2020-01-25 - Fleet Week and the Four Horsemen

Most of the places in town won't run Tor a tab. Some of the nicer ones throw him out as soon as they've got a reason. Sometimes he actually does give them one, but for the most part he does actually behave himself. Well, except for the occasional bar brawl. The Pourhouse is different. They don't really run tabs for anyone, so he doesn't feel out of place. He's sitting at the bar, drinking from a beer with a shredded label and thumbing through his phone. A small booklet full of scribbled shorthand is referenced.

The other night there was a robbery on a residential street and one of the two perps roughly fits Tor's description. He's a person of interest in general to the Gray Harbor PD, though he doesn't have anything more serious than loitering and vandalism on his official record. He's one of those guys the cops always suspect, but never seem to have proof. In short, he's a slippery SOB.

Carter isn't a detective, and so investigating crimes after the fact usually isn't his gig. He manages traffic stops, responds to active crimes in progress, reports to scenes to help keep crowds under control, and answers calls of domestic disturbances and the like. So it's only every so often that the rookie gets sent out to ask questions, which means, he's not particularly good at it. He'd been told to go check out the alibis for a couple of people of interest that roughly fit the description of the two perps for the robbery, and he was told that Tor Lockhart could be found down at the Pourhouse. So that's where he turns up.

Carter's in his GHPD uniform when he walks in through the door and makes his way over toward the bar. There's more than one or two people who look at him askance, probably some having reason to be uncertain around the cops, others just rubbernecking to see whether anything is going to happen -- it's a small town with a high murder rate. You never know.

He spots Tor and heads over in that direction.

And the cop gets to advance on Tor quite far before he notices. But when he does, that little booklet of his disappears into an inner pocket. He swivels on the stool, long strands of hair partially obscuring sleepy, perhaps slightly drunk eyes. The edge of his lip curls upwards. "Kinda hoping you're a strippergram, but somethin' tells me that's not why you're here." He's dressed in his usual uniform of jeans with rips he came by honestly, a plaid button-up and a black leather vest. The vest is an anachronism. Who wears vests? But it suits him.

Carter can't help the slight tick of amusement that touches his lips at the comment, and then he shakes his head. "Unfortunately, no. The department generally frowns on me stripping out of my uniform while on duty." He looks Tor over for a moment and then says, "I need to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Lockhart."

"Only while on duty? Good to know, good to know." Tor doesn't seem to be perturbed or threatened by Carter. But then, he works for the guy who runs the back channels of the town. And he's been in this long enough that he knows how to keep his nose clean. He swivels his stool to face Carter, then tugs a bit more label off his beer and sips. "Shoot. Or maybe don't, considering you're carrying an actual gun."

Carter isn't particularly threatening, nor does he really seem to be attempting to be. He seems kind of laid back for a cop, possessing none of the intensity that some of his coworkers seem to have. His lips tick upward a little and says, "Pretty sure neither of us want to deal with that tonight. Can you tell me where you were last night between the hours of.." he gives a window roughly before and after the robbery, making a note in an actual small notepad that he has tucked into a pocket.

Tor was clearly expecting the question. He watches Carter with lifted eyebrows. He sucks air between his teeth and checks his phone. For a moment, the cop might be forgiven for thinking the fence is ignoring him. But then, "Yeeeeeah, hate to break it to you, gumshoe. I was on shift at Pizza Kitchen then. Got like...three people who can give you an alibi? Plus the security cameras in the shop."

Carter takes down the information and then says, "And the names of the people who can vouch that you were there? I assume the manager.." He makes a note, not seeming perturbed by the response at all. He was just doing his job, and he intended to get it done, even if it wasn't the most glamorous of work, and even if the guy clearly had an alibi for where he was.

The alibis that Tor lists are also people that the Gray Harbor PD pay close attention to. His uncle, the owner of the place. His cousins and family friends who work there. Not exactly people with stirling reputations. "Sorry, baby cop. They sent you on a wild goose chase. There must be someone in town who's just as handsome as me."

There are, however, cameras that can be checked, both at the Pizza shop and the surrounding strip mall that can be used to confirm the alibi, or deny it. He takes down the names, smirking just a little bit at the list and knowing full well that not a one on there is particularly trustworthy. He doesn't feel inclined to say so, however. Instead, he just nods and says, "That, or the sketch artist just has a thing for you." He can't help the little grin that goes along with it. "Either way, we'll check out your alibi and be in touch if we have any more questions." He tucks the small notebook back away into his pocket.

"Entirely possible. I am deeply sketchable," Tor waggles his brows and sets the now empty beer on the bartop. "Stay. Grill me more. Have a virgin rum and coke or something. Tell me about the crime. I might have some people I don't like I wanna pin it on." Hard to tell if he's kidding. He's probably kidding.

Carter studies Tor for a moment or two longer and then shakes his head with a small grin. "Yeah, I bet the GHPD could put together a gallery." He does laugh though and says, "Can't discuss an ongoing investigation, but if there's anyone you'd like to throw under the bus, we'll be happy to give it the consideration that it's due." Meaning none whatsoever. He doesn't order himself anything to drink, though.

"Pfff, you're no fun. Hey, Jerry," Tor upnods to the bartender. "Shirley temple for the baby cop." Jerry looks at Tor like he's grown a second head. "Yeah, I'm actually serious. Do it up, man. And another beer for yours truly." He looks Carter up and down. "You look about my age, but I don't know you. That means you're new in town." No ifs and or buts. It's a small place.

"So I've been told," Carter says with an amused smile when Tor accuses him of being no fun. One eyebrow arches when the bartender is asked to make a Shirley Temple. And he does it, bringing over the beer for Tor and then setting the Shirley Temple down next to Carter. Carter shakes his head, but he doesn't protest at all. Instead, he says, "Astute. Maybe you should be the detective. Where am I from then, detective?"

Tor makes a show of watching Carter, of looking him up and down, of making soft sounds as he ponders. He picks up his beer, peels off a bit of label, then swigs. When he pulls the beer down from his mouth, he says, "I have no fuckin' idea. Seattle?"

Carter shakes his head and makes a little 'tch' noise, "You're supposed to ask questions and figure it out, not just stab in the dark." He then reaches for the Shirley Temple and does, in fact, take a sip of it, "Wow, that's sweet." He sets it back down on the bar and then says, "San Francisco. Was SFPD before I moved here."

"Hey, but I still got the answer. Must be doing something right." Tor makes a vague motion with one hand. "Everyone's got their interrogation techniques." His usually involves a gun and his much larger cousins, but hey. "What the hell brings you from San Fran to fuckin' Gray Harbor?" He seems genuinely curious.

"What keeps you /in/ Gray Harbor instead of getting out of this weird little town?" Carter asks Tor in retort before taking another sip of the Shirley Temple, despite how sweet it is. "My sister and I inherited our dad's place when he died. Will stipulated we needed to occupy the place, not just sell it off. San Francisco's expensive. A free house was a pretty good offer from a dead guy we never knew."

"Ahh, the old 'must live in the haunted house' clause," says Tor with a cheeky grin. His beer is going down pretty easy. But it's kind of shitty beer, so that's not so hard. "Same reason. Family." Cept his is alive and well. "And there's nothing for me outside. What was I gonna do? Go to school? With what money?"

"Except that so far, it isn't haunted, just dated, and dusty as Hell, though we've been renovating it a bit," Carter says with a shrug of his shoulders. Renovating it a lot. By themselves, largely, though with a little neighborly help here and there. "I don't know, hit the road, find some greener pastures somewhere, have no money somewhere it doesn't rain all the time?" He grins, but then nods, "But yeah, family can be a strong motivator." Even if his only family is one person.

"Give it time," says Tor of the house with a knowing kind of grin that can't help but be cheeky. He's a cheeky bastard so it's sort of a default setting. "You're asking me why I don't get away from my no-good family and make something of myself, aren't you?" He shakes his head. "If you didn't grow up in one place, you can't understand."

Carter chuckles, "Yeah well, there's some things we still haven't gone through. I guess there's room for cursed items and ghosts, yet." Not that he seems to put any stock in either. Then he shakes his head and leans against the bar, "No, not really. I was just curious whether there was any desire to just get away, strike out on your own." He then says, "I wasn't in a home long enough to grow up in one place, and Claire and I didn't have a family other than each other. So home just kind of became wherever we ended up at any given time. No real ties to bind us, I guess. So no, I don't assume I could know anything about it."

Tor runs fingers back through his hair. All that does is get the strands out of his face for a hot minute before they drift back to where they were. He shrugs. "Eh. This town has its upsides. And I've never lived anywhere where it doesn't rain all the time. The snow this year was fuckin' weird, man."

"Snow at all is weird," Carter says with a chuckle, "But then, it doesn't snow in San Francisco.. ever. I thought it was pretty cool, but I guess that's because it's novel. Helping people in accidents all over town because they don't know how to drive in it was another thing entirely." He takes another sip of his non-drink and then says, "You do any of those winterfest things?"

"Naw. I'm not much of a community festival sorta guy." Tor is definitely the one who stood in the corner at school dances and spiked the punch. "I didn't drive at all during that shitty weather, man. My uncle just passed down his Mustang to me. No way in hell I was risking it." The 1965 cherry red Mustang is a head-turner around town and has been for a couple of decades. Bold of criminals to drive such a distinctive car. But he only drives it on pizza deliveries.

"Yeah, I've seen that car rolling through the neighborhood every so often," Carter says. "Pretty sure you've delivered pizza to our place before." Though it was probably Claire who answered the door rather than Carter, to get it. If she wasn't stuffing him full of her own home cooking, she was stuffing him with carryout or delivery (more rarely). "It's a nice ride." His own car, the non-patrol one, is just an old beater that they dragged up from San Francisco.

"A nice ride?" Tor scoffs. "Dude, seriously? Talk about damning with faint praise." He rocks the stool up onto one leg and then sets it down. Jerry gives him a bit of a glare, but that only makes him do it again. "And yeah, I've probably delivered pizza to everyone in this damned town at least once. Been driving since I was sixteen."

"Hey, I wasn't trying to insult it. It's a gorgeous car," Carter laughs and finishes off his drink. "Mine's a piece of crap." He shrugs his shoulders then. But then, he doesn't have to drive his own car for work, so there's that. "So you must know pretty much everyone in town at this point, or at least, of them, even if you don't know them personally."

"Pretttty much," says Tor. His second(?) beer is empty by now. He pushes the bottle across the bar and signals for another. "And what they take on their pizzas. And if they're shitty tippers." He sucks air between his teeth. "We used to call those Pirate Ships. You know," he pulls his cheek and does the whole 'I was born on a pirate ship' thing, but in a half-assed way.

"Call what pirate ships?" Carter asks, not entirely clear as to what Tor is referring. He does nod though, at knowing what people like on their pizzas and whether or not they are good tippers. Carter and Claire are, in fact, good tippers. But they don't have a lot, and they know what it's like to depend on what they get, so when they do order out, or go out places, they tip well.

"Old beater cars. I had like, three before I got the Mustang. Pirate Ships." And then Tor spells it out, "Piles of shit. No fun if you have to spell it out." He chuckles, then tugs the latest beer towards him for a heavy swig. "Some people like some weird shit, man." Re: pizza.

"Oh," Carter says and then smirks just a little as soon as he gets it, before Tor has to spell it out entirely, but he takes the ribbing when he does with a slight shrug of a shoulder. "Just not something I'd heard before." He turns then, leaning back against the bar and says, "Yeah? What's the weirdest stuff you've had someone order on a pizza?"

"I might need my lawyer present to tell you that, officer. Confidential information." Tor nods once and leans on the bar. His eyes are amused, but also a bit distant looking. This is definitely not just his third beer. "Breaking the pizza boy-customer trust. A sacred code."

Carter chuckles and says, "Wasn't asking for specifics on a particular client. Wouldn't want you to violate deliverer-client privilege." He shakes his head a little at himself. Why was he standing here talking to a definitely drunk suspect in a robbery instead of actually going to check out his alibi. He studies Tor for a moment, or two, and then he reaches for his drink, finishing it off and setting it to the side. "Fine, my interrogation of you is over for tonight, Lockhart. Perhaps the mystery of the pizza toppings will be solved another day."

Tor lifts a hand in a lazy salute. "Good job, baby cop. Consider me thoroughly investigated." He nearly misses his mouth when he lifts his beer to swig from it, but he gets it there like a pro. "Maybe I'll tell you if you tip me enough next time you order a pizza."

"I guess we'll see," Carter says and then he says, "My name's Carter, by the way." Not that he expects Tor to stop calling him baby cop, either. But it is what the C. stands for on the C. Reid on his badge. He then looks over toward the bartender and says, "Make sure that he doesn't drive home." To which the bartender makes an annoyed sound and waves a hand. Yeah, yeah.

"Don't worry, I'm not an asshole. Sides, I wouldn't risk my car. Didn't drive here." Tor grins widely and salutes with his beer towards Carter. "Hope you get your man. I'm just not him."

Carter pulls away from the bar then, and gives Tor another little once over before shaking his head. "Maybe not this time," he says, and then he gives a little wave of one hand as he turns and heads toward the exit of the bar. He still had one more guy to track down, who was supposedly a frequent flyer at Fried Fish. Maybe he'd have better luck with that suspect.

It's been a little while since Carter the baby cop left Tor to his own devices after checking an alibi. In the interim, he's gotten into an argument with the old drunk beside him about how Mustangs are indeed hot shit, and made a few more sloppy notes in the little notebook he keeps in his pocket. Now he's a couple more beers in and swiveling back and forth on his stool. It's squeaking fairly loudly, and it's making a muscle in the bartender's face tic.

He's not a regular here to the extent that he is at the Twofer. But the Pourhouse is a good change....and perhaps there are people he deems he'd be less likely to run into, here. So the sailor comes sauntering in, wearing a navy wool greatcoat, black watch cap, and faded jeans. Stiff, the way an old dog is, like his joints are giving him grief. But warmth and booze are sovereign treatments for that, so his expression is pleasant enough, as he comes ambling up to claim a seat at the bar. Perching with a funny bird-like delicacy, he orders a Four Horsemen, when the bartender finally deigns to listen to him. An upnod of greeting, for Tor, as he shrugs out of his coat, sets it on an empty stool beside him.

Tor looks at Joseph with blue eyes that seem to have trouble focusing. He paws long hair back from his face, then holds up both arms. "It's newbie night at the Pourhouse." He drums on the bartop. Ba-dum-thump, then snap-points. "Don't bother trying to deny it." Jerry, the bartender, gives Joseph a 'don't listen to him' sort of look as he serves up the drink.

"zat so? Do I get a discount? Does that mean you'll buy me a round, in the interest of being the welcome wagon?" Joe inquires, amused. "Though....to be truthful, I've been here a few times before. And you know I've been in town a few weeks, I remember seeing you at Two If By Sea the first night I got here. You got into a fight with those jerkass frat kids, you and Rosencrantz." He's still got that lazy Georgia drawl, blue eyes hooded. With his coat off, he's only wearing a plain white t-shirt beneath. No shyness about the scarring on his arms, it seems.

"Ay, in a small town, you're a newbie for a decade, at least," Tor makes a vague gesture with his hand. "You gotta like...have kids in high school before you're a townie. But even then, you're still not from here. Small towns are shitty like that." He leans his head back in thought, then things click (slowly) into place. "Ohh yeah." One side of his lip lifts in a little grin. "That was a good one." As for the drink? He sucks air between his teeth. "Just as long as it isn't more than six bucks. I deliver pizza for a living." Among other things. As for his wardrobe? He looks like a 90s slacker, really. All tattered jeans, plaid shirt and leather vest.

He concedes the point with a little inclination of his head. "Fair enough," he allows. "We'll see how long I last, here." A smile, faintly feral. "You did look like you were enjoying himself. And no need. I was mostly messin' with you. No, I'm from a very long away away. Other coast, in fact." Joe's only sipping the mess of bourbon he just got handed, lazily contented. "Where do you work?"

"Don't mess with a drunk guy, man. S'not a fair fight." Tor's slurring a little, but he's managing to keep his seat on the stool. No single leg balancing tonight. Not right now, anyway. "Other ocean? Or the middle bit?" Clearly no geography major - or master of accents. "Pizza Kitchen, man. Best pie in town. Real wood oven. Great toppings. Not just greasy shit."

"Atlantic coast. Savannah, specifically," Joe says. "Down at the border of Georgia and South Carolina. I'm Joe, by the way," And he leans over to offer a long hand. "I don't recall your name, from the Twofer, to be honest, if I got it. Short-term memory's pretty crappy." He doesn't seem to mind owning that, at least.

"Tor," which sounds like the kind of name that's short for something. "I probably didn't give my name that night. In between the fighting." Not to mention most of the town knows who he is so he doesn't tend to remember to introduce himself. He shakes, looking at the other man curiously. "So why the fuck are you in Gray Harbor?" He doesn't mean that as an accusation. It's curiosity with a curse.

Another lazy sip before he answers. His hand is callused, worn, as if he'd done some kind of manual labor for a good while. "The glib answer is that the wind blew me here, and I decided to winter here, rather than fight the Pacific swell all the way up to the Aleutians at the worst part of the year," he says, as he settles back. "The more truthful one is that it's the......whatever your term for it is. Rosencrantz calls it the Song. The Art, the Gift, the Shine. How exactly I fit in, I don't yet know. But that I have to, that I do know."

Tor's hand is calloused too, but unevenly - and on his trigger finger. "I dunno what the hell that means, man," he says in reply to the wind blowing thing. The second part, he does know. "The muck. Like cartoon quicksand. Ground looks normal, and before you know it, you're sinking into it." He chuckles roughly, swigs. "I don't know if any of us fit, man. It just is. Like nature."

His lips press together, as if afraid a smile will be taken as mockery. But the blue eyes are bright. "I'm a sailor," he clarifies, mildly. "Came on a boat. I set out from Savannah about nineteen months ago, took her down around Florida, around the Gulf, and down to the Canal....then up the western coast to here."

"So, where's the range around here - shooting a hobby of yours?" he asks, after a beat.

"Shit, man. That's crazy. I've never been on a boat. Through the Panama Canal?" Tor lets out a low whistle. "I've been to Seattle like, three times. That's as far as I've gotten." See: quicksand. And when you're born in quicksand it's extra hard to get out. He squints at Joseph, weaves a little. He looks like he might say something curt, but instead he just cracks a smile. "Could say that. Yeah, there's a range."

Those are a gunman's calluses - he's felt them in the handshakes of SEALs and Rangers and Marines, the indelible mark of dedicated range time. "I haven't made it to Seattle, yet," he says. "Come spring, maybe. It's a lot cheaper to berth a boat here, rather than there." He jerks a chin at the door, presumably in the direction of the Harbor.

He glances away, for a moment, as if to hide amusement, in turn. "What d'you shoot?" he wonders, going along with the presumable fiction of it being a hobby.

"That's how they get you." Cheap moorage fees. The venus flytrap of Gray Harbor. Tor says that but it's clear he has no idea what he's talking about. Normally he could bullshit the gun thing, but he's quite far into his cups. So he just kinda slurs out, "My uncle's got a bunch. Mostly we just go shooting cans on his property." A sniff. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. "We're not really a shooting range family, y'know?"

"Sounds fun. I used to do things like that, back home," Joe agrees, mildly. "My parents' land backs on a state park, so we could do a lot of stuff at the edge of the woods. No favorites? I got myself a Sig, before I set off. Not a lot of piracy on the Gulf, not this century, but....you never know where you'll end up." Voice still lazy, but his eyes have that glimmer of curiosity.

Tor looks a little bit more wary now that Joe clocked him based on a handshake. Especially since he doesn't have all his wits about him in order to deflect the way he might be able to ordinarily. He's the level of drunk where he's aware that he is - but yet can't will himself to be any more sober. He also keeps reaching for his bottle, which has a label shredded like confetti. "S'like saying your favourite ice cream is vanilla, but not much wrong with a Glock 19. But sometimes it's fun to poke the shit out of a target with somethin' bigger."

Now there's a grin, wide and bright. "Amen to that," he says. "I was Navy for a while, and while my MOS wasn't heavy on small arms combat, I did have to keep up my qualifications....and it was fun as hell, when I did. Nothin' wrong with Glocks - they have the rep they do, deservedly."

Only nursing that drink, it seems. He's still just about sober, save for the faintest flush on the usually pale cheeks.

"There's not much about me that's sophisticated or...y'know," Tor rolls a wrist, swallows a burp, shrugs. Then he cracks up laughing at nothing in particular. "Sorry, sorry man. Kinda half-wasted here." He wipes a tear from his face. "Though'm not a sparkling conversationalist when I'm stone sober. I don't know about boats or the military. I know a shit-ton about pizza, though."

"All knowledge is worth having," Joe says, still grinning. "And no, you don't exactly show up to a bar like this for sterling conversation. Don't worry about it, man, you don't need to entertain me. What's your favorite pizza, if it comes to that?"

Entirely at ease....and his humor seems easy, no edge of mockery present.

"My favourite pizza isss....Glock 19." A shit-eating grin pulls upwards at Tor's mouth. He thinks this is hilarious. "My favourite colour is green. I smoke too fuckin' much and I drive a cherry 1965 Mustang." Then he shakes his head, eyes glassy but amused. "Naw man. I like sundried tomatoes and artichokes and shit. On a nice whole wheat crust with some chili oil. Prosciutto, portobello mushroom. Don't even need meat."

Kass shuffles into the Pourhouse, looking a little worse for wear, her face pink and wind-chapped. A knit cap is tugged down over her head, gloves on her hands that seem a bit wet, and her clothes look like they've seen better days. She looks around as she heads in, spotting Joe and Tor and turning towards the pair to shuffle over. Giving Tore a chin up and muttered, "Hey. Kass Hughes. Nice to meetcha." Then she flicks a glance back to Joe, "It happened again. There were others this time." She looks past him to the bartender, "Bourbon, neat."

Funny enough to amuse the guy there drinking with him. Joe chuckles at that. "Sounds damn good. I'll have to have your place deliver something like that. I haven't had pizza in a long damn time."

Then Kass comes in, and Joe just sweeps his coat off the stool next to him, settling it on his lap for the moment, beckoning her over. The smile wiped away. "What happened?" he says, quietly. "Exactly." Apparently that statement was a little too vague for him to parse....or his usual habit of always seeking detail is there.

Tor sort of lazy half-waves to Kass and finishes off his beer. He then digs around in his wallet and upnods to the bartender to settle up. He slides off the stool, stumbles, nearly careens into Joe, but rights himself. He mutters an apology. "Sorry man. Sorry. Shit, I should probably go home." He's a bit too out of it to catch the subtleties of the serious conversation that seems to be emerging.

Before she answers Joe, Kass turns an almost suspiciously long squint towards Tor, looking him over. After a moment, she slides onto the stool and offers, "Don't gotta run off. You're fine to hear this." Then she looks back to JOe and sets an elbow on the bar, "Waking Dream.. walked out of the art supply store earlier, couple other people around, I only knew one of them from before. There was a monster. Frankenstein-looking creature, patched together skin and bones. Flaming feet, created patches of ice everywhere he went. Fast as fuck. We had to tear it apart and set it on fire before ti would die. Knocked me around a bit." She shakes her head and mutters, "Had to repair my clothes or I woulda frozen before getting here."

A surly looking Cristobal Cruz pushes into the Pourhouse, his current mood probably something to do with the fact that his face was recently on the receiving end of a beat down. There is a split to his lips that starts on the top one and continues through the bottom, budding bruise on the underside of his jaw that his goatee does nothing to disguise. He pat Tor on the shoulder as he passes, but doesn't stop the younger man's stumbling exit on his way towards the bar.

Joe only gently puts out a hand, lest Tor knock him right off balance. "You have a good evenin'," the sailor wishes him, but his attention is on Kass, for the moment. "Damn," he says, "This town. I was in one recently where some li'l kid was Dreamin' of Godzilla, but ...no harm done. Others in there with me were quick off the block, figured out what needed to be done. Jesus - you all right?"

And then there's another one of the walking wounded coming in, and Joe just picks up a clean bar napkin and hands it to him. No inquiries as to how he got that wound - likely not something a near stranger's going to be willing to discuss, either way. Only then does he remember his own bourbon concoction, and pick it up for a swig a good deal larger than the judicious sips thus far.

"Totally, totally normal. Happens every day," slurs Tor in response to Kass' tale and with a pointed, bleary-eyed look to Joe. Despite the fact that he's drunk, he doesn't appear to be kidding. "Just another night in Gray Harbor, whoah, shit man," He catches sight of Cristobal and looks him up and down. He spins at the pat on his shoulder. "You need some help with that?" He must be drunk, because he doesn't like to let on that he can heal, let alone make offers of it willy-nilly. He sort of trips over his own heels, but doesn't go down or knock into anyone. He either didn't come in with a jacket or that's his a stool down sort of draped on it. Either way it looks like he's planning to go out without.

"Yeah, its a fucked kinda... but we made it out, everyone did. And it died. So They lost that game," Kass respond to Joe with a nod. Following the motion of the napkin towards Cris, she frowns slightly. "Cris? Fuck man.. come sit down. I fgot a first aid kit, I can patch you up a little. Order something, my treat. What happened to you?" This is the 'invicible' bouncer that keeps her and the other girls safe every night. Hard to see him all beat up. She glances back to Joe, "You know Cris?" Then she's looking over to Tor and calling out, "Hey! You forogto your jacket! Trust me, man, weird shit is out there tonight, you'll want everything you can get!" Then she's looking back to Cris and murmuring, "You want me to help?"

Cris slants a grin at Tor, "You gonna kiss it and make it better, Lockhart? Jesus Fucking Christ...you got an Uber?" Fishing out his crucifix necklace to give it a kiss at his little blaspheme. No, he doesn't feel compelled to drive the younger man, having just got here, "I don't wanna hear that you went SPLAT on your way home. Dude. Your jacket. Eres una mierda tonta." He mutters along with Kass' warning about the garment, taking the napkin from Joseph with a little upnod of thanks and greeting as he's introduced, settling down onto the seat Kass offers. "Kitty-Kass." He offers to her by way of hello. "Stop mother henning, I'm fine." He dabs at his lip which comes away clean as it's already scabbed over, showing the bloodless thing to her as evidence.

The sailor's face goes a little dry at both question and blasphemy, though it softens at the gesture. "Yeah, it's colder'n a witch's tit out there," he agrees, softly. "And no, I don't think we've been introduced? I know I've seen you around a time or two." Cris did sort of broadly try to flirt with him at the Twofer, after all. But he holds out a long hand. "Joe Cavanaugh, pleased to meetcha, Cris. How d'y'all know each other, if I may ask?" Still working on putting away that bourbon. Tor may not be the only one leaving three sheets to the wind, tonight.

"Fuuuck," exhales Tor. He stumble steps back, sweeps up the battered old Army surplus wool coat, fishes out his cigarettes and a silver zippo, then shrugs on the jacket. He tries to shove his arm into the sleeve, then remembers he shoved a wool scarf in there. He digs it out and lazily drapes it around his neck. "M'fine. Don't have far to go." He flashes the peace symbol to all gathered. "Try not to feed any demons. Nice t'meetya sailor man." And then he turns with a flourish and actually makes it out the door on his first try.

Clucking at Cris, she sticks it out at him, "Then stop getting beat up, Cris. If you're asking people to kiss it better, then I can offer to help." She flits a smile towards him and glances back to Joe. "He's a bouncer at the Cabaret. Keeps me and the other girls safe from handsy assholed and drunken fratboys." Kass looks relieved when her bourbon arrives, gripping the glass and taking a good swallow. "I cn't say too much. I'm sporting some bumps and bruises myself tonight. SO I guess you're off the hook this time." Looking back to Joe, she lifts a shrug and murmurs, "Sorry. Didn't know if you'd met already or not." She waves to Tor on his stumbling way out before looking back to the two men.

There is a snort of laughter at Tor's exit, any obligatory concern he has about the younger man making it home safe dispelled when he says he doesn't have far to go. Cris isn't enough of a douche to not shake Joe's hand, but he does look at if for a moment as if considering just that before he slaps his own hand into the sailor's grip. "Boatswain." See? Cristobal does remember him from the other night at TIBS even if he was more about getting into Jacob's tots towards the end there. "You just told the man I'm a bouncer, and then you tell me to stop getting beat up. Hazard of the job, sweetheart." He motions to the bartender then to her drink, "Double me one of those."

"Close, but no cigar. Never was a bosun," Joe says, grinning. "Nor a boatwright. Just a sailor." His grip is firm and callused, but he's not one of those inclined to make a handshake into a pissing contest. He gives Kass a lopsided grin. "Man's got a point there," he says, mildly. "And doubly so - you're not even the bouncer, and you're comin' in lookin' like you been beat on. I haven't taken a lot of hits here so far, feel like I'm beatin' the odds. They'll catch up to me eventually, I'm sure."

"You weren't on duty tonight," Kass sticks her tongue out at Cristobal before taking another drink from her glass. "So any fight you got into was off grounds and not part of your job." She flicks a sidelong glance towards Joe, "And YOU know exactly why and how I got hurt and this is why I'm just paint-covered waitress and not up under the lights and on the stage baring all my scars for every drunk in Gray Harhbor to see. Besides, I didn't get scarred this time. Just some bruises. I got lucky." Kass shrugs and lifts her glass to motion for a refill when Cris puts his order in. Swallowing the last of her drink, she sets the glass down and nudges Cristobal lightly, "You should still let me paint you sometime, Cris."

Cris however is exactly the type to pissing match handshake, but blessedly the contact is brief and firm. "Boatswain is more fun to say, I start calling you sailor and we're talking Fleet Week." There is a grunt of thanks for the drink as it's delivered, patting the front pocket of his denim jacket to hear a telltale crinkle and he pulls a twenty out and tosses it over for the tender to leave the change on the edge of the bar to go towards his next round.

He mutters a response to Kass, his mood a little tight on the fact that she keeps calling out his bruises and just how he did not get them. Instead he focuses on the paint part of her statement. "I'm not at the club to get into the festivities. I need to blend in until it's time to stand out, unless you mean you want to draw me like one of your French girls, then we're back to talking Fleet Week."

"Gettin beat on on your day off sounds like a kind of busman's holiday," The sailor asides to Cris. "Yeah, that's why I'm not up there, either," Joe replies, teasingly, grin turning impish. God knows he's got the kinds of scars concealer isn't going to do much with. The mention of painting makes him blink. "I knew you drew, but I didn't realize you painted," he tells her. "I'd like to see your work, if you've kept some."

An inquiring look for Cris. "What's wrong with Fleet Week?" he asks, innocently. "I always enjoyed it, back when I was in. 'specially in San Diego." Joe's expression is utterly guileless - he seems sincere. "I mean, what can I remember of it."

"I wouldn't paint you up for the club. That's my schtick," Kass shakes her head towards him with a small chuckle, though his next remark has her canting her head towards him. "I've never actually done a nude. Mostly just abstracts and sketches. But you would make a good subject to practice on. Uhm. Clothed. Not nude. I.. I don't know if I could do nudes." She rubs her face with one hand, perhaps trying to hide a faint blush. "I also don't know what Fleet Week is."

Looking over to Joe for some kind of clue or help before giving a nod. "Oh sure. I paint, I sketch.. haven't tried physical art yet, no sculpting or anything, but I like to make arts and crafts type stuff." She digs her phoen out and flips to a photo album on it before handing it over to Joe. On it are a number of paints, chalk drawings, and even sketches. The paintings tend to be beautiful abstracts, often featuring blue butterflies. THe chalk drawings tend to be 3D perspective things. And the sketches tend to be... well, creepy.

Cristobal looks at Joseph for a hard long moment, "You know what's wrong with Fleet Week?" He might about to say something poignant, or better, even something to really push a man's buttons that he doesn't really know from a hole in the wall. Instead, he just gestures slightly towards the ex-Navy man with his glass. "Not a damn thing." He downs the rest of his bourbon in a gulp, spinning the empty glass back on the bar top before making a motion for it to be refilled. "No one wants a painting of me on their wall, sweet cheeks. Unless it's for dart practice. Better you use your paints for someone like Joe, here. Classic Greek fucking nose."

Paging Dr. Freud. Joe's expression goes dry again - lips pressed together to suppress that grin, before he reaches hastily for his drink and takes a swig. "I've never done much of any of it, other than mandatory classes in school," he admits, as he accepts the phone. Features softening into a kind of dreamy attention, as he slowly pages through the images. "You do good work," he tells her. "Paintin' for the pleasure of it, sketches to consider and record?"

Joe turns that blue stare on Cris, still guileless. "Uh, Fleet Week is a tradition where military ships come in to civilian ports, kinna a party. Events, receptions, crews put on displays for civilian tourists. And then they get to go into the city they're in - it happens in multiple places. I was mostly in Hawaii or California for mine, always had a good time." That high brow furrows. "I'm sorry if you had a bad time with one, sailors can be drunken assholes ashore," he says, gently. Speaking from experience. Just ask de la Vega. The idea of being painted makes him laugh. "I don't know that anyone'd want that from me, either, but if you want a live model to practice from, I'm game. Least I can do for you."

"I don't paint for other people. I paint for me." Kass mutters and shakes her head before looking towards Joe and murmuring, "The sketches are often Dreams that I try to capture before they escape me. The details are filled in later..." She agrees with him before taking her glass, lifting it for a sip, accepting the phone back, putting the screen to sleep and slipping it back into her pocket. Her eyes turn back to Cristobal, "Joe's like my dad.. or uncle. Or.. just a mature male relation of some kind. It would feel weird. I could sketch him but painting is... different." More intimate.

She glances towards Joe againa nd shrugs, "I've never been anywhere but here, so far as I know there's no Fleet Week in Gray Harbor..."

"Grew up in El Paso, not a whole lotta ports there, Boatswain." Which means Cris' actual firsthand knowledge of Fleet Week is probably non-existent. He's shifting his hips this time to dig into his pocket in order to pull out a money clip, apparently not the type to open a tab and prefers cash to credit cards. Thumbing past some smaller bills he singles out a hundred to break it, or perhaps he means to drink it all. "Man, I think she just called you old." He's reaching for his newly refilled drink, wincing a bit as he shifts to do so. "Now how am I supposed to do my job, Kitty-Kass if I keep thinking about sitting for you while you paint, probably sitting there in old overalls with little smudges of color on your face and giggling all cute whenever I pull a face. Ask around the club. I don't shit where I eat. But I sure as hell will at least sit here and have a drink with you, so leave it at that." His shoulders are bunched up near his ears with how tense they are, but he's trying to draw a clear line without being an asshat about it. And that takes a lot out of poor ole Cruz, not giving into the brain that lives in his pants.

"So.....what you're sayin is, I'm a nightmare?" There's that puckish look in his eyes. No offense taken at being deemed like kin. Another mouthful of bourbon, and Joe upends the glass, before raising a hand to summon the bartender's attention. "No, Gray Harbor's too small for a Fleet Week. And I am old," he says, entirely unoffended there, either. The tension growing on Cris seems to amuse him, but he has grace enough to affect not to notice. The question is....how much he'll tease Kass about it later.

Kass seems entirely oblivious to whatever sexual undertones Cristobal was hinting at, her brows furrowing together as she looks at him. "I.. I don't know what you're talking about, Cris. And.. I'm not sure I want to? But I'll just... go along with it. I would hate to have to hurt you when I'm trying to paint. I don't mix business and pleasure if I can help it." Shrugging, she shakes her head and nods towards what Joe is saying, "Joe's like.. fifty? Fifty-one? He's more than twice my age. Still one of my favorite people and one of the people I trust most. So.. he kinda took on a family role. He helps me, I help him. It works." Reaching for her glass, she lifts it up for another sip before blinking and shaking her head at Joe. "I do normal sketches. I just.. usually give those sketches to the people I sketched."

"Good." Cristobal says succinctly to Kass saying she'll go along with it, hoping the matter of painting him gets dropped entirely. Clearly, he'll flirt his ass off but that sort of attention was enough to put the man on edge for some reason, as if genuine interest in something as simple as thinking he'd make a good subject is completely foreign to him. "I'm sure you've still got some miles left on the tires. Lord knows fifty is the new thirty." Something about the topic of Joe's age has him working his jaw, as if there was a reminder buried there about the soreness radiating out of that bruise. "But finding a family," His eyes go back to Kass' briefly. "Doesn't hurt in a town like this."

And for some reason, that makes Joe grin, lazily wicked. Like he's savoring the punchline of a joke no one else here will get. "Nah," he says, gently. "Mileage is as high as they come...." A glance flickers between Kass and Cris - who's the innocent there? But then his expression softens again. "Indeed. Bare is the back without brother behind it, as the saying goes. Well do I know - it's the kin you find that'll save your life, not always the kin you're born to."

"Let JOe be him. He doesn't have to go out and hunt sex if he doesn't want to. He's just fine the way he is," Kass comes to the older man's defense, all without looking at either man, concentrating on her glass. Taking that drink, she lifts a small shrug, "You were new and nobody would talk to you and you were just trying to survive. I can relate. Alot." Trying to downplay her own part in the whole thing. Hunching her shoulders up, she mutters, "Its easier to just paint, or sketch... people are.... terrfying."

"Sorry to hear that old-timer. We'll have to get you fitted for a proper walker and some denture cream then." Cristobal hoists up his glass as if to bid farewell to a horse before he's put out to pasture. He turns to face Kass with a slightly confused expression, as to how he's not letting Joe be 'him'. "Now you're saying he's too old for sex? Shit, we should put him out of his misery now." He slips from his stool, moving around to the other side of the pair so he can square up with the Bartender.

Joseph just snorts at that. Kass's defense makes him peer at her. "Now that's goin' too far," he says, but he's still only amused, rather than annoyed. "Are you sayin' he's tryin'a flirt with me an' I'm missin' it? I'm grateful for you bein' willin' to talk to me..." A look back at Cris, and he explains, more seriously, "Kass and I were in the same hospital together, a few years back...."

"No, I'm saying he doesn't have to go chase it if he doesn't want to. His choice." Kass sticks her tongue out at Cris once more before taking a final drink from her glass. Setting the empty down, she shakes her head, "I'm talking about when you first got here, Joe. Not now. Everybody talks to you now." Pushing up to her feet, she digs into her pocket and comes out with a crumpled twenty and a few ones, setting them on the bar before looking back to Joe, "I'll catch you later. I'm terrible at this innuendo stuff, it just makes my head hurt. Gonna go home, wrap my ribs, icepack my side, make up a cocktail of drugs, and try to pass out. G'night." She ticks a finger off her forehead towards the both of them before bundling back under her winter gear and shuffling off towards the door.

"If I were trying to flirt with you, Boatswain, you'd already be pressed up against the bathroom stall panting. Thanks." The last is the bartender as Cris makes change with them and leaves an ample tip. "I was gonna say," Cris says as to the explanation that they were in the same hospital together, as to where those comments came from. "Gray Harbor hasn't been that unwelcoming, has it?" Then he leans over as Kass comments again. "Who said anything about Joe chasing tail?" Seriously, apparently she's not the only one that's not getting the innuendo, or maybe he dropped some without actually meaning to. "Feel better, Kitty-Kass."

Now Joe goes red, at that. But he doesn't coil up the way someone does who's intending to take out offense with his fists - it's embarrassment, not anger. "You did strike me as the direct type....and I'd'a been tryin'a get at least a drink or two out of you first. Navy boys be easy, but they ain't cheap," he says, voice gone dry. "No," he says. "It hasn't. Had enough folks try to warn me seriously to get the hell out of Dodge 'fore I got stuck, but I think we all realized that it was too late the moment my feet hit the deck."

He lifts a hand to Kass. "You take care, sugar," he says, affectionately.

Then back to Cris, "I dunno where she got it."

"This town is a goddamn revolving wheel of slammed doors and walls if you don't fall in line with what they want. People will barely acknowledge you, actively chase you off, be mean, rude, cold... or just outright ghost you. I hate this fucking town," Kass offers as a response over her shoulder before she lifts a hand and steps out into the cold, head ducking down against the sudden rush of wind that leaves only a skirl of snow and biting cold in her wake.

Cris leans his elbow to the bar, still a double bourbon dangling from his fingers he has to finish. "Maybe I should've let her paint me?" He asks with vague amusement, but that's partially at the rosy tone that Joe's cheeks have taken on. He gives a little laugh and shake of his head, taking a sip of his drink and holding the glass there as if letting the liquid sit against his lip so it stings. "I'm direct when it counts. So. Buy you a drink, Sailor?"

"Sure, why not," Joe says, amiably. "'nother Four Horsemen, 'f you don't mind." He hasn't missed the change of address....and it makes the color mount up again, once it's begun to fade. "Maybe you shoulda. Wise as it is not to mess with the girls where you work....." He spreads long hands, trailing off vaguely. "She is a talent."

When Itzhak shows up, it's not on a saunter or a swagger or even a slink. He just kind of drags his sorry ass in from the cold. Those hazel eyes go right to Cris and Joe, and for a moment, he visibly debates just dragging himself on out again. But then he sighs and schleps over to the bar to join them. "Hey guys. How's by ya."

Cris lifts a thigh, settling back onto a stool as he pushes one of those twenties across the bar for the tender to take Joe's drink out of. "Problem with working at a strip club is I'm surrounding by bouncing tits and shaking ass all day. If I start paying too much attention to the girl instead of the job, then some prick takes advantage of my distraction and starts to take liberties. So it's not a matter of her not being talented, or fucking gorgeous, it's a matter of protecting the girls and that's at least one thing on this damn rotating rock I'm going to take seriously. I say yes to her, I start saying yes to coming in for a drink when I drop a girl off at home, I start...Rosie. Now, see, his nose is definitely Roman. Want a drink?"

There's Itz, and Joe look over, curiously. Ooh, there's that color again - and they can't even blame the bourbon. Much. Yet. "You are wise," he concedes, tipping the new glass towards him. "I appreciate that work ethic. No, that's not a Roman nose. Roman nose is no stop, straight line on down from the brow. He's the opposite," Joe says, firmly. Then he lifts the drink to Cris, intones, "Za vas," and knocks it back. That's going to hit him like rocket fuel - a lot of different whiskeys all competing to hit his bloodstream first. "You don't look like you doin' so good, Rosencrantz," he adds, voice gentle. Hey, grateful for small favors, like the musician not immediately coming over to knock his block off.

"This is a schnozz, thank you very much, and it's Jewish, it ain't Roman." Itzhak tips a finger at Cris like, so THERE. He slides his narrow butt on a barstool, taking up the other side of Joe. "Love a drink, if you're offerin'. How's the," he taps his side, under his ribs.

Now Joe is stuck between them. Surely Itzhak didn't do that on purpose. He doesn't know how to dance that waltz. Does he? "Cavanaugh. I look magnificent, for your information." But that's said with a wry twist of his mouth. No, he doesn't seem like he's going to go after Joe fists first. He just seems worn thin.

Cris' face is busted up. Again. Not that should be any surprise to Itzhak with the way Cruz runs his mouth when he's in a mood. He has a mug for punching. "No no, Greek is the straight one. Like yours. Rosie's is Aquiline with that," He makes a little tick at his own beak to indicate the bump. "Roman." Because apparently Schnozz semantics is something Cris thinks he's versed in. "Fine. A fine Jewish Proboscis. Yeah, whatever you're drinking." As he asks about his ribs, there is a little snort. "Damn stitches are starting to grow over, wouldn't ya know? Gonna be a bitch getting them removed."

Don't you throw me in that briar patch. Joe considers this, then concedes. "Yeah, guess you're right. And it's not my place to talk about any Jew's nose, I think," he adds, with a wry twist of his lips. "Yeah, you always do, Rosencrantz."

There's definitely a droop to those heavy lids, now, as the bourbon is a little blue flame in the pit of his stomach. "Stitches? What happened to you?" he asks, looking back at Cris.

"Awright, awright, I'll pull 'em already." Itzhak responds to kvetch with kvetch, in the Jewish way. "If they're overgrown it's gonna hurt." Pronounced hoit, in that accent of his. He could tell Cris to go by the ER to have someone do it, but he doesn't. He says he'll do it. Well, he complains he'll do it. Then Joe's telling him he does in fact always look magnificent makes him snort half a laugh. "God, don't agree with me, Cavanaugh. What's that nasty thing you're always drinking? Order me one of those."

"I was doing the Cell Block Tango and I ran into her knife. I ran into her knife ten times." No, Cris doesn't look like he's bad enough off to have taken ten stab wounds, but that quote seems to be the only explanation he's willing to give Joseph as to what happened to his side for the time being. And he does it straight faced. There is an impious turn of his lips as Itzhak relents that he'll remove the stitches, and Cristobal mutters into his glass, "Looking forward to it." As he's told it's going to hurt. "Another round, yeah?" He's telling the bartender with a nod to the pile of bills, never mind that Joseph just got a recently refreshed glass, he's calling for more.

Joseph snorts at that. The fact that it's Itz volunteering to remove them makes that little indent appear between his brows, but he doesn't ask why it isn't a doctor who'll take care of it. "Why not?" he wonders of the musician. "I'm easy-goin', you know that. And you wanna Four Horsemen? On your head be it, Rosencrantz," he adds, with a flash of a grin.

A frank snicker for Cris, but he doesn't press, either. "That's like....I used to know a guy with a shrapnel scar that he'd claim was one of those old-fashioned German duelling scars. An' don't mind if I do...." Joe's killed that batch of whisky like it said something nasty about his mother, and there's that persistent rosy glow on the high cheekbones.

"Yeah, one a them. Four Horsemen." Itzhak upnods to the bartender, unfortunate soul. (The bartender or Itz? Yes.) He fingerguns at Joe, with a kind of punch-drunk cockiness. "I'll sign a fuckin' waiver." Cris mutters that about looking forward to it, and Itzhak pretends like he didn't hear, but he totally heard, and it's obvious because his ears flush. "Quiet in the peanut gallery there, Cruz." Well, he didn't do a very good job of pretending.

"First Kass tries to take away Joe's sexy times, and now you're taking away my peanuts. What is it with tonight? Can't keep a good man down, you know. Thankfully, I'm not one of 'em." Cris finishes his own bourbon and turns the glass upside down and clinks it back to the bar top. He rubs his hands together a little bit too gleefully and there is that glint in his eyes. "Alright boys, next one to blush buys the next round."

There's soundless laughter for that peanut gallery comment, and Joe flicks another of those decidedly wicked looks at Cris....before reaching over Itz to tap knuckles with him, lightly. The kin you find, indeed.

"I'll step up an' do it. Never have been able not to blush, 'specially with this much liquor in me. Too much Irish in the blood." He suits action to word- more bills for the bartop. Then the glass is upended, to join the other dead soldiers there.

The Four Horsemen is delivered unto Rosencrantz, and he takes it up for a try. And then makes a hilarious face. "God damn. This is strong as engine degreaser." So of course he sips it some more. Cris just talking about blushing makes him do it and he scowls over at him across Joe, bright heated red. "Prick." Then he jostles Joe with a shoulder. "Don't encourage him."

Whatever conversation he and Ruiz had, it must not have resulted in him hating Joe.

Cris' knuckles tap against Joe's quickly, not one to leave a brother hanging. "Shit, don't ruin my plan to drink free the rest of the night by volunteering to fall on the sword so fast." He's reaching for his refill. Cristobal really should know better than to try to drink a Navy man under the table. Should, being the operative word there. "Unless you've been pre-gaming, you have some catching up to do, Rosie. No, please. Encourage me, this is the most fun I've had all day and you know how much I love having my bell rung by the Missus."

"Attaboy," Joe encourages Itz. "See? That shit'll put you down.....or into orbit, dependin'." He shoulderchecks Itz back, but it's gentle. Clearly relieved that at least something has been dealt with, the nascent friendship not reduced to scorched earth. "Well, sure, I'll keep payin', if you want. But remember....I ain't cheap." A flash of brows punctuates that, and the amusement in that long face has turned wolfish. He's going to get fun out of this evening, one way or another.

Itzhak takes a slightly larger drink, holds it in his mouth a moment, then swallows and rasps out a breath. "God damn, you must have the liver of a hero, Cavanaugh." He hoists his eyebrows at Cris, saucy yet aggravated--a uniquely Itzy expression paired with hooded eyelids. "So catch me up already."

He glances at Joe, at that wolfish look, and then glances at Cris, and quirks one eyebrow at him. "L'chaim," he mutters, and tips back a good third of the liquor. Then he turns red again, makes a noise, and puts a hand to his face.

"I'm counting on it." To Joe not being cheap or that he'll keep paying? "He'll have a double." Cris motions at the bartender as far as catching Itzhak up to the other two. Not one to be outdone, he puts his Four Horsemen to bed and wobbles the empty glass back with a spin of his hand. "So a Jew, a Sailor, and a Latino walk into a bar..." No, there's no punchline to that joke, but there should be one. He reaches over to clap Itzhak on the back of the neck. "You alright there, Rosie? We gonna have to pour you into bed?"

"Liver of a twentyplus Navy veteran, is what I got," Joe notes. "I've drink taken in dives on every continent exept Antarctica." An upnod for Itz, "You doin' fine." The flush only makes him grin the wider. Perhaps a little schadenfreude there, much as he might like the musician.

Only one of those sidelong looks at Cris. A little gauging, but he doesn't protest. To Itz, he replies, "L'Chaim," His accent isn't bad, really.

"A fiddler," Itzhak corrects Cris. "A fiddler, a sailor, and a bouncer walk into a bar. The punchline is--" no, he stops himself, reining back whatever he was going to say, and pretends to cough. He snorts and rolls his eyes at Cris, dramatically, when the mouthy Latino jerk claps him on the back of the neck. "If youse guys take me to bed, pouring is what you're gonna get, all right," he mutters, like this is somehow a deterrent.

"Don't worry, we like you all pliable." Cris is busy digging out some more of his own money to add to the diminishing kitty for him to but too much the innu in the -endo of that statement towards Itzhak. "The punchline is that none of them are walking out of here, at least in a straight line." Because, damn, it's starting to catch up to Cris now too, but thankfully his dusky skin is hiding his own flush of color from the alcohol he's now treading water in. Few more and he'll be swimming.

"You didn't finish the joke," Joe protests. The drunker he gets, the lazier and thicker that accent gets. "Fiddler, sailor, bouncer, then what?" Then that comment has him lifting his brows. "That a threat, or a promise, Rosencrantz?" he retorts.

Cris's comment - there's a moment where Joe is just visibly winding up on a reply. But then some last sober fragment of his brain damps it down, that flash of malice suppressed. "Damn right," is all he says. "I'mma need to call both you boys a cab or somethin'." Far from cool and collected, himself, but he does seem to be weathering it better than the others.

Itzhak waves off the question of what the punchline was. 'Unimportant, stupid anyway' says that gesture, full of Jewish emoting. "I ain't sayin'," he says, though, about whether he was promising or threatening, and his eyebrows are up in a most insouciant manner. The glint of waspishness from Joe makes him glance at him, then he's saying to Cris, "Shows what you know. I'm never pliant."

Eventually Joe's brand of drinking makes a liar out of him.