2020-03-01 - The Shark and the Wolf

Nobody uses the outer deck here in the winter months, unless they want to be cold and rained on and generally miserable. Or, perhaps, unless they're adamant about enjoying a cigarette with their drink, like a true addict.

The man sprawled in one of the chairs ringing the firepit may or may not be familiar; it's a small town, and there's only one police captain, after all. He's zippered into a dark hoodie with a padded vest over top, dark jeans and scuffed boots. Beer bottle in one hand, cigarette trapped between two fingers of the same, and his cell phone out and being scrolled through in the other. Afternoon's waning rapidly to dusk, and the sky's threatening rain at any moment. Does he look concerned? Not particularly.

Dante is not a smoker, but a rather loud crowd of college students came into the bar just now and he needs a minute to escape. He's an incredibly social creature, but he has a limit and that limit is college co-eds on a pub crawl. He emerges in a wool peacoat, holding a half-spent pint of beer. He's wearing an impressive pair of gunmetal wingtips that don't have great grip, as evidenced by the fact that he hits a bit of slippery deck when he steps out, "Bloody hell."

The sound of the door opening, and the accompanying wash of raucous laughter from inside the bar draw the cop's gaze for a moment. Dark eyes flit over, settle on the tall fellow with the accent who nearly takes a header into a nearby table. There's a brief twinge of concern, and an even briefer twinge of amusement once he rights himself. Then a drag off his smoke, and after a long look at those wingtips, his focus returns to his phone. Sniff, as if to clear the cold from his nose. "Not really dressed for this weather, are you?" His accent's clearly not from around here. Touch of the South, skimmed thinly over what's most certainly Mexican Spanish.

"Well, sometimes one must choose fashion over function. A day when it's below freezing is probably not, however, one of those days." Dante gives Ruiz a toothy grin. He shuffles out more carefully, but it seems to be just that one spot near the door that's a bit patchy. "Do you mind if I shuffle a bit closer to the fire? I'd stay inside, but I think they've got..." shudder, "...drinking games going on. The kind that require you to get the phone numbers of random strangers."

Another flick of eyes from the Hispanic looking man sprawled by the fire. It's crackling away and putting out a fair amount of heat into the chill air. "Can't say I agree." He finishes swiping out a reply to something on his phone, shoves it into his pocket, and takes a pull off his smoke. "But maybe I'm just not fashionable enough." The toothy grin isn't returned; his gaze is steady, mien one of curious contemplation as he studies the other man.

After a good minute of making Dante wait, because apparently he's an asshole, "Sure. Be my guest." A thump as his boot meets the chair next to him, nudging it out a little for Dante.

Dante very carefully makes his way to the chair, glancing to see if...yep, the coeds are now doing a lot of shouting and a lot of shots. Easton is probably twitching, wherever he is. Dante sits down and scoots a bit closer to the fire. He looks at the other man curiously, and then asks, "You wouldn't happen to be the police chief would you? Sorry, wait..." he pauses, "...captain, right? I still have trouble with my vernacular."

The coeds are barely acknowledged with a slantwise glance from the cop. Time was, he'd probably be all over that like white on rice. But time has a way of shifting priorities, and right now, his seem to be more in line with imbibing alcohol and nicotine in relative peace. "Captain," he confirms, with a little huffing chuckle at the misnomer. "Chief's my boss. Thatchery." Then, like it takes him a minute of flipping to the manners page in his internal rolodex, and looking up how to not be totally fucking rude, he switches beer bottle and cigarette to his left hand, and offers the right to shake. Nothing elegant about it, and there's ink scrawled right up to the first knuckle on each finger. Cop is probably not the first thing that comes to mind, if one were to make guesses based on his appearance.

"Javier de la Vega." And he does, actually, hazard a smile. Is it his fault it's a bit wolfish?

"Dante Taylor," says the tall Brit as he reaches to shake the offered hand. "It seems you and I have been orbiting one another, but somehow haven't actually managed to meet. I've jammed with Itzhak a few times. Or rather, I've attempted to keep up and plonk away on the piano while he creates real music." He looks at the other man through the semidarkness, as if trying to get a read on him. "I've had it assumed a few times that we've actually already met. But that's really not that far out given the size of this town." As he's a man who is prone to animalistic smiles of his own, he isn't put off by the wolfishness.

Dante Taylor. The name's clearly familiar, given the look on the other man's face. Like a taste he can't quite place, but his mouth knows it regardless. "Es un placer conocerte," he murmurs, offering a single, firm shake before withdrawing his hand. Mention of Itzhak's name seems to sharpen his focus, even as he's leaning back in his chair with a lazy sprawl of his sturdy frame. Knees apart, he clearly doesn't have any compunctions about taking up space.

"You're a musician, then? He plays a pretty mean fiddle. Not news to you, I'm sure." Despite his relaxed posture, those dark eyes are anything but; there's an intentness and intimacy to his gaze that can be offputting to some.

"I'm afraid I don't speak any Spanish. Latin, Greek, completely useless languages for conversation, but not Spanish," Dante smiles in an easy, but toothy way. He sips from his pint, which, at least is staying frosty. "I'm a writer, actually. Piano is just a hobby. Something physical, considering my profession involves a lot of staring at a computer screen and willing words to appear." He's not shy about returning the gaze.

"You speak Latin." He sounds bemused, and a little surprised to hear that. "Dead language, isn't it?" A glint of something in those too-dark eyes, and a sip of his own beer chased by a drag off his cigarette. Smoke's exhaled away from his companion, through his nostrils and slightly parted lips. "What do you write about, Dante Taylor?" His own smile is long gone, but the slight wolfishness remains.

"Yes, but I went to a rather dead school, which explains it." Dante scratches his eyebrow and shrugs one shoulder. "What do I write about? I write horror novels. And nonfiction books about myths and legends. The latter is what brought me here. But...other things keep me." Such as the revelation that the supernatural is real, and now he can move things with his mind.

The dead school comment gains a speculative look from the captain, and his gaze shifs away as Dante starts talking about his craft. Beer bottle held by its neck, he lets his wrist drape loosely against his thigh, with the thing dangling from inked fingers as he listens. "This place must be a treasure trove for you, then. No shortage of weird shit to draw inspiration from here." The sound he makes in his throat comes close to being a chuckle, but doesn't quite reach it. A tick of his eyes back at the last thing said, then his beer's lifted to his mouth again while he waits to see if the man will elucidate.

"Mhmmm. Well, the thing is, I started off writing it about myths and legends, not truths. And my fiction is, well," Dante sucks a bit of air between his teeth, "...fiction. This rather upends the pot, as they say." His accent is definitely upper crust English, or perhaps only emulating such. Hard to tell.

Especially hard to tell for a man like de la Vega, who's probably not spent a day of his life in that country, and couldn't tell an Englishman from an Irishman or Scot without a lot of help. "So you got anything.. fictitious you're working on now?" It takes him a second to come up with that word and conjugate it properly. His cigarette's ashed with a flick of his thumb, and the other man watched steadily. His body language, the way he sits and the way he speaks.

Dante is cold, so he's more hunched forward, tall frame more bent than it normally would be. Normally he's a man with impeccable posture. "Attempted. But if I'm being honest, this town is quite distracting. It's hard to stay focused on fiction, when fact is so much stranger than my own imagination. Or..." a toothy smile, all pearly whites, "...at least equally so."

It's definitely cold out here, and only getting colder. Ruiz's breath fogs the air lightly when he speaks, and the smoke from his cigarette lingers a while as it slowly disperses. "Have you considered a different genre? Documenting what you see, instead of writing fairytales." His tonguetip skims his lower lip, a glance at that toothy smile, then back to the other man's eyes.

"That's what I do. I've three books about that. Local legends. True crime. Unsolved mysteries. That's why I came here. But," Dante tilts his head to the side, shrugs. "It's difficult to do when one can't write the whole truth. I've heard that this place likes to be an editor. Not surprising. Everyone wants to be an editor." He smiles at his own joke, and sips his drink. At least the chill night air is keeping his drink cold. "So if I write about this town, I find myself having to lie in a work of nonfiction." Then, "My nonfiction series is called Dark Heart. Appropriate, yes?"

A brow goes up fractionally when Dante makes that odd little statement, about Gray Harbour itself liking to edit his work. The joke, however, seems lost on him; he doesn't so much smile at it. "I see," he replies evenly, mind wandering briefly as if the man reminded him of something only tangentially related. Then a breath, and a glance at his watch. "Anyway, I've got to get going. Nice to meet you. Properly." His smoke is dragged from once more, then put out and flicked into a nearby ashtray.

Dante watches Ruiz as he stands. Only when the other man is about depart does he say, "I undertand that we've another acquaitance in common. Cristobal." He knows he doesn't need to add last names. There's definitely not another Cristobal in this very white small town.

Ruiz pauses once he's on his feet, in the process of shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets and turning to go. Abrupt sort of asshole that he is.

But the name that pops out of Dante's mouth gives him pause. And the bristly tension that's stitched through his shoulders may be noticed, or it may not. "Sure. I know him." Might be understating it. He meets the other man's gaze again, as if trying to suss out where he's going with this.

It's hard to tell in the semidarkness, given Dante's eyes are quite dark and the overhead light and the fire plays tricks with facial angles. "I know you do," is all he says, and he manages to make those words relatively neutral. And then, seemingly apropos of nothing, he adds, "Itzhak speaks very highly of you."

It's started to rain, in the time they've spent out here, shooting the shit. Just a light sprinkling, not enough to douse the fire or soak their clothing yet, but it beads on Ruiz's hair and eyelashes and beard. Hisses soft against the floor planks and railing. "The fuck's that meant to mean?" he replies, with a stitch of something in his tone. Doesn't step closer or away; he just lurks there, watching, waiting, the tip of his tongue touched to a corner of his lower lip.

Then, "Does he? Well, I'm glad. I think quite highly of him, as well." Carefully neutral, his tone there.

Dante stands up, stretching to his full six foot two. The moisture is beading on his wool coat, on his hair, making the edges spring from neat and straight to slightly curly. "Nothing. Just that he's mentioned you," says the Englishman, his tone carefully neutral. He stands there for a moment, then breaks with a charming smile. "Well, I'm going in, m'self. I'm getting soaked through. It's worth braving a few co-eds."

Still no smile from the cop. He's a few inches shorter once Dante's on his feet, though it's a good bet he weighs more. Muscle, most of it, thanks to a fairly religious PT regimen. But also likely a few too many donuts, walking cliche that he is. "Entiendo," he murmurs low, watching those dark eyes another beat before prowling a step backward. "You have yourself a good night." And then he does, finally, flash a quick little grin. Dimples and crow's feet and all. "Luck with the co-eds." And he shoulders his way back inside, cutting straight for the exit as his phone makes a reappearance from his jacket pocket.