2019-11-20 - Questions and Concerns

Alexander can probably be spotted a while off; he slouches along in a green army jacket several sizes too large for him, and underneath is a hideously ugly sweater (it might be trying to portray a turkey, but it really just looks like a bunch of yarn threw up on it), ratty old jeans, big stompy boots. Most the townies give him a berth, and the others pay no attention to him at all. But despite the slouch, he moves with a will towards the dispensary. And, seeing Greg, veers off. He approaches the man and thrusts a small paper bag at him. "You're not allergic to chocolate? Or hate it?" is what passes for his greeting.

Greg spots Alexander coming and his expression twists into a grin. "This motherfucker right here," Greg observes airily, but not without a tone of fondness. The bond of illegal adventures shared, after all, trumps all else. He turns his head to watch the man's approach, puffing on his cigarette. He flicks the thing haphazardly into the parking lot as Alexander closes in, and looks down at the bag with clear suspicion when the man thrusts it at him.

"What's in the bag?" he asks in an absolutely terrible imitation of Brad Pitt from Seven. But he takes it, peering within. "I like food," he comments in answer to the questions, and shrugs. "Stoner life. How'd it go with the uh... recovered object?"

Alexander pauses. He blinks a couple of times at the address, clearly having to decide whether it's a well-intentioned greeting or not. "Mister Sumpter," he says, eventually, deciding that it's not unfriendly. "Hello." Inside the bag are individually wrapped brownies from one of the local downtown bakeries. Not, sadly, brownies with 'something extra' - but they do look gooey and delicious. The investigator doesn't seem to notice the imitation. Once the bag is taken, he just thrusts his hands in his pockets, and stares at Greg for a long couple of moments. "Forwarded to the appropriate authorities. Thank you. For your assistance. I hoped to talk to you further. Is there a place?"

"Thanks," Greg says, and hoists the bag, grinning. "Literal brownie points? I dig it." He deslouches from the wall languidly to pull the door open. "We can step out back. I don't think anyone's skating today." Rather than hold the door open, he gives it a little shove to swing it out as wide as it'll go before stepping briskly through. He moves over behind the counter to deposit the bag of brownies on a shelf next to his backpack, and scoops up a darkish shape from a display before moving over to the back door to hold it open. He sticks his head out to verify the empty nature of the back lot, and nods, satisfied.

"Don't let anyone out here for a while, Karl," Greg tells the anxious-looking man at the register. "We can chat out here," he tells Alexander more quietly, pointing towards a bench. He also thrusts the dark shape at the man. "Here's a pot brownie. Now we're even." He shifts his eyes. "You might want to eat it by halves. That shit'll knock your balls off."

Alexander's smile flickers to life as he sees the grin. "Yeah. Guess so." He grabs the door when it's given a shove, and slouches along behind, letting it close gently behind him. His eyes flick from side to side, examining the store like he might be tested on the contents later. Karl is stared at for a long moment, his eyes flat and black. Then he follows out behind Greg, and moves towards the bench. When the brownie is thrust at him, he takes it, gives it a thoughtful look. "Thanks. I'll be careful. I like my balls where they are." It's deadpan, as he moves to sit down, the brownie going into one of the pockets of the jacket. "You doing okay? Nobody weird showing up afterwards?"

Greg lurks over to the bench, slouching onto it beside Alexander. He grins. "Eh, they grow back after a few hours." He digs out his pack and lights a cigarette, setting the pack and lighter down on the arm of the bench, carefully balanced, and he gazes around the back lot. "I've been keeping a pretty low profile, but nah, I haven't been bothered. I wouldn't expect to be; Foster's a fucking pushover." He shrugs and falls silent for long enough to puff on his smoke a few times. "I would be surprised and deeply upset to be bothered by the cops. Here, at least." Puff. Puff. "Why? You think we were made?"

"Your balls and mine work very differently, Mister Sumpter," Alexander says with every appearance of seriousness. "But thank you for the brownie. I'll use it carefully." He props his chin on his fist and watches the man as he takes out his cigarette. "What makes you say that Foster is," a pause, "a fucking pushover? And I don't know if we were or not. We took out the immediate cameras, but it's a big building, and it's hard to say if there were ones we didn't see. Keep an eye out for a while, hmm?"

"I got that paranoid nature," Greg answers smokily. "I'll be keeping an eye out. But Foster? He ain't shit. That's the second time I've fucked with him, and that dumb dick still doesn't even know who to clap back at." Greg grins mischievously. "Just wait. If he thinks he's going to come to my town and push the shit on my turf, he's got some rude surprises coming. I'll eat that motherfucker alive." His expression darkens to a scowl through this delivery. "I wanted more time to build up, but it's chill. If it's now it's now." He shrugs, puffing on his cigarette. "That joint was pretty empty though."

Alexander raises an eyebrow. "All right. Talk to me about the first time you fucked with him." He raises a hand. "I'm not trying to get you busted...at the moment. I'm trying to figure out exactly what Foster is doing. So I'm not gonna run to the cops saying you confessed to anything. Priorities." He continues to watch Greg with interest, like the other man is some strange but fascinating animal and Alexander is a zoologist.

Greg peers hard at Alexander for a long moment, puffing on his cigarette. The wheels in his brain churn nearly audibly as he works to process Alexander's query. Slowly, he grins and shrugs. "I'd like to see Foster get fucked, so I'll do what I can with that. But man. Don't you fuck me, dude." Greg's tone remains light and amused, and his grin remains. "I'm not trying to get dark with it right now, but just..." He shakes his head and puffs on the cigarette again, then draws a deep breath. "So myself and some associates whose names you're not fucking getting, because I ain't a rat, decided we were gonna hit up this distribution center in Elma. Pharmaceuticals." Greg's grin shifts, becoming hungrier, and his face hardens. Here, as he tells this tale, the thug in him is much more plain to see. "The place was Foster's. His boys showed up and opened fire on us. I got hit, but we put those assholes down and got out with the loot." He hesitates, glancing sidelong at Alexander. "It was like they knew we were gonna be there, and where. It was weird. But like I said, they were pushovers. Just like the cake lovers at the casino."

Alexander stares back, waiting. And then listening. A bit of a nod at something the younger man says, but other than that, he doesn't interrupt until he's finished. "How did you know the place was Foster's, and what told you that they knew you were going to be there, and where?" Then, after a moment, he grimaces. "...in the interest of full disclosure, and because you've asked me not to fuck you, I have to make something clear: a box of illicit pharmaceuticals marked with a bloody handprint came into my possession. Several weeks back. I didn't have any reason not to pass it along to the proper authorities, so I did." He grimaces. "I cannot guarantee that one won't bite you in the ass. But I'll do what I can to keep the local cops focused on bigger fish." He clears his throat. "Sorry."

Greg chews on his lip for a moment, and slowly starts to laugh softly, shaking his head. "So you're the friend," he says with a grin, drawing the connections. "Oh man. You try to do one good fuckin' thing." He shakes his head again, a bit irritably, and runs a hand up through his sloppy hair. The curls tumble directly back into his face. "I guess it is what it is, dude. I just wanted the chick to have her medicine, evil motherfucker that I am. She ain't like..." He cuts that line of thinking off. "She's not an addict; she doesn't take the shit for fun. It's fucked that people can't get medicine that they need and I..." He cuts himself off again, and digs out another cigarette to light it off the butt of the last one.

"Anyway dude. Some planning went into this thing, right? Not on my part really, but my associate works the details. We had shit arranged where we were just supposed to go to a certain loading dock, grab our loot, and get the fuck out. Only as soon as we were over there, they showed right up. It wasn't a search... they came right to us. One of those dipshits named Foster out of his own mouth, too."

Alexander gives Greg a look. "Miss Oakes' pharmaceutical needs are neither here nor there, but don't leave your bloody handprints on shit, Mister Sumpter. Wet rag with something slightly caustic like vinegar, three minutes, solves a lot of future problems." His voice is very dry. "And I never said you were evil. I may revise my opinion if something unpleasant happens to Miss Oakes regarding this, though. She was concerned. That's all. If you want to be pissed off at someone, then I'm a much better target."

That said, he listens to the rest, his expression turning thoughtful. "That's concerning. Would your associate have been someone who might have tipped them off?" A pause. "I ask only to rule it out. And because...I have concerns. About our, ah, 'loot' from our own excursion."

Greg chuckles softly. "Dumb shit begets dumb shit sometimes. My mode of delivery was a little off. I should've sat on it and doled it out bit by bit, but I do dumb shit sometimes. Anyway who wants to sit on that trash and feel that heat for garbage?" He gestures dismissively, chucking his cigarette butt towards a waiting coffee can. It bounces off, but he seems unperturbed as he puffs on his freshly-lit smoke. "I ain't mad at her. It's just dumb that the shit doesn't get to help her now. And now I gotta stock the garbage again. But now we're getting way the fuck off the point." He points to Alexander with his cigarette. "Man, I can't rule it out, but I don't think so. Those boys fired on all of us; if anybody on our side sold us out, it was a fuck-stupid move. I don't believe it for a minute." He glances towards the door to the shop to make sure it's closed, glances around the back lot to ensure that it's empty. "Man, I don't like it, but the only conclusion I can draw that makes any fuckin' sense is that my Boss, our Boss, sold us out. Me or one of those boys or all of us, we weren't supposed to leave Elma alive. That's what I think."

"We are getting a little adrift. But you're being straight with me, so I wished to do the same." Alexander shrugs, easily enough. His gaze drifts out to the back lot when Greg's does, his sweep aided by something a bit more powerful than just visual. Greg might be able to feel it, the tingle of power as the man reaches out for any nearby minds focused on them. He glances back to Greg, shakes his head. "No one's paying attention to us." Then he grows thoughtful. "Did you tell anyone you were going to the casino that day? Anyone in your organization, I mean. Or that you were thinking of taking a stroll there at all." A longer pause. "That seems odd. If Monaghan wanted one - or all - of you dead, there are easier and more certain ways." He's not rejecting the idea; he's clearly turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece, trying to fit the concept in with whatever else is rattling around his brain.

"I don't know who else knew we were going there," Greg says, throwing his hands out wide. "It doesn't made a fuck of a lot of sense to me either, but then look at what happened with the Krugers, and I don't exactly see me and the boys at war with Foster for acting out of turn on the Boss's turf. So that shit tells me a lot." He puffs and considers, and if he notices Alexander's little trick, well, it's no more out of place or remarkable than flying on a skateboard. Gray Harbor will do weird things to your oddness threshold.

"But you're right, it's hella clumsy and indirect. I thought maybe it was because I know too much about the operation, but he'd just have to stand up somebody else to take my place. Unless Foster is that somebody else." He frowns darkly, and he fixes Alexander with a heavy and loaded look. "Man, I didn't ask to work for this motherfucker. I didn't get a choice. I've been able to stretch the relationship, get the legitimate business to shelter under and shit, but I really don't ever know where I stand with this fucker. He fucking had me snatched off the streets in Seattle, family."

With a sound of disgust he bounds to his feet , causing his pack of cigarettes and lighter to tumble to the concrete, but he fails to notice. "I never really had shit to lose before now, but I'm trying to stick around, and out of prison long enough to marry my girlfriend and raise a family. This game is starting to feel like one I'm going to lose."

Alexander twitches a little as Greg throws his hands wide, watching with a touch more wariness. "I think if he wanted you dead, he'd just have someone kill you and bury you out in the Forest, Mister Sumpter. Which is not, in any way, to defend him - merely an observation based on other observations over the years. You don't seem in any way important enough to stage an elaborate plan for." He doesn't mean that to sound terrible; it just does. He leans back a little as Greg bounds to his feet, but doesn't rise. Instead, he sticks out a foot, kicks the pack and lighter over to where he can reach it, puts it back on the table.

"I wonder if there's another explanation. For instance - I have been thinking about the fact that we found the murder weapon, a murder weapon that ties Foster or his people directly to the murder of two people who were, apparently, trying to stop the construction of Foster's casino, and we found it sitting on a fucking table. Not in a safe. Not in the goddamned Harbor where no one would be likely to find it. And, as you rightly pointed out, the guards were," he searches for a kind word, "idiots." Clearly, he failed to find it. "And yet the hit itself was smooth, professional, and without incident. That doesn't match up. And you're right. I expected retaliation. But as far as I can tell, your boss has been entirely silent on the whole matter.../except/ for his lawyer showing up at the meeting about the casino and suggesting that it was hoped it would open on schedule. That's also odd."

He shakes his head, a little, then refocuses on Greg. "You have a girlfriend?"

"Hella odd," Greg reflects, beginning to pace while he smokes. He seems unaware of Alexander's reaction to his sudden and unexpected wild movements, and he rapidly walks a tight beat back and forth, turning sharply, while he thinks.

"I really don't know what to make of it," he eventually decides, and once again runs a hand uselessly through his curly hair. "But it scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Like a goddamn trap closing or some shit." He scowls, but it softens at the question about his girlfriend. A bright smile suddenly pierces the dark clouds of his countenance, a glimpse of Frankie's version of Greg shining through for a moment at the thought of her. "Actually we're engaged," he says, and he grins sheepishly. "Can you believe it? She said yes to me." He shakes his head with a bewildered grin. "She makes me want things I didn't want before so I can give them to her. She's incredible, and I fuckin' need to stay outside and alive long enough to enjoy my life with her. She wants a family dude, but I don't know about having innocent little kids around while that motherfucker's shadow hangs over our family."

Alexander's gaze follows Greg as he starts to pace. He turns just a little so that he can follow the whole arc without having to turn his head. "I find it concerning, as well. I think...I would very much like to know what Monaghan is thinking about all of this." His lips twitch into a gallows' humor sort of smile. "But it's not like I can ask him. And so far, no one who is willing to talk to me seems to have heard word one from him about this situation."

His fingers drum a rock beat on the tabletop, but when Greg starts to talk about his fiance, Alexander's expression softens, fractionally, his eyes warming more than the rest of his face. "All right. Well. Step one in that? Don't shoot anyone who isn't actively trying to kill you, Mister Sumpter. Second - can I ask you for a favor? I don't know if you can do it, so I'll offer a favor that I don't know if I can do, in return. If you could reach out to your distribution network, see if the casino is buying or selling, or seems to be shipping? In return, I'll see if I can't ask for some...leniency in the pursuit of that box. Chetson identified you as being at the casino, but if I can suggest that you were there to help solve the case," he shrugs, "maybe it'll win you some non-pot brownie points." Another, longer, pause, before Alexander adds, sheepishly, "And, unrelated to the rest - I don't suppose that you offer lessons on lockpicking? I can pay for the instruction."

"I'm wondering if me and him might be overdue for a conversation," Greg chimes in on the topic of Monaghan and what he may or may not know. The young pusher frowns darkly as his lady love sinks down from the topmost levels of thought. "Everything I pitch comes from the Boss, and it seems like Foster's got his own source out there in Elma. I guess it's possible a bunch of the deals have all been for him, but he could never pay my price and turn a profit on anything. I have to keep my Boss happy and then make it all worth my time and trouble too. People around here will pay damn near anything, but I don't know why they'd go spend more for the same thing they can get from me cheaper. "

He puffs on his cigarette thoughtfully. "But look at it like this. If I heard it through the grapevine that Foster had the Krugers done, that he was getting ready to deal out of that casino when it opened, I would obviously have to have questions. Am I supposed to let someone else operate here or what? I would need to know that, right?" And probably get shot for asking, but Greg leaves this concern unvoiced.

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "...Mister Sumpter, while that would be useful information to have, your goals suggest you need to stay, ah, alive. I'm not sure prolonged contact with your boss is conducive to that." He rubs at the back of his neck. "Did you ever tell him, that Foster's name was invoked in Elma? If you were going to approach him, and you haven't done that, then that might be a good angle to take. That you just heard that the guy opening the casino was named Foster, and remembered hearing his name on the Elma job, and wanted to pass on that tidbit in case it was useful, and maybe get some hint of Monaghan's leanings along the way. Helpful, not demanding seems a more...healthy...route to take."

Greg nods sagely. "You know, that's some pretty good thinking." He slowly grins. "You see what I mean? Naturally inclined to dumb-fuck thinking." He raises a hand to tap on the side of his head, dislodging some ashes from the end of the cigarette to tumble into his hair. He suddenly steps over and relaxes into a seat on the bench, as unexpectedly as he left it. "This shit makes my head spin, but I think your approach might work. Protecting my business is protecting his business." He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. "I suppose it's possible that all the shit came down from Foster through the Boss to get to me, huh? I didn't think about it before, but what if we've all got this thing flipped and Foster's the real Boss?"

"I like to think I'm moderately good at it. Thinking." Alexander shakes his head. "Not dumb-fuck. Just...a bit more direct than might be wise. But you're not stupid." He doesn't even sound (too) surprised about that. As Greg sits down, and throws out that theory, Alexander makes a startled sound. A grunt, almost like he was punched in the gut. "It's not impossible, I suppose. Although then the murder of the Krugers still doesn't make a whole lot of sense. There's no reason to kill them if Foster and Monaghan are working together." He gives Greg an amused look. "And why do you think Foster might be trying to get you? Did you piss him off at some point?"

"Maybe Mr. and Mrs. K didn't want to play ball or started up static about something. Or if Felix really works for Foster, it could've been some kind of weird flex. Their daughter's right on the spot, so it ain't like there was any disruption in business from it." Greg shrugs, grinning, and casts his spent cigarette butt towards the can and falling far short. "I have to assume too many things to make anything make sense. But on the Elma job, the words that dude said were 'Do you know who you're stealing from? Foster's gonna be pissed.'" He rubs at the back of his neck. "So some or all of his supply must go through that distribution center. It was his shit we were taking anyway, and even if your valuation of that box made me giggle when I heard it, it's still like forty k total that we made off with. I'd want someone dead for that, for sure."

"Hey." Alexander frowns. "It wasn't my valuation. And I'm not exactly current on the street value of various pharmaceuticals. Most drug crimes are boring." He's unapologetic about that. "But...it's possible. It doesn't seem like it fits, though. Mister Kruger had had a stroke. They were both older, and yes, their daughter is dating Stewart, which," he sighs, "should be all the leverage needed to make them keep their mouths shut, pay their money on time, and stay out of anything that might upset Monaghan. Killing them is..." his brow furrows, "it just doesn't make a lot of sense from Monaghan's side, unless there is something I'm badly missing." He throws his hands up. "Which I might be. There's a lot of missing data."

He shakes his head, then frowns at Greg. "Are you going to approach your boss? You don't have to. It might not be wise. But I'm going to look into the distribution center. If it does link with Monaghan's...I'll let you know. If you keep me informed of anything you hear from your side?"

Greg nods, scrubbing at his stubbly face with his hands and producing an offputting rasping sound. "I'm with you man, there're too many things I don't know. Shit seems to keep going sideways and I get dragged into shit I never intended. I was just small time, then I got dragged down here and into all this. Just supposed to pick up some shit and wind up in a gunfight." He grins. "Go out to the casino for a look and end up locating a murder weapon with your police-adjacent ass." He shakes his head, standing again, and snatches up his pack and lighter.

"I think I'll use your approach, have a talk with the guy." He looks at Alexander and he frowns. "If it goes bad, if I disappear or turn up dead, you promise me one thing: you help Frankie get the fuck away from him, alive. I don't care what it takes. "

"Getting dragged into shit you never intended is, to be honest, a fine Gray Harbor tradition. Just wait until a giant zombie Gilligan starts throwing exploding movie stars at you. It really puts the threats posed by organized crime into perspective." He does not appear to be joking, although a smile does flicker to life at the last. He stands up, then nods. "Yeah. I'll make that promise. Give her my name and my number." Which, after a moment, Alexander passes on to Greg. "If anything happens to you, tell her to contact me. I'll come and get her, and get her out of the state. One way or another. But it's all simpler if you don't die. So. Don't."

He rubs at the back of his head. "Anyway. Call if you want to. I'll usually answer. Thanks for the brownie. And the aid at the casino. I'll try to keep you informed, if you do the same."

Greg returns the favor with his own digits. "If it comes down to it," he says quietly, "Monaghan might find me a little harder to get rid of than he expects." There's no smile or grin to accompany this; it's not a brag, just a fact. "This place has its marks on me too. I'm far from helpless, and I plan to survive." He walks over as far as the door back into the shop, holding it open. "I think I'll chill out here for a while. Maybe skate it out." His gaze drifts towards the half pipe. "I'll let you know what I find out though. I don't know why, but I feel like I can trust you. So I will, until you prove me wrong."

"Yeah, you stand out. But that's not a trigger you want to pull unless you absolutely have to." Alexander's voice is quiet. "I'm not saying don't protect yourself, Mister Sumpter. But I am saying that don't escalate things if you don't have to. You want to stay alive and stay out? Keep your head down as much as you can, keep your eyes and ears open, and get something you can use. And," he sighs, "if things do go bad, and you need a place to go to ground? Let me know. I'll see what I can do."

He turns away, but hesitates before walking away. "I'm not a fan of what you do, Mister Sumpter. Some might argue it's simply filling a need, but I've seen too many junkies destroy others and themselves to be okay with that. But I'm not going to stab you in the back, even if I decide you've gotten too interesting to ignore, one day. Until then, well. Don't shoot people who aren't actually trying to kill you, and we're probably okay." Then he slouches his way back out through the store.