerners."

The sign is pointedly ignored. What's Cris gonna do, call the cops? "Eso es una maldita vergüenza," he murmurs, watching the rainswept street for a long, long while before finally turning to regard the bouncer nearby. "Sutton seemed upset when she came to get me." There's a tic in his jaw when he mentions her name. "Something happen in there that I should know about?"

Smoke drifts up from the part in his lips, gathering beneath the concave curve above his head before it ekes back down around from the rim of the umbrella and wisps away with the wind. "It was a mistake to have y'all over." That's the only readily given explanation, "You really should've told her about the Sawmill. I won't fucking lie for you again." Cristobal eyes sharpen slightly, like he's keeping a flare of emotion stuffed down.

Ruiz's eyes narrow slightly as he watches the other man, wreathed in smoke with the rain slanting against his umbrella. His expression doesn't shift when Cris mentions it was a mistake, though his brows do furrow infintessimally, then smooth again. "You're going to have to explain that one to me," he murmurs. "What did you lie for me about?" The temptation to reach out with his mind and take by force what he wants to know, is palpable. Instead, he stands there with that slight slouch to his shoulders, most of what he's thinking obscured beneath that damned ball cap.

"She assumed it was from back in July. I didn't correct her." Cris' eyes tick down from Ruiz' face to his form and back again, as if trying to get a non-glimmer infused read on the other man's thoughts and intentions. It's the sort of thing that leaves a person less open to a sucker punch. The younger latino still doesn't have a firm grasp of aspects, so he doesn't know that Ruiz reaching into his mind to pluck out emotions is entirely possible, and so he just takes intensity as a reason to square up his shoulders slightly in case he has to dodge a random punch.

The cop doesn't flinch under the scrutiny. Nor does he look like he's about to throw a punch, though looks can often be deceiving. He brings the cigarette to his lips, pulls off it slow, and exhales smoke that snakes past his fingers and briefly traces along a heavily-inked arm before frittering off into the rain. He adjusts his cap with his thumb and forefinger, and shakes his head. "You didn't need to lie for me. Never asked you to do that. Besides." He takes a lean against the building. "We had a.. conversation last night that didn't go so well. I think she's staying with her boyfriend right now." A flicker of emotion that's quickly tamped back down.

He didn't ask, but Cris felt compelled to, to keep the evening light. It's the reasoning behind, "Which is why it was a mistake to have y'all over." In a deliberate move to indicate Cris doesn't perceive Ruiz as a threat, Cris turns perpendicular to the Captain and focuses his gaze out on the puddle dotted parking lot. "Is that so? A conversation. It's because you two have fucking and relationships confused. If she's your girl, you should be taking care of her. If she's your piece, there shouldn't be conversations."

"She's not my piece." The words are provided steadily, and there's a hint of steel beneath them. Like if Cris pushes him much more on that point, he might change his mind about not throwing punches. A noisy exhale is blown out his nose, and his smoke is ashed out with a flick of his thumb. "Don't worry. Wasn't planning on making it a repeat performance." He watches his cigarette rather than Cris now, tension still snaked through his bulky frame. His mind's elsewhere entirely.

Cris grunts in response to being told that Sutton isn't just a piece to Ruiz, but lucky for them both he doesn't further comment. "It was a moment of weakness. I won't happen again." Cris takes a long, final drag off his cigarette before he flicks the half-spent thing into a potted plant near the door that is more pond than soil at this point. "Now stop pacing by the building. Girl's can't see your face on the monitor, what with that ball cap, before they leave. Makes 'em nervous that some creep is out here lurking."

There's a muttered curse in Spanish that lacks any real teeth, and the cop drags one last time off his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. He's clearly got no intention of heading back inside, so he adjusts his cap, studies the other man for a long moment, then turns and starts prowling off into the rain without another word. His truck's parked across the lot; the cruiser, for obvious reasons, he doesn't take to the strip club.

Ruiz is just a few feet off in the direction of his truck when a sharp whistle is given to reclaim the man's attention. The bouncer with the umbrella is closing the distance with a few steps, "Hold up, de la Vega." Because the weather has gotten chillier, Cris has taken to wearing a plain black blazer over his t-shirt and jeans, and now his hand is diving into the inner chest pocket to fish something out.

The cop pauses at the invocation of his last name, though doesn't immediately turn. A beat, two, and he's shivering slightly when he finally looks over, tee shirt starting to stick to his shoulders and chest. His dark eyes are squinted against the rain, and focus on the bouncer standing opposite him. His hands come up in a gesture of what?

From beneath the dry safety of his umbrella, Cris fingers a photograph out of his pocket, flipping it around with a movement of his thumb so the image faces Ruiz. "Who is this?" It's Sutton's brother, Eli, and the photo that she left on Cristobal's ofrenda. He must have found it when he was cleaning up the altar.

The look on Ruiz's face is dismissive at first; derisive, even. Until he gets a good look at the face in the picture. And then something in that hard, brutish demeanor.. unravels slightly. He simply stands there for the longest time, gazing at the picture. It's not difficult to tell that it stirs up some deep-seated emotions in him. For the man, whomever he is, and the blonde who left his picture on the ofrenda. He swallows, and ticks his eyes back up eventually to meet Cris's. "You should ask her, yourself." He rubs at his nose with the backs of his knuckles, takes two steps backwards, and turns to prowl off once more, head bowed to the rain.