2019-12-06 - A Big Ask

(TXT to Cristobal) Ruiz : Cruz. I need your help. With something.

(TXT to Ruiz) Cristobal : Lucky me.

(TXT to Ruiz) Cristobal : We talking reach around or helping you achieve your dream of self-fellatio?

(TXT to Cristobal) Ruiz : Are you always such a piece of shit, or do you save it up for me?

(TXT to Ruiz) Cristobal : Pretty much always, so dont go thinking ur special. S'up?

(TXT to Cristobal) Ruiz : Wouldn't dream of it. And I'd rather speak about it in person, if you think you're capable of being civil for five fucking minutes.

(TXT to Ruiz) Cristobal : Ur the one cussing at me, rude. Name place and time.

(TXT to Cristobal) Ruiz : Tonight. 8 or so. Fried Fish? I get a discount there.

(TXT to Ruiz) Cristobal : Ooh, dinner and a show. Good thing I'm a cheap date. See you there.

(TXT to Cristobal) Ruiz : Si. Te veo pronto.

It's well after dark when the appointed time rolls around. There's a smattering of people on the boardwalk; a couple of tourists looking for the town's nonexistent nightlife, a panhandler, some girl on a bicycle. The fish shack is open, though currently only has one customer: a guy sprawled in a chair at one of the rickety little tables, digging in to a paper bag filled with fish and greasy, vinegar-soaked fries. A few of the latter are popped into his mouth, and he scrolls through something on his phone with his left hand, while trying to ignore the seagulls loitering opportunistically nearby. A ball cap is tugged low over his eyes, and he's dressed in a dark tee shirt, dark, faded jeans and his usual battered leather jacket.

"You know this incognito look of yours isn't fooling anyone who actually knows you, right?" To say Cris swaggers isn't an exaggeration, but that's just one of the many annoying things about him. That and he pulls out one of the chairs without so much as an actual hello of greeting. He's in flannel layered over tank on top of jeans and a grey hoodie over that like he doesn't have any proper winter clothes yet. He folds his hands over his stomach and tests the strength of the chair by leaning it on its back two legs.

"I'm not fucking incognito," mumbles the cop around a mouthful of vinegar-soaked fries. He wipes his hands off on his napkin and leans back in his chair, brim of his cap adjusted slightly. It doesn't make him look any less sketchy. At least his ink's covered up tonight. His eyes flick over Cris's attire, and briefly linger on his tipped back chair, before sliding away, watching the girl on her bicycle doing loop-de-loops. "You know a guy named Marsden? First name Chuck. Charlie. Something like that."

"The cop?" Cris asks with a raise of his eyebrows as he pitches forward in his chair, making it thunk back to the ground. "Yeah, sure." He says casually, but doesn't expound on his basis of that knowledge. He has a working idea of most of Gray Harbor's forces, tasked with keeping an eye on them for a Certain Someone. His fingers reach out to try and snitch one of those fries. "He's one of your guys, shouldn't you know his first fucking name? Real close with your force, aren't you?"

The fry theft is observed warily, but not thwarted. Hope Cris likes some greasy potatoes with his malt vinegar, because they're swimming in it. "The cop," he confirms, once he's chewed and swallowed, gaze roving back to the boardwalk again. "He just transferred in from Detroit. Give me a fucking break." A piece of fish is dug out and bitten into, tartar sauce eschewed like the nasty shit he seems to think it is. "Anyway, he's pulled in about a kilo of fentanyl and half a kilo of cocaine. Trying to suck up to the Chief, I think. Real boy scout." He's taking his time in getting to the point. Probably in no small part because he's feeling a little nervous about it.

Cris makes a gesture with that stolen fry like he's consenting to give Ruiz a break on that tiny name transgression on account of the transfer. How benevolent of him. He takes a bite of the fry, making a face at the taste of vinegar but at least he finishes the morsel. "Man, how can you eat that shit. What this needs is some mayonnaise, cotija cheese and cayenne pepper." His greasy fingers are wiped off on his pant leg, "That's quite a haul. Enough to keep most of Gray Harbor high as a kite for the holidays. So what of it? Need me to knock around this guy a little so he stops being such a Try Hard?"

"Quieres hacerlo por mí, sé mi invitado," replies de la Vega with a chuckle that creases the corners of his eyes ever so slightly. Spotting the pants leg wipe-off, he pushes over a napkin, eases back in his chair, and pats himself down for smokes. "Knock him around? What, do I look like a mobster? No, I do not need you to knock him around. I do need that cocaine to be misappropriated and written off as evidence." He pointedly does not look at Cris as he says this.

Cris looks down at the napkin, no longer needing the paper product, but he scrunches it up in his hand anyways. "If you were a mobster, I'd ask if you wanted me to knock him off, not around." The bouncer splits hairs with a sort of amused gleam in his own eyes that turns the corners of his mouth from commas to apostrophes. "Yeah?" He asks of the coke. "Thinking of opening a little side business slinging nose candy so you can buy Christmas presents? My favorite watch brand is Tag Heuer." You know, just incase he's on the gift list.

The amusement is taken in with his usual aplomb; it isn't quite returned, though. "Yeah," he replies around the cigarette between his lips, then lights up, shakes out his zippo, and slides it away again. "And no, I'm not interested in selling it." The bad news is, no watch for Christmas. The other bad news is, it's probably pretty clear what he plans on doing with that haul. "You think you can help me out, and keep your fucking mouth shut?"

"Yeah, see. For once in your life you're going to have to give a little. This is a big risk and a big fucking haul, and I'm supposed to be in it just for the naive generosity in my cold and shriveled heart? And I'm supposed to believe you're just going, to...what? Have a little White Christmas party with you and your friends and I haven't even been invited?" Cris is shaking his head a little and looking out to the water, how grey that even the lapping water at the beach's edge looks. This whole town is so aptly named.

For once in his life? Javier makes a bit of a face at that, nose crinkling, eyes crinkling, a little grunt before he shoves more fries in his mouth. "I know it's a big risk. For fuck's sake, you take me for a goddamned idiot?" He snorts softly, finishes off the fish and crumples up the bag with the remaining fries. "We split the haul fifty fifty. And you keep your fucking mouth shut about it." His gaze flickers toward the water, then back to his fellow Latino. Cris has probably been in these circles long enough to know the look of an addict when he sees one. He needs this, much as he's trying to be cool about it.

"And what am I going to do with a quarter kilo of coke, Javier?" Cris saids the words quieter in almost a hiss as he leans into the table so the softer words can still be heard. "Besides feed it back to you in lines off my tight ass. That is what you want it for, si? For your own personal habit? So why come to me if you're so concerned I'll flap my yap. I don't get it. I don't get you, Cabrone."

"The fuck do I know?" The crumpled up bag is snatched off the table, and flung at a garbage can set up at an awkward angle from their table. It hits the side of it, but doesn't go in. Ruiz doesn't seem to give a shit. He leans in as well, an inked hand slapped down on the table between them, eyes hard and glinting slightly in the dark. "I need. Your fucking. Help." Cris does have a tight ass, but that is beside the goddamned point. "The fuck do you want? Money? Fine. Fucking sell it, for all I give a shit."

"Do I look like a fucking drug dealer?" I mean. Cris could probably pull it off. But that's neither here nor there. "Nah, you keep it all. Seems like you could use it a helluva lot more than the kids in this town. But how safe are we really, having a tweaked out Police Captain." Cristobal gives a little tsch cluck of his tongue leaning back in his chair again. "Tell you what. I do this for you, and down the road, I need a favor? You pony up. How's that sound? But ditch your fucking jacket and get a ski cap before we do this si? Seriously. This is turning into your signature look."

Cris could totally pull it off. But it really is neither here nor there. At the nah, you keep it all, a noisy exhale that gutters out of the cop's nose as his head drops forward. He smiles slightly, but it isn't warm, mirthful or kind. Just a quick twist of his mouth that's gone a moment later, and his fingers are scrubbed through his hair as he thinks on Cris's offer. It's a dangerous offer. An incredibly dangerous offer. He makes a little sound in his throat, drags his fingers back out of his hair, and eases back in his chair to watch the younger man. "Really? You're going to comment on my fucking jacket?" It's not a yes. And it's not a no.

"Hey, don't get me wrong. It really cinches that whole grizzled, brooding cop look you've got going on. But if things go south, you know how distinctive that thing is? Seriously, I spotted you from a hundred yards and one of your own boys seeing that? Close up and personal? They wouldn't even need to put you in a line up. Look, I promise you whatever favor I need will be no more dangerous they approaching an armed, trained cop and committing several felonies up to and including grand theft larceny." What's anything worse that Cris could come up with in comparison?

The grizzled, brooding cop bit is patently ignored. Save for a slightly irritated look slid Cris's way. He continues studying the man across from him, gaze flickering over his profile thoughtfully, then slipping away to watch the girl on her bicycle headed off down the boardwalk. "I don't need your advice. I've-" He stops short of mentioning that he's done undercover, he knows how to make himself unworthy of attention. And hisses between his teeth instead, "You're such a fucking prick."

"Y'know, and here I thought I was on my best behavior. You want me to be a prick, I'll just stand up and walk away instead of agreeing to help. That's prickish. Discussing tactics to cut down on our chances of getting caught? That's just good business sense. You want my help? This is a two way street, Javier. We're going to talk about it, make a solid plan, and go in knowing contingencies. You sitting here grunting out monosyllabic responses unless it's a cuss word just because you're jonesing? That's prickish." Cris settles his hands on the edge of the table, "What's it gonna be?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Cruz and his best behaviour and his fucking two way street. Javier's probably hoping for a car to come and sideswipe the guy right about now. The tip of his tongue appears between his teeth briefly, then slides away again with an agitated growl. "Fine." Jonesing doesn't begin to cover it. He's a livewire under all those layers of brittle indifference. And Cris threatening to leave is almost enough to make him snap. He shifts his gaze back to Cris's, scrubs his fingers through his hair again. He's cut it recently, and while it's not quite buzzed, it isn't too far off.

"We'll need to surveil him first, of course. Do a little fact finding. I'm not asking you to go in blind. We find where he's keeping it, we cut him a deal. He's keen, but he's not stupid."

"Well then it looks like we'll be spending a lot of time together. I'll make sure to invest in chapstick." Cris gives an exaggerated kissy face across the table to Ruiz, giving the cop an actual reason to call him a prick this time. "I gotta a buddy we can borrow a car from, better to stake out in something other than my Bessie or your jeep if we're going low key. If we're able to strike a deal with good ole Chuck, there might not be a lot of reason to expect thing's'll turn to violence, but I'll be ready. What's the line we're not crossing, here?"

"Fuck off, Cruz." It's muttered, and seems to lack teeth tonight; de la Vega's heart doesn't seem to be in it. After a minute, he pats himself down for his pack of cigarettes, and taps another one out once he finds it. Hesitation, then the carton's offered to Cris. "Yeah, we obviously can't use my truck. And the last thing I need is for us to have to push your pile of junk out of there because it died on us halfway through." He pauses to light up, and offer the zippo up to the other man, if needed. "If things turn to violence, they've already gone fucking south." He considers a moment. "Maybe we break in and take the fucking coke, pin losing it on him." The guy might lose his job. Javier doesn't look too happy about that. But he's jonesing so hard he can barely think straight.

"Hey. Don't talk about Bessie like that. The girl's got feelings, man." Cris plucks up one of the cigarettes and as it dangles from his mouth, "I'll have you know, she purrs like a fucking kitten and the first time she so much as coughs I'm taking her to your boy's place for a tune up." He stop talking long enough to light up and put the lighter back in a neutral place on the table. "But we're going to need to get you straight first, before we do anything else. So if you need something to tide you over, there's a hook up at the Platinum. I'll score it for you so you don't have to worry about any raised eyebrows. Oh, and before I forget." He fishes in the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a cellophane wrapped package of tamarin candy, tied off in red and green. "Merry Fucking Christmas."

The comment about Bessie almost makes him chuckle. His dark eyes squinch up at the corners, and it teases a dimple out of his cheek. Just for a heartbeat, before it disappears again. "Damned well better. He does good work." His boy. The lighter's collected, shoved back into his jacket pocket, and his hat tugged back on. "I.." He starts to say something about the Platinum, when a package appears. And derails whatever thought he had entirely. He gazes at the other man with clear confusion for a good twenty seconds before reaching for the thing. Like he half expects it to detonate in his hand. "I don't have anything for you." They haven't exactly been on good terms.. well. Ever.

"Don't go getting all mushy. I made a big batch and divvied it up after Love and Clayton mentioned wanting some. If it helps, maybe I gave you the burnt pieces." Maybe not. Probably not. Cris starts to stand now for real this time. "Come see me tomorrow, I'll have your shit then. But JUST enough until we get this sorted. And you're fucking paying me back for it."

Does de la Vega look like the type of guy to get mushy? Well, maybe when he's high. Or drunk. He's almost certainly a cuddly drunk. Cigarette scissored between two fingers, he's already unwrapping the little package as Cris moves to stand. "Yeah." He's still trying to play it cool, but there's a little twinge in his gut when just enough is dangled in front of him. "Yeah," he says again, re-wrapping the candy and shoving it into his jacket pocket. "Look, thanks. For this." Agreeing to help with the job? Or the burnt tamarind? Or come see me tomorrow? He doesn't specify. Just slouches back in his chair and smokes, and watches the other man sidelong as he prepares to go.

"Don't mention it." Cris says, taking his cigarette and staring to walk away before he cranes back. "Seriously, don't. You start thanking me and I might start believing that we're friends." He turns back towards the walkway, "And then Hell is going to freeze over. Skies are going to start raining blood. Pigs are going to start flying..." It's clear from his tone he's amused though, and not being just an asshole.

Ruiz might be smiling slightly as Cris walks away. Then again, it could just be the view. He drags off his cigarette, checks his watch, and starts collecting himself to his feet as well. Time to start planning. What the fuck is he getting himself into.